Gunmage for Hire: Magic of the West, Book I

Gunmage for Hire

Magic of the West, Book I

C.A. Fitzroy

Copyright © C.A. Fitzroy, 2024

Cover illustrations by Rafido

‘Gunmage for Hire’ is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Historical research has been used to provide the overall context for the setting, while the narrative is the product of the author’s own imagination.

This book is dedicated to my brother Colin, the only other member of my family with a deep penchant for fantasy and science fiction. I hope you enjoy the following tales of Henry ‘Hal’ Dorchester and his many escapades.

C.A. Fitzroy, 2024.

A Traveller’s Guide to the Frontiers

a.d.f. - Dating system widely adopted through the realms, standing for ‘After Discovery of the Frontiers’, when the first settlers crossed through the waygates from their homelands.

Alchemy - The process of creating rare metals from base ones, although in common parlance the term widely encompasses the production of everyday magical potions and items to help with spellcraft as well.

Arsenal - Shipyards and munitions factories widely associated with the city of Culversten.

Assault Shell - A new and fearful contraption, full of menace.

Badlands - Harsh, wind-swept deserts from which the Union of the Badlands derives its name.

Battlemage - A practitioner of magic who primarily focuses on arts related to combat.

Common Speech - The language widely shared by the inhabitants of the Frontiers.

Conrad of House Vindofalen - A great bear of a man, steadfast in his loyalty to all things. He can often be found wielding a poleaxe and laying ruin to countless straw men.

Dust Devil - Often referred to as ‘imps’ by uncultured swine, the buzzing of their wings can be heard throughout the Badlands.

Eunuch Service - An ancient custom in Samni for public attendants and servants being rendered immune from temptations of the flesh.

Frontiers - The collective name for those realms making up the continent west of the Perilous Waters, and sometimes including the Isle of Arrival due to its cultural significance.

Gates - Magical portals used to travel great distances, their secrets now forgotten to the sands of time.

Geomancy - A form of magic which alters the surrounding landscape, often with devastating results.

Gold Double Dollar - The highest form of currency, only minted in very limited numbers and generally requiring exchange via the Guild of Commerce prior to use.

Great Divide - The large series of canyons one needs to cross in order to reach the Union of the Badlands from the Eastern Reaches. Infamous for its use by bandits as a network of hideaways.

Guild - Organisations of craftsmen represented with varying degrees of authority in Culversten and other large settlements in the Frontiers. One notable example can be seen in the Guild of Ironmongers.

Gunmage - An informal title attributed to mages who, when faced with more mundane challenges, possess the tendency to answer disputes by squinting down the sights of their rifle and taking aim.

Gustave - An erudite and feathered friend with delusions of grandeur.

Hall of the Sage - The governing body of magic and training grounds for mages nestled deep in the mountains north of the Central Pass . Its jurisdiction for all things relating to such activities is widely accepted throughout the realms.

Harleigh - A sly steward and namesake for a particularly opulent manor house. First name remains unknown, although whispers suggest it may be Royston.

Harmon Sarth Witzgeld - The self-appointed lordling with considerably deep pockets. With a penchant for vulgar displays of vanity such as wearing togas and an oily demeanour. Rumour has it that when Harmon was once bitten by a snake, the poor thing died.

Henry ‘Hal’ Dorchester - A gunmage on the run, ever keen to pick up a bit of extra coin to inevitably squander on fine cravats and expensive meals. His brass earlobe and scarred visage suggest an air of menace despite ongoing attempts to downplay them.

Industry - The backbone of Culversten and the modern cities of the Eastern Reaches. Levels of development vary widely throughout the Frontiers depending on the region in question.

Kurugh - The fiery and furious one.

Lordess - Female equivalent of lord, mainly used in place of lady by the inhabitants of Almsville.

Lorotte - Chief Shamaness and adoptive mother of Hal.

