Ain’t about the Spells you sling, but how you use them.

  A truth my daddy taught me a long time ago, and one I would’ve done well to remember after he passed. Instead, I got sidetracked by the big booms and wasted six months learning Fireball instead of shoring up my foundation. Sure, my Big Spell came in real clutch once or twice before, and it’s a whole lot of fun to sling, but I ain’t ever gonna be a heavy-hitting Evoker like Uncle Teddy or Captain Jung because I’ll never qualify for all the licenses I need. Case in point the here and now, when having Fireball in my pocket would go a long ways towards solving the problem before us, but I been a good freeholder of late and haven’t prepped the Spell in weeks. Don’t got the hour to spare neither, not while riding headlong towards Creasy and the Abby horde with Clayton behind me and Cowie in front, so what good is knowing Fireball if I can’t sling it in a pinch?

  Should’ve put more effort into my Divination studies, boring and unglamorous though they might’ve been. Didn’t think I would suffer for it, but I’m feeling the pinch now as I focus everything I got on maintaining the Locate Object Spell and maintaining the link between my dowsing stone and Creasy’s sentimental but objectively ugly chestnut husk pendant. Piggybacking off of Clayton’s connection to Creasy ain’t as easy as it sounds, as I gotta really struggle to maintain that link on top of the Concentration the Spell natively requires. My daddy didn’t come up with the trick, but he taught me how to do it, and I never appreciated the beauty of it until now. Spells are typically built to do one very specific thing in a very specific manner. That’s the nature of them after all, tools and templates Proggies pass onto their Abby spawn to get them working with Aether, but someone figured out how to bend the rules and colour outside the lines to make Locate Objects even better.

  That’s my wheelhouse, not blasting away Abby with Big Spells I can’t legally obtain, or at least it was until I got distracted chasing after bigger booms. No way to make up for lost time, so I can only focus on my uncertain future and figure out what I’m going to do instead. Diviners can do a lot of things besides tracking people or Abby, though I’m not all too clear on what. I’m a one-track mind kinda guy, so I never really considered any other options besides following in my daddy’s footsteps. Clearly that ain’t gonna work out, so it’s high time I figured my life out. Least me and Old Tux get to have one last rodeo before I hang up his saddle for good and leave him to live out the rest of his days with Elodie come Monday.

  As for Clayton, his wheelhouse is clearly Enchantments which explains why him and his were so confident about riding out the Mindspire by their lonesome. It’s interesting to see how they use their Spells too, as Clayton continuously casts Bolstering Compliment on Old Tux. The other two, Braxton and Colton, they’re doing the same for Carter, except I’m pretty sure all they’re doing is annoying him. It’s all in the tail flick and head tosses, which is odd considering he a man and not a horse, but got all the horse mannerisms down pat. No one besides me notices though, because Clayton’s busy using Bardcraft to throw out bird whistles in every direction until he hears a reply from off in the distance.

  That’s the beauty of the Cantrip, a right useful one to be sure. While I can use Thaumaturgy to amplify a whistle until it echoes off the hillsides, Bardcraft keeps the volume the same, but simply changes the location from where the sound emanates from. Same volume, but lets you cover much more distance without sounding too out of place, unless you don’t recognize the bird call because it come from a bird that don’t exist on the Frontier. What’s more, soon as Clayton hears a reply, he can use that same Cantrip to pass along a message to let his people know what’s going on without shouting it for everyone to hear at the same time.

  It’s possible to do something similar with minor Illusion, but only if you can see your target, which is how Tina, Chrissy, and me used to trade whispers after bedtime a few years back. They’d looked down from their window and I’d look up from mine, until my daddy inevitably caught on and made me go to bed. Clayton though, he’s got this down to a science, using Bardcraft to coordinate his people and not only gather them up for an assault on Abby, but also tasking a group to head home first to bring extra horses, molotovs, and ammo aplenty to really take care of business. Beats lugging a 40lb Radio transceiver around on your back or attached to your wagon, but even if I had one, it wouldn’t work. The Mindspire’s still got the Aetherwaves all jammed up, so alls you get is static when you turn one on. Same goes for speakers for some reason, and even after you get out of range of the Mindspire, the radio signals have trouble passing through the area, so communications have been iffy for most folks round this part of the Frontier.

  Which means there’s little to no hope of the Rangers arriving anytime soon, since less than an hour has passed since we parted ways with Elodie and Miss Amelie. Means there’s at least another hour and a half before they arrive in New Hope, and two and a half more hours before the Rangers reach us, assuming they sally out right away. 4 hours at the minimum when all is said and done, so until then, all I got is Carter, Clayton, and his overalls brigade of 7 old timers with 4 more on the way.

  “How much further?” Clayton asks, with plenty of free time now that he’s gotten all his people in order.”

