Iron Quill- The Price of Progress- The Searchers

[Cavalierartist]

Ingredients-

Character: Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

Item: An Incomplete Deck of Cards

Word Count- 1750

The Searchers

The pattern of blood upon the snow was almost beautiful; as striking as it was revolting. Like a blossoming flower, scarlet streaks fanned out from a pristine epicenter. The man stooped in the eye of the flower lifted the crimson frost to his tongue and then broke the silence.

"Within the past half of an hour." Crouching on his haunches, the burly man kept his grizzled, bearded face cast down, so that only the wolf pelt hat peered up at the rest of the party. His bulk was composed of layers of buckskins and unwashed flannel beneath the fur - there was not ladle full of lard spread across the gaunt outdoorsman's frame.

"Hoarcats drag him off?" The Death Marshal asked.

"Not likely."

"Why not?"

"Way the blood's spilt, 'e was et right here."

"You sure 'bout that, wolf-hunter," the marshal asked, "I don't see no bones nor clothes."

"Sure, I'm sure," the scout said, "gobbled 'em up, every last bit. Lupescar ain't never wrong." He cast a sparkling glance at the woman nervously fingering her Collier revolver just behind the lawman. "Waste not, want not, eh, my cherie?"

Sorsha consciously drew her hand from her pistol and willfully suppressed the chill creeping up her spine. 'Blood, she was accustomed to, having spilled her fair share with her pistol, and even drawn some with her Brahk blade, but this? This was no way for a man to die. Granted, the slain muleteer was more beast than man. A pig, who was ever gazing on her with heavy lidded eyes, making suggestive comments. This mountain man, Lupescar, too, had the habit of licking his lips when he deigned to speak to her, like he was anticipating his next meal. Most of the time, he didn't bother to give her the time of day. That suited her just fine, and the Guildsmen treated her with decency, if not quite equality. There was also the girl from the wagon train to converse with, strange as she was. Underdressed for the season, Sorsha had given the young woman her own coat, while she had cut a hole in an extra wool blanket and tied it at the waist to form a poncho. Sorsha could not fail to notice that the men hadn't offered any polite solutions to keep the girl warm.

"We women have to look out for each other," Sorsha told the girl as she wrapped her coat around her.

The girl had stumbled into town several days ago, this lost teenager with pale skin, frightened, staring eyes and coatless to tell them all about the fate of the settlers who ventured into the Western reaches beyond the badlands. The tale she told was a familiar one, though no less dreadful for the repetition. The party was three days out of Fortune Falls when the first traveler vanished. The assumption was that they had turned back. On the following day, when an entire wagon carrying a family disappeared, the outriders backtracked to find it abandoned, with no sign of the occupants. A meeting was held on whether to turn back, but with three days left to go to reach their land claims, there was nothing for it, but to forge ahead. It was on the final night that the attack came, A massive assault by hordes of gibbering creatures from the darkness. In the confusion of the battle, the girl was separated from the party and found herself, two days later, on the trail back to town. In hopes of finding other survivors, Marshal Hancock gathered four guardsmen, a pathfinder, a muleteer to carry supplies, and a mercenary to round out the numbers; all that the town could spare. Truth was, nobody else was stupid enough, nor desperate enough, to go. Sorsha was determined that she wasn't going to suffer the same fate as the mule driver.

"And you didn't see anything up ahead? Marshal Hancock regarded Lupescar through narrow eyes.

"Didn't say that," the pathfinder said. "Saw plenty. Just no sign of what did this."

"You shooting straight me, Lupescar?"

"What might you mean, Marshal?"

"I mean, are you leading us into a trap?"

Sorsha expected a clever quip from the trapper, but he met Hancock's accusation with a silent scowl.

"Fine," the Death Marshal said. "We'll continue on to the the site of the attack, but I want you in view at all times, Lupescar." He turned to Sorsha. "We can't afford to lose any more supplies. You guard the rear, Merc. And watch the girl." He regarded her for a moment. "Can you handle that, missy?"

She wanted to tell him, "Hell no!" She wanted to head back to town, rather than end up dinner for whatever was out here. But her debt to the Guild hung over her like an executioner's axe, and she couldn't think of any other way. "I can handle it."

He held her gaze for a moment, then turned back to the pathfinder. "I feel like I'm playing poker with half a deck. And it ain't the half with the face cards."

Lupescar finally broke his silence. "I suppose that makes me the joker."