Mage - An umbrella term for all followers of magic, all the way up from your local village witch to fully fledged wizard. Many take umbrage at being referred to as such, although an equal number probably couldn’t care less.

Magic - The manipulation of natural forces to achieve spectacular results, generally divided into the Inner Path and Outer Path schools according to official doctrine. Proponents of the former often downplay the achievements of the latter due to their reliance upon baubles or potions.

Magister - The highest administrative rank at the Hall of the Sage. Though the Grand Magister serves as a sort of ‘first among equals’ in order to assuage the prickly egos of fellow wizards, in truth he far surpasses his colleagues’ talents.

Margot of Alsmville - Known as ‘Maggie’ or ‘Maps’ by those closest to her, this Wild Witch and cartographer of some renown is nonetheless a member of the aristocracy by virtue of her birth.

Merilithi - The plural form of Merilith, a native inhabitant of the Anastan archipelagos. Known to most residents of the Frontiers as mer, mermen or mermaids depending on the local dialect.

New World - All the realms of the Frontiers and islands throughout the Perlious Waters fall under this term.

Old World - The lost homelands now inaccessible due to the secrets of maintaining the requisite waygates having been lost to time. Once, scores of settlers poured forth from such portals to settle the Frontiers in droves. The number of ancient individuals with sufficient age to recall such lands dwindles by the day.

Pathbreaker - A mage who has dabbled in both schools of magic, against the express dogma of the Hall of the Sage stretching back centuries. Such individuals are often targeted for arrest or execution by battlemages depending on the severity of the breach of conduct.

Potential - The raw talent of a potential mage prior to any official training being received.

Rufus - An equine authority on anything apple-related.

Sage - A vague expletive uttered in moments of shock, with ‘By the Sage’ being by far the most widely spoken. Whether the figure in one of historical fact or mythology remains open to debate.

Shaman Council - The governing body of the Shaman Wilds situated in the settlement of Voluterre, although due to the nomadic tendencies of the locals they are rarely gathered in one place.

Spell of Translation - One effective piece of spellcraft which allows the caster to speak directly with other sentient beings.

Strigatism - A strigatic being is one which has developed magical abilities far exceeding those of fellow members of its species. Causes remain under examination by the authorities, although cases are rare and poorly documented.

Valderic - Grand Magister of the Hall of the Sage. Sadly, his memory has started to fade in recent years much to Hal’s consternation despite their complex relationship.

Waygate - Often referred to simply as a ‘gate’ by locals. In centuries past, such enormous stone archways served as conduits for travel between different worlds. Now, they stand in various states of decay as sad reminders of lost knowledge.

Wendigo - Gnawing teeth and shredding claws, avoid at all costs.

Wild Witch - A form of witch who has decided to go out into the world for her training, rather than the usual affair of remaining stationary in a village apprenticeship.

Willard DuBois - One of the Frontiers’ wealthiest magnates, and a good friend to have.

Wizard - Typically a mage of high repute, their skill and training being held to the highest standard.

Wyrm - A synonym for a dragon, drake or serpent. Although the four oak-sized legs and enormous wings are typically reason enough for concern, the true danger lies in their unsurpassed master of spellcraft.

Prologue

Dorchester Homestead, Union of the Badlands, 748 a.d.f.

FEW THINGS MANAGED to cause Conrad of House Vindofalen to break out in waves of intense shivering and chattering teeth.

A night spent wandering a stretch of the western deserts was one of them.

For all his rugged physique, developed over a lifetime of strenuous activity and harsh conditioning, the howling wind tore through every fibre of his being. Even Dorian, the well-fed grey wolfhound at his side, offered the occasional whimper. A companion of many years over countless difficult journeys, it was rare for the old mongrel to display such overt signs of discomfort. The situation must have become truly dire indeed.

Conrad scratched behind the old hound’s ears to offer some small measure of an apology, to which the stout bounty hunter was rewarded with a short but determined growl. Heads bowed against the shrieking winds pouring across the tall dunes, the two travellers struggled up the nearest ridge in need of a brief respite.