  “Three and a half klicks thataway,” I say, gesturing in the same direction my dowsing stone is pointed. I’ve been doing my best to triangulate Creasy’s position from while we zig zag through the trees and over the hills, though it’s all napkin math with general distances making it less accurate than I’d like. “Give or take, though I think they still moving. Any idea what’s up there?”

  It’s north and west of Clayton’s place, north-north-east of Mueller Quay, and well away from the road leading up to the mountains or any other inhabited area I know of. “Wulf territory,” Clayton replies with a frown, running his fingers through his thick, bushy beard before spitting off to the side. “Lots of hills and trees same as the rest of this damned forest. We stay away in the spring and summer when they’re raising their pups.”

  Which tracks with what Mr. Mueller told me the other day, about why his cattle and hoggis are so quiet. Still seems odd, especially since none of them animals seemed all that friendly, mostly tolerating the presence of people around them instead of getting right friendly with them like Cowie and his gals. Then again, Cowie’s my partner, while Dumpling, Momo, and Samosa are strictly for milk and breeding, rather than food like all the animals up in Mueller’s Quay, and you don’t make friends with food.

  Hunting is one thing, but it takes a cold heart to raise an animal then betray its trust. Thing is, most folks see that as business as usual and don’t care if hundreds of cows are slaughtered to feed them, then get all twisted in knots when I shoot a couple dozen criminals over the course of a year. Ain’t my fault they gotta die, because the criminals are the ones that betrayed our trust, breaking the social contract everyone else abides by because it would be anarchy otherwise. At least animals make a contribution to society with their deaths; all criminals do is stop being a drain, and sometimes not even right away. The money for bounties don’t grow from trees, and the hangman, embalmer, grave digger, and coffin maker all gotta get paid too.

  Much as I like the mousey Mr. Fenton, who dresses up all the corpses for their final day in the sun, I’m hoping I ain’t about to bring him a whole slew of work by leading Clayton and his people into the meat grinder. Who knows? Maybe them Abby will bunk down somewhere with clean sightlines and plenty of room for me to give ‘em the run around while my erstwhile allies chip away at their numbers. I’ll have to run for a good long time considering our lack of Armour Penetrating Aetherarms, but even if you switched me out for Clayton, that don’t improve things by much. He’d do a better job of keeping Abby after him with his Challenging Shout, but I gotta get in close to shoot with my Model 10 and Doorknockers anyways, which are about the most effective weapons we got here.

  Well, aside from molotovs, since armoured plating don’t do nothing to stop heat, but I’d really rather not set the forest aflame, like those pyromaniac bootleggers who lit up a whole swathe of trees a few years back.

  Hang on…

  It’s only now just occurred to me that I might be riding with said bootleggers, though I’ve no earthly idea as to how I’m supposed to ask. Can’t just come right out and be like, “Hey, y’all wouldn’t happen to be pyromaniacs, now would ya?” Mostly because that’d be rude, but also because I’m not so sure I want to know just yet, so I can honestly claim ignorance after the fact.

  Whatever. Even if it was them, they only set part of the forest on fire, and wasn’t like they killed nobody in the process. Besides, I might be counting my kiccaws before they hatch here, planning out the whole fight before even seeing what we’re up against. There’s no indication them Abby have even bunked down, so might be the Rangers will catch up before them Abby stop for the night. They’ll have to stop eventually of course, since they got prisoners who won’t be moving all that quickly while under Suggestion, Enthrallment, or whatever Spell the Mindspire’s got them under. Marks another escalation in tactics from the local Proggie though. Boggles the mind to think the old world governments didn’t consider Mindspire’s a threat, because things are moving fast and getting real dangerous to boot.

  Part of it is how quick the Proggie is learning, no doubt having eaten more than a few people these last few weeks. While raids have been few and far between here on the eastern shore, in no small part thanks to Carter’s community giving Abby what for, the western shore has been hit hard and often. Dead humans can’t be used as incubators, but they make great brain food for Proggies, and it’s learning how to make the most effective use of the Mindspire. Even though it saw great results with Madness, the Proggie didn’t get no biomass from it, not directly at least. I’ve been told that using the Mindspire ain’t free, that it takes a lot out of the Proggie to throw out big Spells like that, so it was likely a lot of investment for next to no returns. More than that, the second exodus after the Madness meant less prey for the Proggie, so it looks like it’s switched things up and opted to scale back and target a smaller group of exposed people.

  Least I gotta assume that’s what this was, because I didn’t feel nothing from the Mindspire over at Mueller’s Quay, nothing but the constant Dissonant Whistle that’s got me ready to tear my own hair out at times. That tells me this attack on Clayton’s village was made with future growth in mind as the Proggie looks to expand its spawning operations and maybe even bulk up to spawn a Synapse meat suit so it can puppet all its Abby in real time, like a thousand bodies all controlled by one mind. Now wouldn’t that be a kick in the gut, for the first Synapse of the Frontier to spawn not in the abandoned Deadlands infested by Soulless Abby, but right next to the crown jewel of the Eastern Front, the town of New Hope itself.