"Could be," Hancock said. "Question is, which one?"

Sorsha dreaded the idea of heading recklessly into peril, but what could she do? She owed the Guild money for bringing her through the Breach, to escape her abusive husband. Now she was beholden to the Guild and the Governor. Had her fate played out differently, she might have been one of those unfortunate women on the street, paying off the Guild by selling her favors to strangers. But being a fair shot with the pistol she took when she left her husband,she had opportunities open to her. And once you've shot one man, the rest are a good sight easier.

Was she truly better off than the doxies one saw hanging from the windows of the bordellos back in Malifaux City? She'd be lying to herself if she said she was. Either way, she was splitting hairs, her fate was not her own.

"They don't respect you." They had been traveling half a day, and the sun was pale and distant in the noon day sky. An aloof voyeur, remotely curious about the fate of those below. Sorsha was surprised; the girl hadn't spoken more than a handful of words since she first related her story two days back.

"They treat you worse than the pack animals."

"I could care less, so long as they pay me better."

"You care. Anyone would." She gave Sorcha a smile that mimicked kindliness, but there was a vacancy behind it. "You'd have to have a heart of ice not to."

"Listen kid..."

"Tina."

"Tina. Look. Everybody's got to make a buck. I'll put up with these cowboys only so long as I have to."

"What if you didn't have to?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

But the girl didn't respond, and Sorsha let it drop. They travelled on in silence.

That night, when she went to relieve Guardsman Fletcher and serve the last watch before dawn, she found him asleep and snoring.

"Hey, wake up," she hissed. "You're lucky I couldn't sleep."

Fletcher grunted something in rude reply and roused himself to his feet, stumbling from the glow of the fire, to the darkness beyond where his bedroll waited.

Sorsha laughed to herself as she heard him stumble and grunt, as he fell heavily to the ground. She listened as he clumsily pulled out some rations and slowly and noisily ate them. A disgusting wretch, to chew so loudly. He ignored her chastising shush and continued, steadily and belligerently. The tedious smack, smack, smack drove her to distraction until the sky grew grey with first light. It was a blessing that the sight that met her stole her breath away so she couldn't scream. There, hanging over a limb above the camp, was what remained of Fletcher's body, with its steady drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the rock below with a smack.

Hancock debated sending anyone out in advance of the party, but finally acquiesced, sending Sorsha with Lupescar to scout ahead, conveniently ridding himself of both problems. Sorsha wasn't sure what she dreaded more, finding what was stalking them, or being alone with Lupescar. What she did know, was that she did not want to go. Hancock wanted her gone, though, after her careless watch the night before. Did it really matter though, when they were vulnerable anywhere? What puzzled her as she trailed behind the pathfinder was, why had the creature spared her? Lupescar stopped short and turned to her.

"The tracks end here. "

"Let's head back then."

"What's the rush?" Lupescar loomed over her. "We can have some time together."

"Stay clear of me, or I swear..."

The sudden scream broke the tension. Both of them broke into a run. As they approached the camp, they found a swirling blizzard obscuring the search party. Screams and gunshots illustrated the action where dim figures moved in the blinding snow. Child-sized figures with oversized heads, translucent in the filtered light and dripping with icicles, leapt up in their path as they ran.

The mist and snow diminished towards the epicenter of the battle to reveal Marshal Hancock, one foot propping open a coffin, one fist grabbing Tina by the hair. Around him, like the scattered playing cards of a bad hand, were the bodies of the remaining guardsmen.

"Get in there you witch!

"Hancock, what the blazes are you doing?" Lupescar cried.

"Something that would have saved us a heap of trouble if I hadn't been such a damn fool," he grunted,"she's been behind this from the beginning!"

Something huge, horned and terrible loomed over the mountain man. He bleated a plaintiff cry as it devoured him like a sheep being slaughtered.

"Don't stand there gaping, you useless cow," Hancock shouted at Sorsha, "shoot the damn thing!"

On reflection, Sorsha could never be sure what surprised her more, her lack of hesitation, or her lack of remorse, as she smoothly raised her pistol and fired, neatly placing a bullet between Hancock's eyes. The death marshal released the girl as his body tumbled over the coffin. After a moment's silence, the ice creatures turned away and shambled towards the hills.

"Now, what am I going to do?" Sorsha said to herself.

Tina walked over the bloody snow to the mercenary and handed back her coat.

"You come with me," she said.