After huddling beneath a small outcrop the lost wanderer unstrapped his satchel and felt around for the pewter flask. It contained the meagre remains of what had been an ample supply of water upon leaving the way station two days prior, but both he and the hound desperately needed to wash the grit from their eyes and throats.

Cursing the lack of visibility, resulting from a combination of the new moon in the sky and incessant maelstrom, Conrad threw his pack to the ground in frustration as he withdrew the small container. Dorian’s large, chestnut eyes reflected the glint of the metallic surface in anticipation of relief, only for both their hopes to be crushed as sand poured from the canister.

‘Kurugh and all his twisted bastards,’ the shaking form muttered. ‘Of all the damned places to settle down, those two incompetents had to settle with the badlands. Tarm had the right of it, but that stays between us, eh boy?’

Dorian looked up with a blank expression, tongue lolling between yellowed teeth. With a sigh of resignation, Conrad unravelled the stained brown blanket of coarse wool from atop his travelling kit. The damned horse had run off after getting spooked with the rest of his provisions.

‘That’s what you get for hiring a cheap mount, in the first place’ Conrad muttered to himself through ground teeth.

Without a further word, the man and hound curled up with parched mouths to try and wait out the sandstorm.

‘You have got be kidding.’

Shaking off the last grains of sand from the night’s torment, Conrad watched the mutt racing towards outstretched arms no more than a hundred steps below their small encampment.

‘I see you up there, Vindofalen,’ a raucous voice called out. ‘Are you going to roll about in the sand a while longer, or would you rather join us for the morning meal?’

‘Maps, stay right there,’ he tried to call out in reply, but it exited his throat as a dry rattle. ‘I don’t know whether I want to kiss you or put you six feet under.’

Unsure if the short woman had heard the remark, and secretly hoping it had been lost on the now-gentle winds, Conrad carefully made his way down from the mound towards the small homestead. Dorian was greedily lapping up clean water from a small copper bowl on the porch by the time Maps sauntered over to greet the dishevelled nobleman.

‘Conrad of House Vindofalen, Scion of Ripuaria, Champion of the Divided Steppe and Slayer of Chimera,’ the bespectacled face gave a low bow. ‘Welcome to our home.’

‘Ok, enough with all that, Maps,’ Conrad rolled his eyes. ‘You know I’ve no time for such nonsense. I’ve spent the last night with a mouthful of wolf fur, dreamin’ of whisky and ice cold Anastan rivers. Please, tell me you have—’

‘No on both accounts,’ Margot interrupted. ‘Hal is too drained. I reckon he won’t be fit to transmute any more water for a few hours, let alone whisky.’

Margot of Almsville went by a number of nicknames, largely dependent on who was doing the talking, but Maps and Maggie tended to be the two most common these days.

Over the seventy-odd years since they had first met the red hair had lost none of its sheen, nor had any of her squat features set beneath wide-rimmed bifocals shown any signs of age. In fact, he knew through Hal that although Margot appeared to be a young woman in her mid-thirties, she had recently celebrated her one hundred and twentieth birthday.

The truth of her enhanced lifespan never seemed to bother Hal, but then he was nearly three centuries old himself so that made a strange sort of sense. Conrad, who was himself gifted to some extent in the Inner Path, nonetheless felt slightly awestruck when confronted with such potent sorcery.

How in all the hells had they controlled the power needed for that type of spellcraft?

Suddenly, his focus was brought back to the moment by a quick, playful slap to the face, as freckles and shoulder-length curls filled his view.

‘Conny, you still in there?’

Margot placed an ice cold bottle into his left hand.

‘Sorry Maggie,’ he quickly came to attention. ‘I was just mulling over the fact you haven’t aged a damned day, while here I am looking like an old codger.’

His remark was met with an impish grin.