  Just to be sure, I ask Clayton to walk me through what he saw again, and he obliges if only to take his mind off his worries. “We were going about our day,” he begins, his gravelly voice all raw and grated. “Then the Alarms go off. Don’t have full coverage around the village, but the few trails leading in are Warded well enough.” Giving off a little grunt, he adds, “Warded up the trail you took coming in too, after your surprise visit.” Didn’t even mean to circumnavigate his Wards, just ended up happening because it seemed like the safest way in, but I don’t admit as much. Always good to have people think you better than you are, because then folks are less likely to cross you.

  So I stifle a grin and ask, “How much of a response window them Alarms give you?”

  “For a merhound at full sprint? 60 seconds.” Clayton grimaces, one I hear rather than see. “Not much time, but it’s enough. Got the women and children all bunkered down, while the rest of us took to the roofs and trees to fight it out, but them merhounds didn’t come in full throttle. They circled around the perimeter, dropping mudkippers off which started hopping on in eating every tree and bush in sight like they’re supposed to.” Clever that. I thought they let things get overgrown out of laziness, but they was using them hedges as natural barriers and bait. Plus it meant they didn’t have to go far to harvest bapples for cider, which I respect.

  The rest of the story is simple enough. Clayton and his ilk started blasting, then watched as a lean and wiry ranakin led the women and children out of the village. Right through a crowd of merhounds and mudkippers no less, leaving him no choice but to shoot it out until the crowd thinned enough to give chase. Luckily, them Abby didn’t break into their stables which were fortified well enough, and then they ran into me, which is double lucky for them. “That rangy ranakin,” I begin, thinking out loud as we ride. “Could be that’s the one that done drew your people out, not the Mindspire. I spotted it at Carter’s a couple weeks back when the compound came under attack. Pretty sure it hit me with a Mind Whip that left me bleeding out my face, which makes it an Enchanter.”

  Because I sure didn’t harvest any Enchantment Spell Cores after that fight. Got me a Silence, Gigantify, 2 Floating Discs, and a Dragon’s Breath to make up for the one that got stolen away by the surviving froggies from the group that done Juan in. Then again, I got no proof positive that the slim-jim froggie was an Enchanter, as it is fairly common for Innates to awaken to Spells from different Schools of Magic, even if they typically favour one. The only reason I say as much is to prep us for the fight, because preparation is power. Knowing what you about to go up against can mean the difference between life and death, especially when dealing with Enchantments. When you know it’s coming, you can steel your mind against it and be ready for any strange, errant thoughts, which sometimes is enough to shake you out of it. Then your opponent just wasted a Spell, because even though Enchantments can be devastatingly effective, they’re hit or miss when it comes to failure or success.

  So I have Clayton spread the word about a possible Enchanter, meaning we’re dealing with the Mindspire and a bonafide mind magic specialist. That’s an ugly combination. If the Proggie hits us with a Bane at an inopportune time, then that’ll make the froggie’s Enchantments that much more likely to succeed as the Spell dampens your spirits and sends nondescript chills and anxious thoughts rattling around in the back of your mind. Like going into a spooky haunted house back when I was too young to realize it was all a game and ghosts ain’t real, but the effect is more or less the same. All of which is to say that I don’t just have to worry about what Abby can do, I also gotta watch my back with Clayton and his people because all it takes is a Suggestion, Antagonize, Enthrall, Madness, or Discord to turn them against me.

  Don’t get it twisted. I love me a good scrap, as a hard-earned victory is sweet to the taste, but there’s gambling against the odds and then there’s going all-in with 2-7 off suit. This here is the latter, with slim odds to none of coming out on top seeing how I’m beat by any two cards.

  In the midst of my probability calculations, there’s a change in the Locate Object Spell which sets the hairs on my neck to standing. “They’ve gone dark,” I declare, and everyone glances over to ask if I’m sure, only to see my expression and think better of it. As for me, I keep an eye on my dowsing stone in hopes that it picks up again, but it sits still as it can while Old Tux is moving at a fair rate of knots. “Underground would be my best guess.” Gotta be at least 10 ft of dirt between us and Cleary’s pendant, else the Spell would still be working since it’s much more powerful than your standard Detect Abby.

  Behind me, Clayton lets loose with a colourful repertoire of curses. “Get us to the entrance,” he growls. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  “You ain’t goin’ down after them,” I declare, and I can almost feel his eyes boring a hole in the back of my head. “You and your boys with your 22-10 peashooters in CQB with Abby? That ain’t a rescue party. That’s a suicide mission.”

  “The fuck you know about CQB?”

  Close Quarters Battle, or fighting in tight spaces. “More than a little bit.” Takes all of a second to decide to bend the rules and share some secrets, because now is not the time to hold back. “Been down under dark before. Had three Captains and a Sergeant with me. A star-studded lineup and we still came back a man short.” Rest in Peace Marcus. I’m sorry I didn’t do better.

  Clayton takes a hot minute to mull that over, before exclaiming, “Holy shit. So there really was a Proggie in Pleasant Dunes.” I don’t say nothing about nothing, because I’m still thinking about the man I failed, but Clayton don’t press me here and now. Instead, he thinking things through, because he sure as shit ain’t no match for a Ranger Sergeant, much less three Captains to boot. Then, after a long period of silence save for the hoofbeats of our horses, Clayton says, “They got my wife. My kids. Our families. You get us there, Howie. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I can’t just watch y’all throw your lives away.” Shaking my head, I grit my teeth and say, “I said I would find them, and I keep my word, but I need you to listen when I say you ain’t goin’ down after them. There will be a better way. You just gotta give me time to see the lay of the land and come up with a plan, one that don’t include all of you dying before the Rangers get here to save your families for you.”

  “Rangers are hours away,” Clayton growls, a man used to handling his own business himself. “My boys are 15 minutes back with our gear, so that’s how much time you’ll get. I won’t leave my people with Abby for a second longer than necessary. Not. One. Second. You hear?”

  Don’t like it much, but I get it. I’d do the same for my loved ones, as Abby ain’t known for their discipline in general, and Ferals are even worse than gobbos. Wouldn’t put it past a froggie or merhound to get snacky and take a chunk of a nearby target, even if they got orders to protect them. Soon as the others scent blood, then all bets are off, because a Feral feeding frenzy in unlike anything you ever seen. Then there’s also the matter of how Enchantments don’t last forever, meaning their prisoners won’t be so docile and compliant any more, and Ferals make for shit wardens. Fact is, that might well be why they’re bunkered down, to give the rangy froggie Enchanter time to rest and recuperate so it can sling its Spells again.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  So I get a quarter hour to scout things out and come up with a plan before Clayton and his people go running off to a brave but foolish death. One I might well join them for, because I don’t think I got it in me to stand idly by and watch. Which means my best chance of making it home alive is to come up with a proper plan, one that doesn’t involve delving into no tunnels chock full of Abby.

  Don’t take long to get close to where my Spell last indicated where Creasy was, and I leave Clayton and his people almost a full klick away. It’s all thick trees and hilly terrain like the man said, so I don’t want too many of us getting spotted and alerting Abby to our presence. One man travelling alone might go unnoticed, or better yet, ignored since they resting and not looking to scrap. Hard to get a solid 8 hours of sleep with a fight going on outside, so I recast Locate Object and Detect Abby using Rituals before making ready to ride off with Old Tux when Carter comes over and bodies my horse aside. Gently of course, or at least gently as a horse can shoulder another horse to stop ‘em in his tracks. “What you doin’?” I ask, only belatedly remembering Carter can’t talk. “You need something? Food, water, what?”

  Carter straight up rolls his eyes, which is unsettling to see, but rather than try to make his demands known, he goes and bullies Old Tux instead. Lifts his head up over my horse’s then moves forward to force him back, and Old Tux goes along with it because he’s rightfully apprehensive of the staff-wielding, ninja jumping, animal transforming Native American man. Once it’s clear he’s the boss horse here, Carter eases off of Old Tux and gives me a look before turning around to face forward. Then he glances back and whickers, as if to ask what’s taking so long, leaving me no choice but to mount up on him instead.

  There’s a joke to be made, something about riding Carter bareback and disappointing Elodie, but these are serious times for serious business. Don’t love going without all my gear in Old Tux’s saddlebags, but I got enough on me to give Abby what for, so we head on out to see what’s what. The setting sun offers little to no light here in the thick forest growth, and while it’s easy to pick out the pale white grass and trees in the gloom, they only serve as contrast to make the shadows look even darker. Despite having two Divination Spells going and a bevy of Cantrips to boot, I got nothing on the ADAR systems which leaves me feeling leery. All I got is a general gist of where I lost track of Cleasy’s pendant, which is somewhere in the general vicinity in front of me. Ain’t much of a help at all, so I keep my eyes open and gun ready as Carter brings us deeper and deeper into dangerous territory.

  Right up until he decides otherwise of course, stopping in his tracks and giving a little shake to tell me to get off. Soon as my boots hit the ground, his physical form ripples and melts away in an unsettling tableau of churning flesh, one I watch with fascination despite how the twisting flesh makes my belly churn. Detect Magic shows that it’s magic of course, but otherwise, ain’t nothing of note to see, so I avert my eyes as soon as he’s done, because I’ve no desire to see Carter standing with his rod and tackle swinging in the breeze. “Howie,” he says, and I nod to show I’m paying attention while scanning our surroundings for danger. “Can you sense any Aberrations?”

  “Nope,” I reply, making a concentrated effort not to glance at him for fear of where my eyes might wander. “Be more surprised if I did, what with how thick the trees and bushes are here. Anything I sense on the Spell would have to be right next to us, so you’ll know I’ve sensed somethin’ when I start shootin’.”