‘I was just saying we could do you one better,’ Margot replied while pointing down at the glass vessel. ‘Since when do you call me Maggie, anyway? You really must be out of sorts if you’re starting to sound like Hal.’

Conrad shook his head as he held up the frost-covered bottle of Las Lágrimas, the best beer to be found anywhere west of Culversten. He hadn’t even meant to call her that, it just came out.

‘Thanks,’ he unscrewed the cap and drained half the bottle in one long pull. ‘I wish I’d known your place was another few steps in this direction last night. We couldn’t see so much as an arm’s length.’

Margot nodded and her face set into a grimace.

‘Worst one we’ve seen since moving here.’

‘I take it Hal and the boys are fine,’ he said. ‘It would take more than a storm to put that mentor of yours in his grave.’

‘Yeah, they’re all fine,’ Margot replied through a yawn. ‘Couple of cracked window frames and he’ll need to rebuild the pigpen out back, but nothing we can’t handle. At least the hoglins had the good sense to hide under the rubble and stay put.’

A loud chortle came from behind the small wooden hovel and caused both their gazes to turn in its direction.

‘More sense than me, at any rate. I tried to repel the winds and ended up on my backside.’

Henry Dorchester, known by many other names due to having spent decades living as a fugitive, strode over and polished off his own bottle before placing it on a nearby ramshackle fence. To friends and his foster mother Lorotte, the man had always simply been known as Hal, although he often went by Chester when dealing with the seedier elements of society.

Given their common ties as bounty hunters, and the fact they had cooperated on quite a few good scores since first meeting at the tavern in Esperanza years ago, Conrad knew all too well how important it was to keep a low profile.

Unfortunately for Hal, that was easier said than done. With glowing violet eyes, a shock of unruly black hair and a lanky figure covered in various scars, the man stood out in any crowd. The fact he was missing his left ear and had a bronze replacement fitted in its place certainly didn’t help either. Add to that the warlock’s tendency to wear gaudy and outlandish attire, and the effect was complete.

Thankfully, unless Hal was undernourished or utterly exhausted, keeping up a glamour was one of his greatest natural talents. He could take on any living form that came to mind, all while manipulating his surroundings, that aspect of spell-work the mages used to call the Outer Path, without even so much as breaking a sweat.

‘You’re thinking about just how wonderful I am, for all my… physical quirks.’

‘Nice try, jackass,’ Conrad chuckled. ‘We all know telepathy is one of the few schools where you can’t best me.’

They spent the next few minutes greeting one another and discussing the previous night’s weather before turning to follow Dorian’s wagging tail into the homestead. Conrad noticed the look Margot gave him behind Hal’s shoulder, and he returned a very slight nod in response.

Their friend had tried to mask the pain in his right arm during all the arm clasps and back pats, but the stoic mask hadn’t reached up to his trembling eyes. With concern over his friend’s lingering injury, Conrad followed his friends to take a seat near the pantry.

‘So there’s no sign of it healing or closing up?’

Hal shook his head. Margot clasped her hands upon the small granite table with a deepening frown. Most of the house was constructed from good cedar and oak, which was a great expense given the lack of lumber in the badlands, but several metal and stone-based items furnished its interior as was the local custom.

‘I wager all this fine woodwork is part of the gift from Tarm and her folk,’ mused Conrad, as one of his large, caterpillar-like eyebrows lifted in a wry expression.

‘Tarmeena should have been here last week,’ Hal returned. ‘Maggie went out scouting yesterday before the storm hit, but there weren’t any tracks. Merilithi don’t easily sneak past undetected in the middle of the badlands.’

‘She’s not half bad using those legs of hers these days,’ Margot cut in. ‘Last I saw her after the battle you’d have been hard pressed to recognise Tarm as a mermaid at all.’ The squat woman shifted the glasses on her nose and squinted. ‘Although to be fair, the fact she was dripping from head-to-toe in entrails and wearing a cracked bronze helm didn’t help either.’

Conrad nodded. After taking a deep draught of cold water from the copper cup offered by his hosts, and then proceeding to chew over a morsel of salted pork with relish, he yawned and returned to the topic of his friend’s ongoing injury.

‘Surely between the two of you it shouldn’t be too hard to get sorted?’

Hal barked a quick, guttural sound of amusement.

‘I’m good, but I’m not that good. I reckon if Lorotte or Valderic were here they would have my arm fixed properly. There’s something rotten about the cut, and it ain’t natural.’

Mention of Hal’s foster mother Lorotte, once leader of the Shaman Council up north in the wilds, gave Conrad a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. As for Valderic, well… there was no reason to spoil the mood of their reunion with talk of him. At least not for the time being.

There would be plenty of time later.

While the three hunters sat in quiet discussion about less severe matters, such as the intended colour scheme for the fresh cedar walls, Dorian walked over to Hal’s side and nudge a wet muzzle into the man’s arm. Then, the wolfhound repeated the gesture several more times before beginning to bark an odd cadence and pattern of growls.

‘Forgive me, my young friend,’ Hal said. ‘It completely slipped my mind as the lads are out back trying to keep the hoglins from running off.’

The warlock gave a sudden flick of his wrist and inscribed a strange symbol in the air using his fingers. After returning the hand to his side with a noticeable amount of pain, the ward remained shimmering in a light blue hue before their eyes. It reminded Conrad of a twisted mouth, but one with coils of rope protruding from the sides.

The pup seemed to relax and lay down in contentment upon the floor.

Hal knuckled the large shock of grey fur on the beast’s head.

‘Well, that should sort out the pain. That will teach you to chew on sharp branches, eh?’

Dorian raised his head with an overt display of indignation and pride.

Margot laughed aloud and tossed one of the pork chops into the air, which Dorian caught deftly in his maw with ease. After making sure the slab of meat was firmly secured between his canines, Dorian declared he was going to go help keep the pigs in their place.

An enormous, scarred wolfhound carrying a chunk of swine flesh blocking off the exit from the ruined pigsty should certainly do the trick, Conrad mused to himself.

The rest of the afternoon passed in amicable conversation around the table. Despite sporadic interruptions from Dorian wanting fed, most of the discussion centred upon whether they should go search for Tarm or give her more time to arrive. Tarmeena af Tarmosti, for all her glamour and subtle arts of seduction, was well-known to have a prickly constitution and to become offended easily. However, in truth she was mischievous and had a deep sense of humour which she often hid from those outside her immediate circle.

Still, Conrad had always been fond of the ageless Merilitha, although he could admit to a pang of envy for Hal having become her beau. It wasn’t that Conrad of House Vindofalen lacked the resources for dalliances with the high and mighty, but few lordlings’ daughters had made any sort of first impression in the way Tarm had years earlier.

Anyone who knew her was well aware she eschewed the typical customs of her people and hostility to humankind, instead preferring to spend time on land by means of two long, slender enchanted legs.

That in itself took some serious magical prowess, but where Tarm really shone was in the art of glamour. Few were better at altering a person’s perception of things. Indeed, the first time they had met had clearly demonstrated just how adept she truly was.

Conrad, having been taken prisoner alongside Hal by a band of brigands near the coast, watched as Tarm drew them in with her coral harp and irresistible voice. She looked every bit the typical syrene you might hear some old, drunk fisherman bellow on about at one of the many taverns lining the coast of the Eastern Reaches.

Unfortunately for the bandits, for all Tarm’s shimmering jewels crafted from shells, or her long, flowing locks of emerald-coloured hair and matching tail, once they dropped anchor it was too late.

It took all of five minutes for the suddenly wailing dirge to cause the men to rip one another to bloody ribbons at her behest. Afterwards, the mermaid had even had the good grace to lead them ashore in one of the small longboats.

Conrad couldn’t stop the large ear-to-ear grin from splitting his face. When he thought back to their first meeting, the look on Hal’s face had been priceless: the man’s heart had been utterly stolen hook, line and sinker.