  Carter makes a bit of noise behind me, scraping his bare foot across the ground all whisper quiet as can be. “Pay attention,” he says, and I begrudgingly turn to see him crouched on the ground in a most unfortunate display. “Though I am no tracker,” he begins, drawing in the dirt and blissful unaware of my shock and horror, “My grandfather served as a scout in the Second World War, and he taught me some of what he knew.” While I avert my eyes from his Bologna pony, Carter gestures at his diagram in the dirt, which is just a dot with a circle around it. Makes me want to crack a boob joke until he draws another circle around the first. Then another, with concentric circles all the way out, like an archery target.

  “This is your standard Detection Spell,” he explains, drawing out a little doggy figure at the 9 o’clock position. “You emanate a signal out in all directions, one that travels through the air directly away from you here at the centre, which we call an Aetheric Wave.” Pointing at his drawn doggy, he adds, “When the signal strikes a target, in this case an Aberration, it bounces off the target and travels straight back to you, at which point your mind interprets that information as a direction and distance to target.” Carter draws a line from the doggy to the dot in the centre, to illustrate his point, then draws another doggy at 6, only this time, he scrapes a thick line in front of it. “When there is an obstruction, like these trees around us, the signal is absorbed, rather than bounced, leaving you blind to the Aberration behind it. Does all this sound clear so far?”

  “Crystal,” I say, choking back a line about how certain things are much clearer than I’d like.

  “Good.” Crab walking aside to fresh dirt, Carter starts drawing again, only this time, it’s just a dot and a stick figure a few handspans apart. “With Locate Object, the premise is similar, in that you send out a Signal in search of a target, except this time, it is a specific target you already hold a connection to. This connection is invisible, intangible, and Aetheric in nature, but it is a connection nonetheless, and the Spell utilizes this connection to send out a compact signal in the general direction of the target, as opposed to the widespread one the Detection Spells utilize.” Carter draws a thick line leading from the dot to the stick figure, then draws two arrows in it to show that it’s travelling in both directions, to the target and from it at the same time. “A beam, as opposed to a wave.” Drawing another stick figure just above the first, Carter adds a few trees in between the dot and figure, then draws a thick line over it again, with arrows same as before. “Because the beam is more solid and dense, when it strikes an obstruction, it is only partially absorbed, allowing the bulk of the beam to remain intact and continue transmitting information regarding the caster’s target. That is how you are able to track this woman Creasy’s pendant over long distances, whereas Detection Spells have a far more limited range.”

  “Okay,” I say, as I knew most of this already, and while a quick refresher and different perspective is always nice to have, this hardly seems like the time for a lesson.

  Giving me a look that says he understands my impatience, Carter points at the concentric circles of the Detection diagram. “What my grandfather did was take his Detection Spell,” he begins, before pointing at the second diagram, “And utilized it like a Locate Spell. He would gather up his Aetheric Wave, trap, focus, and direct it, allowing the pressure to build up before providing it single path of escape. The Aetheric Wave then becomes an Aetheric Beam, and travels in a straight line outwards from the caster to pierce through obstructions and inform them of any targets up ahead.”

  I let his words sit for a second, then my eyes widen in understanding. “Hot dog,” I exclaim, as my mind races through the implications. “So that’s how it works. Never understood how my daddy always knew when there were Abby underfoot or on the other side of a hill, but I guess he was just waitin’ for me to get good enough with the Detection Spell before letting me know.” He passed only shortly after I started learning Second Order Spells, so I still had a ways to go, and it breaks my heart to think of all the lessons I missed out on because some Qink politico didn’t like hearing about the Yellow Devil on Ranger payroll. Grief aside, I can’t help but consider all the different applications of this newfangled knowledge. “If it works, you could use that beam as a sweeper, send it out in a full 360 circle to look for Abby and gain increased clarity and information at the cost of slower real-time updates.” Seen plenty of Illusions of ADAR systems, or Aetheric Detection and Ranging systems, but it never made no sense to me. They were always depicted as green circles, with a line that starts from the centre and stretches out to the edge that sweeps the circle and highlights dots every time it passes. Now though, it finally makes sense, because that’s what the tech’s doing with the Spell. “Could even bend it around obvious obstacles, like through a door to check either side!”

  “One step at a time, Howie,” Carter says, standing up and brushing off his hands. “Try and see if you can do it first.”

  My Detect Abby Spell is still going strong, but it takes me a moment to parse through the different thoughts bouncing around in my head to isolate what I’m getting from the Spell. Soon as I do though, I can feel the Aetheric Waves surging out in a steady stream, one almost too fast to really track. I know Danny’s talked about this sort of thing before, but he was talking about the radio and how the channels we tune into are actually frequencies, ones measured in hertz which is cycles per second. All of which is in English I understand, but never really could figure out what any of it meant until just now. Cycles per second, or waves emanated out per second, with radio frequencies being somewhere in the range of 3 thousand to 3 trillion cycles per second, or 3 kilohertz to 3000 gigahertz.