Tarmeena had claimed she could see into a person’s essence and that was the only reason she had let them both live. However, when Hal had lifted his manacles in her direction with a raised eyebrow, she had burst out in a throaty laugh and winked.

A kidney bean suddenly thudded into Conrad’s head.

‘Stop thinking about my bride-to-be like that,’ Hal mocked with humour in his voice. ‘I know that look, Conny. Besides, whatever happened with that girl Caroline? Where was she from again, Malata?’

Conrad grunted. ‘Just never worked out, same as usual.’

At this Margot sputtered out a mouthful of water and tore into the conversation.

‘Poor Conny… nobleman from a rich family? Check. Renowned bounty hunter with rugged good looks? Check. Famed slayer of monster-kind and saviour of countless settlements? Check. Humility and a good sense of humour, despite all his fame? Check. You poor, unlucky and hopeless so—’

Conrad lifted his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.

‘Ok, I admit it Maps, you win,’ he replied with false modesty. ‘I have my moments.’

‘It’s a good thing I couldn’t care less about men, eh?’ Margot was quick to fire back. ‘Well, nor women for that matter. Give me a good stylus and roll of paper, thank you very much.’

Before Conrad could respond, Hal stood up to get the fire started in the small stone hearth in the centre of the room. After using an incantation to conjure a small globe of glowing flames and making sure it was safely resting in the ash pit, he then sat down on one of the many soft furs lining the floors nearby.

‘So, do we give her until tomorrow morning, or should we head out tonight? You know what Tarmeena can be like about these things.’

‘Scared she’ll rip off your grapes with her bare hands?’

Hal grimaced. ‘You know it, Maggie.’

Margot tossed a bean at him, but it was swiftly caught and thrown into the fireball.

‘I was dead on my feet this morning,’ Conrad said in response to his friend’s earlier question. ‘But, with a day’s rest and a belly full I’m up for a night ride if anyone else cares to tag along.’

Hal crooked an ear for a moment before replying. ‘Storm sounds like it’s long gone and blown itself out, why not? If we do happen to come across Tarm I’ll shoulder the blame for not trusting her path-finding skills.’

‘Right,’ Margot said as she got to her feet. ‘I’ll scribble a quick note that she’s to make herself at home in case we miss her.’

‘My apprentice does all the real work around here,’ Hal drawled as he began preparing his gear for a patrol around the vicinity. ‘I’m just here to look pretty.’

Conrad nodded in amusement.

‘Did I ever tell you about our first hunt and the mess we got ourselves into afterwards? Well, the first real one anyway, not counting anything so simple as coywolves or bears.’

‘Oh, this should be good,’ he replied. ‘You can tell me as we’re getting saddled up. I take it you have a spare ride?’

Margot interrupted them with the sound of crumpling paper.

‘You know what,’ she said. ‘You two go out for a quick look around the boundaries, I may as well stay put and keep the fire going for her. Take my remount, Conny. She’s light on her feet and not one of your huge warhorses, but you should manage. Might even breed her with Rufus someday, if he’s still up to it.’

The gruff hunter nodded, the shame at having lost his hired colt during the storm slightly assuaged. After leaving Margot to her comfort by the fireplace alongside a snoring Dorian, the men wrapped up in their ponchos and went out into the evening air. Hal’s old horse Rufus was hitched up, although the post itself was slightly damaged and bent from the prior night’s madness.

‘I’m guessing she didn’t want to overhear you telling me the story, then?’

Hal didn’t look up from his saddlebags as he replied.

‘Oh, quite the opposite. I made an absolute mess of the job and she never tires of hearing it.’

Caught off guard by the unusual confession of weakness from a fellow hunter, Conrad checked the stirrups of the brown steed and listened intently as Hal began his tale.

Chapter 1

Old Barset Coal Mines, Union of the Badlands, 674 a.d.f.

THE CLOYING TASTE of heavy dust and stagnant water filled my throat.

I quickly readjusted the black linen bandana covering my face in the hope of reducing the awful assault to my senses. At first it seemed to do the trick, but after a few minutes another layer of putrid odours penetrated my mask.

After years spent roaming the deserts comprising most of the Union’s landmass, in the western half of what had come to be known as the ‘Frontiers’ following centuries of exploration, I was familiar with the various scents encountered when delving into abandoned quarries. In all honesty, this was probably my tenth such contract in as many years.

However, there was an extra layer of rot and decay overpowering the more mundane tang of rusted iron or unused kerosene. The hairs on my neck had shot upright upon reaching the entrance to the excavation site. Brutal deaths can happen in any number of ways, but the smell left behind is unmistakable.

Beasts of all shapes and sizes tended to make their homes in such places, and bands of outlaws often settled in once such horrors had been purged. This is hardly surprising, given how useful a deep complex of tunnels can be for prey hoping to flee their pursuers.

Unfortunately, caves also make the perfect lairs for predators.

Enormous, pallid grey ones striding atop sharp claws, with greasy strings of black hair and rows of teeth the size of pocket knives, for example.

Well, the bounty office in Esperanza wasn’t offering good coin without the usual high chance of dismemberment or having my face chewed off. At least Melphas, the imp in charge of issuing hunts, had given me enough detail for a bit of preparation ahead of time. My belt was laden with a number of different brews and concoctions, while the satchel slung over my right shoulder was filled with various cured meats and dried foods which could enhance my natural talents in a pinch.

I always tended to make a few too many strips of pork jerky, but then it was my preferred nibble when it came to boosting the effects for anything to do with the Outer Path, a term the mages used for anything requiring a user to draw power from their surrounding environment. Moisture for spells of water-work, heat for those of a more infernal nature, you get the idea.

Yeah, I know. The name is pretty self-explanatory and on-the-nose, what can I say? Blame the Hall of the Sage for that one. Valderic was not the most creative of people, for all his skill honed over seven centuries of study. In any case, I was well-provisioned with draughts to bolster my illusory abilities such as concealment or glamour, and foodstuffs to magnify my more aggressive spells should they be needed.

When they would be needed.

I shook my head, trying to clear my mind of the many potential abominations which might be waiting in ambush farther into the underground passage. After a few steps the darkness overwhelmed my vision, and I clasped the large, rusted mine cart to my left for support. Uncovering my mouth, I tried to ignore the rancid smell and gulped down a small vial of an amber-coloured liquid. Within seconds my sight burst into a vibrant clarity, as though the entire damp corridor was lit with torches. Taking a moment to blink and make sure the measure of Blacksight Brew had been enough, I managed to chew on a morsel of pork over the rancid smell emanating from deeper in the mine.

You never know when a spur of the moment firestorm might be needed, so I managed to keep it down despite the aroma of death and decay making me want to void my insides.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I released my grip on the coal hauler and took in my surroundings. Melphas had been right in his risk assessment: the walls were covered in patches of dried blood and deep gashes about three hands’ length in size. I moved closer to inspect the damage, and upon examining the ragged marks knew exactly what manner of monster had made its lair within.

I made a mental note to try and get Melphas to reimburse my expenses alongside the bounty fee when I got back to town. A hundred silver pesetas was nowhere near enough. Well, at least I knew what to expect. I just hoped my apprentice Margot, who I’d taken to calling Maggie despite her youthful insistence on going by ‘Maps’, would be of sufficient courage to stand her ground should I fall to the monstrosity ahead.

After checking both the bronze pistolas at my hips and the rifled longarm hanging across my back were properly loaded, I raised my bandana and proceeded to sneak towards the nearest bend in the mine shaft, taking extra care not to trip on the lattice of rails under my feet.