  Amazing how one explanation can make it all click together, the single missing puzzle piece my daddy never got the chance to give me. Puts a real damper on my spirits as I capture and contain those Aetheric Waves before focusing and funneling them all out in a single direction. Takes all my attention to pull off, leaving me helpless and vulnerable as I put everything I have into the Spell, and I gotta hold my hand up and out to really direct the flow. Still works on my first try, which is something to be sure, but all I can do is wish it were my daddy here with me instead of naked Carter.

  That one errant thought is enough to ruin me as my fine control of the Detection Spell slips through my fingers, leaving me to start over anew and give it another try. My second go around I keep my thoughts on point as I slowly and carefully sweep the area in front of me for Abby. Even though I’m only turning a single degree at a time, the range of my enhanced Spell means I’m covering far more than a mere 500m, albeit all in one narrow band rather than full coverage all around me. Even when nothing comes back, it’s a whole lot of nothing to process, and I’ve barely been at it for a few seconds before my head starts to pound and ache. There are lives at stake though, so I push on through and keep looking, and even step aside to check the same angle from a different direction just to really cover my bases.

  And sure enough, I get a hit soon enough, a bevy of contacts in fact. 3 merhounds, no, 6 total, patrolling about in pairs well over a klick away. That’s more than double my usual range, and through thick forest at that, which is mind-boggling to say the least. I feel like I done gone from using iron sights to a full on 6x scope, and now I can pick out more details than I ever seen before. Two of the merhounds are injured, minor wounds from the scuffle back in Clayton’s village no doubt, while the others are moving slow and steady in that mindless sort of manner you see in someone phoning it in, just going through the motions so they don’t get in trouble because they’d rather be doing almost anything else.

  Always knew Abby had their own personalities, but never thought there’d be slackers and go-getters among them.

  I let Carter know what’s what, and we head on over to check it out. With him as a horse mind you, which is another Third Order Spell, or at least I suspect as much given what little I know of Summoning and Wildshape. “Don’t go blowing on your Spells on being a horsie,” I drawl as we get underway. “Still might need you to pull my chestnuts out the fire if things go awry.” Carter snorts, but don’t say anything else, because the man is a horse and can’t talk, so I focus on directing my Detection Spell forward and checking for more Abby as we go. At the last minute, I give a bird call similar to what Clayton was using, one I’m pretty sure means ‘come this way’ or ‘on me’, seeing how he was throwing that one out most of our way here. Though I’d much rather hunker down and avoid a fight, if we get spotted on our way in, I would feel a lot better knowing Clayton and his guns are less than a klick away.

  My caution proves unnecessary as them merhounds ain’t paying no mind, and though I’ve no Eagle Eye to really get a good look at things, I see enough to know it’s a bad fight. They got a little burrow in the side of a hill, an abandoned wulf den it looks like. So not a full-on tunnel system then, just a big hole in the dirt where they’ve got all of Clayton’s people trapped inside. Doesn’t look great, but it does mean there’s no reason for Clayton to go delving then, since there ain’t much for them to delve into. I bring this information back to him all the same, with Carter playing the part of well-trained horsie to perfection, and Old Tux sitting pretty with Cowie beside him.

  “Wulf den, huh?” Clayton drawls, picking up on the same thing I did. “Usually means only one entrance and exit. They ain’t cagey about getting trapped, but a big den will have multiple rooms dug out over the years as the pack grows in size.”

  While he mulls over the tactics, I’ve got my eyes on the case his four trailing buddies brought in, a weapons chest that looks like it was freshly dug up. Might well have been, given the weapons inside, and I give Clayton a look to ask if I can touch. He nods and waves me away, still thinking things through, so I grab me the closer of two offerings stacked inside the chest. Soviet make from the looks of it, as it got Cyrillic letters stamped into the metal which I don’t know how to read, with a lovely walnut, flat grain finish on the stock, and an Etched barrel with the worst iron sights I done ever seen. The rear sight is barely taller than the built-in rail mount, like the manufacturer knew you were just gonna mount on a better sight, because the front sight is just an abomination. It’s a thin ring with a thinner nub, so narrow I can barely even make out the circle in the early evening gloom, and I can’t imagine a world in which I’d use this gun without a dedicated optic.

  Hence why everyone present is busy screwing on their own optics, while some even got a second canted sight for close range. “The Sickle Industries Stoat,” Clayton says, pulling a compact, boxy magazine out of the chest and tossing it over for a look. Whole mag fits in my hand without sticking out over any edge, and I ain’t ever been accused of having big hands. “Technically a bolt-action Blastgun, though only just barely. Takes what the Soviets call a 366 Magnum round, rather than your standard shell, and has a Compressor built into the rifle barrel so you shoot a solid bar of Force instead of a Kinetic Spray.” The bullet is of similar size to the 7.62’s the Blackstaff Assault Rifles use, them machine guns that done work up in Pleasant Dunes. “Can even attach a mechanical Silencer to hide muzzle flash, but we don’t have any of those. The gun was initially designed to get around strict Soviet laws restricting civilian ownership of rifles, which described them as ‘long barrelled Aetherarms with a rifled barrel’. Being a Blastgun, the Stoat don’t need rifling, so even though it shoots like a rifle and hits even harder than one, under Soviet law, it is still technically a Blastgun.”

  I love little tidbits like this, because it shows the colourful history of Aetherarms and how they came to be. “Compressed Blastgun huh?” I say, giving the iron sights another look before recoiling away. “How’s it shoot?”

  “Like shit,” Clayton replies, as he ain’t one to mince words. “Terrible M.o.A as you’d expect from a non-rifled barrel, so anything more than 300ft is a crapshoot.” Or round about 100m. Hate Imperial, but most Americans still use it. “Lots of drop in the projectile too,” Clayton continues, ignorant of my mild fit of pique. “No surprise there, as a compressed Blast is slower and denser than a Bolt. The upside is that it hits like a goddamn truck since it’s got the full suite. Intensify, Empower, and Maximize, because Soviet laws don’t restrict the Metamagics on full-sized Aetherarms like Federal ones do. Stoat’s got Penetrate too, because the Coral Sands got a real problem with armoured Abby, and I picked up a few when I saw the local dogs and frogs had armoured up too.”

  Accuracy and legalities aside, this gun will do the job in a pinch against armoured Abby. Only got four rounds in the mag though, and no Prime or Efficient, so it’s got the standard, unmodified rate of fire of 1 shot every 5 seconds. Putting the Stoat aside, I reach for the other weapon to have me a look-see, but Clayton gets there first. “This here is my real prize,” he says, hefting the gun with a cold smile that spells danger for Abby. “Sickle Industries again, but they call this one the Ogre’s Bane. Gas-operated semi-automatic which fires a Second Order Bolt that’s been Metamagicked to the gills, all powered by a 7.62x51mm 135 Grain cartridge, with 50% more Aether than your standard Second Order round.” I let out a little whistle, because that is one fat, expensive bullet, packing 13.5 times the Grainage of my piddling 22-10’s while being big enough to grab and stab a man with.

  Clayton is a man who appreciates his Aetherarms, so he gets into the weeds while we chit the chat. “Not only is this baby accurate and fast firing,” he says, slamming a short, curved banana clip into the weapon before hefting it up to point skywards, “It only needs a few mechanical modifications to turn it full auto. Only got twenty round magazines, but it’ll do in a pinch, especially if you swap the beefy Bolt Core for a Bolt Salvo Core like I did. Twenty rounds turns into sixty Bolts fired out in two seconds flat on full-auto, all Intensified and Empowered with Penetrate to boot.”

  Which explains why both these guns were buried and hidden, because they’re illegal to own much less use here in Federal territory. Which I think is dumb, seeing how it says we got the right to bear arms, not the right to bear certain arms the government thinks is safe enough for us to have. I can appreciate Clayton’s creative workarounds though, and much as I’d love to get my hands on a fully-automatic Ogre’s Bane myself, the sheer cost of ammo would probably bankrupt me after my first hunt.

  Giving me a look, Clayton nods and says, “Told you me and mine would bring the heat. You want a Stoat?”

  “Thanks, but can’t.” I raise my stump to hammer home the point, as I can’t really shoot a bolt-action Blastgun turned rifle with only the one hand. Shame really, because even with all the downsides, the Stoat sounds like a fun gun to try. Now ain’t the time to get giddy about guns though, so I bear down and buckle in for the ride. “So here’s the plan,” I say, having come up with something that might work out, except I don’t like it much. “It’s your standard run around with a twist. Y’all set up where I tell you to, then I go acting like I’m blind as a bat. I’ll ‘stumble’ across them doggie patrols, open fire on them, and once they’re dead, them Abby holed up inside got no choice but to go on the attack. From there, I run in circles and hold their attention while you and yours put big holes in them. Bing, bang, boom, Bob’s your uncle, and we go collect your people inside the den.”

  “What happens if they leave Abby to guard my people?” Clayton asks, which is really the big wrinkle in my grand plan. “Soon as they see the tide turn against them, they’ll kill my people and make for the Lake. Even if we chase them down, that’ll be too late for me and mine. No, I won’t take that risk.” Turning to his men, he says plain and simple, “Our wives and children are sitting over yonder in a den, so we’re gonna march in guns blazing to stand between them and Abby.” There are no cheers to follow, no chorus of hurrahs, just cold and silent nods as these men ready to lay down their lives for the people they love.