The mines outside of Old Barset hadn’t been in use for over a decade, but they had once been a major contributor to the region’s supply of coal for use in furnaces during the cold desert evenings. As a result, a large web of connecting burrows stretched out underground for miles. While many resulted in dead-ends or collapsed rubble, I had been able to navigate the trenches by following the trail of destruction and growing whiff of decomposition.

Finally, after what must have been several hours, I peered carefully around the bend of a small tunnel opening into a large cavern. Kneeling behind an old wooden crate I held my breath and scanned the dig site for any sign of movement. Pickaxes were scattered against the far walls opposite me, and broken lanterns were strewn across the ground or upon barrels. Large wooden beams had been erected with scaffolds to support the miners’ work, and piles of discarded stone lay in heaps next to the structure.

Still, there was no sign of life.

I didn’t want to abuse my potions and end up on death’s door for a week, but a small beaker of cactus extract was clutched in my right hand in case I needed a quick spell of concealment. Better safe than sorry, as the saying goes.

After several long minutes of silence, I let out a sigh in equal parts relief and frustration. It was at that moment a glimmer of light reflected off some object in the corner of the room, which would have been invisible if not for my augmented vision.

Moving swiftly and silently to another point of cover, this time behind an upturned steam carriage of some kind, I noticed a smaller opening which I had not been able to see from my previous position. It had been largely hidden behind the scaffolding and mound of rocks on the left-hand side of the chamber. Creeping to the side wall of the cavern, I kept a low profile and moved in the direction of the crevice. Gently uncorking the small glass bottle, I downed its contents in one quick swallow.

‘Athal imet kasado,’ I whispered.

Nothing happened. At least, not from my own perspective. Thankfully, I knew to any onlooker it would appear as though I had vanished into thin air. Feeling slightly more secure in my concealment, I turned into the smaller pit.

The creature’s lair was a chaotic mixture of half-eaten corpses, human and non-human alike, with pools of thick fluid collecting between the five-odd stacks of victims’ remains. A nearby stalagmite showed signs of having been worn down through continual scratching, likely the result of the fiend sharpening its nails. The upper torso of a cave bear was propped up against the wall behind the makeshift scratching post. Even so, amidst all the signs of carnage there was nothing but the sound of dropping water or the occasional creaking of the mine’s wooden supports.

‘The brute must be out hunting,’ I thought to myself.

I waited for about half an hour perched in the narrow crack before turning to leave. At least I had found its hideout, but I wanted to regroup with Margot to come up with a plan of action.

Suddenly, all thoughts of returning to camp were dashed, as a rumbling growl came from above.

Looking up towards the high ceiling, I took in the expanding shape which moments before had been totally hidden by the pitch black.

‘So much for Blacksight Brew,’ I thought to myself in annoyance.

As the monster stretched out from its previous state of hibernation it dropped effortlessly to the ground below, landing upon two lean, grey and spindly legs. Resembling something between a malnourished man and a coyote, the beasts were reported to grow to over twelve feet in height.

This one was possibly close to that, and a crown of narrow antlers rested upon its head. Dark spittle dripped from the thing’s jawline, and razor-sharp teeth protruded in jagged rows within the gaping maw. Its arms and long claws were perfectly suited to slicing through flesh, and the sickly grey skin only added to my sense of dread as I darted back behind cover.

The wendigo ceased its rumbling growl and sniffed the air.

I didn’t even dare to so much as breathe.

‘Just wait,’ I told myself. ‘You know how this goes, keep it together.’

Sure enough, after several minutes the terror began to rip apart one of the bodies on the floor. It was uncommon for such aberrations to come back empty-handed, but not unknown. Indeed, this was precisely why wiindigooag, as my foster mother often called them, often stank of putrefaction: they were never above eating carrion or spoiled meat from past hunts when needed.

Taking extra care not to make any of my equipment clatter, I drew the rifle from my back and aimed it at the wendigo’s forehead. For all their monstrous strength and agility, they were not immune to a bullet