  And lay down their lives they will, because even with all the heat they’re packing, they’re no trained soldiers who know how to move and fire. Simple as the concept sounds, it takes real trust and coordination to run headlong towards Abby with a loaded weapon in hand and hold your fire. Gotta count on the men beside you to keep you covered, right up until they run out of ammo and it’s your turn to cover them while they reload. Simple enough sure, but far from easy, as the fog of war is real and can leave a man reeling with no earthly idea of what’s happening.

  Much as I want to tell them it’s a terrible idea, I can tell they already know it, but that’s their family in there, so they gonna do it all the same. Heaving a sigh, I check my guns one last time, then turn to check on Old Tux and Cowie. Carter too, so I can lean in close, put my hat on his horsie head, and whisper, “You stay here. If we don’t make it out, then the Rangers will be trackin’ my hat, and that’ll lead them straight to you. Let ‘em know what happened, and if I don’t make it out, then give my regards to my family.” Giving Carter a wink, I add, “I got spare clothes in the saddlebag, and while they might be a tight fit, you don’t want to be giving the bad news in your birthday suit, now do you?”

  My piece said, I pick baby Cowie up to give him a kiss on the nose. “You stay here partner,” I say, even though he look ready and raring to fight. “Stay with Old Tux, got it?” Cowie blows out a snort, then nuzzles me close, and I smile to see it. “That’s a good bull.” There’s a lot more I want to say, but Clayton and his ilk are already moving out, with no expectation that I’ll follow, but I don’t want them tripping over the patrols who are harder to spot than you’d think.

  “Wait up,” I say, putting Cowie down, and to my surprise, Clayton glances back with a scowl then stops in his tracks. So do the others, though after a few steps, I realize they ain’t stopping for me, but rather so they can gawk at something behind me.

  “That is a terrible plan,” Carter says, striding over all naked and unashamed to put my hat back on my head before squatting to pick up a stick and study it. “We should go with Howie’s plan, his ‘run around’, with a few addendums. First, I will go with him, and so will you Clayton. As the two of you make your approach, I will sneak into the den unnoticed. Then and only then will you two take out the patrol, at which point Clayton will give a Challenging Shout to draw out as many Aberrations as you can. While the rest of you take care of the vanguard, I will safeguard your people from any stragglers who remain behind, though I urge you to work with all haste, for we do not know what lays inside the den.”

  “Holy shit,” Clayton mutters, looking mighty nervous as he clutches his modified, fully-automatic rifle, and not showing any indication he’s heard a word Carter’s said. “It’s a Skinwalker.”

  “I am no malevolent harbinger of death,” Carter declares, tossing aside his stick and grabbing another. Giving it a quick look over, he twirls it about in a practiced and efficient manner, just a few quick movements that set the air to humming. “I am Carter Willis, Shaper and Spirit Caller of the Diné. I swear upon my name that no harm shall come to your people so long as I stand before them.”

  There’s something about the term ‘Spirit Caller’ that makes Clayton’s eyes go wide as saucers, though I ain’t ever heard the term before. It ain’t a Métis military rank in the Pathfinders, though they got a similar vibe. Sam Horne up in Minaik is pretty much the Marshal of the Emerald Plains, and his official rank is Storm Caller, while I know they got other fancy ranks like Earth Shaker, Sky Watcher, Wind Runner, and my personal favourite, Thunder Bringer, but you gotta be like a five-star general to earn that one.

  It’ll have to remain a mystery for now though as Clayton makes up his mind and strides on over to offer Carter his hand. “You already know my name,” Clayton says, giving the other man a nod of respect as they shake. “If we have your help, then okay. We’ll go with Howie’s plan.”

  “My word is my bond,” Carter says, returning the nod before glancing at me. “Carry me in as close as you can. I will tap your shoulder before parting ways. For every tap, allow me one minute to get into position before you move on the patrols.”

  “Will do,” I say, wordlessly asking if Carter is sure about this, because he got a family to go back to. Rather than answer, he simply nods before shifting into a marty, one that shrinks down alongside the stick he done picked out which ain’t nothing more than a twig between his teeth now.

  Which begs the question; if he can affect items while he shifts, why doesn’t he just bring his clothes along with him?

  I don’t say as much though, because he’s more than earned the right to go around naked as often as he pleases. Takes an effort of will not to giggle as marty Carter scoots on up my pant leg and shirt to climb up on my shoulder, and even more not to boop his little marty nose. This is the closest I ever been to a marty, as they don’t like being touched much less picked up. At least not by me, so I’ve had to do without, and it’s hard not to get caught up in the moment. Heading back to grab Cowie and mount up onto Old Tux now that we’re not walking to our almost inevitable deaths, I set to positioning Clayton’s people in areas I already done picked out, putting shooters up in trees and on ridges wherever I can with warnings to avoid setting the forest on fire and to make sure I’m not standing behind their targets before pulling the trigger.

  Because it’s one thing to go down swinging in CQB trying to save a bunch of women and children, and another thing altogether to get got by a through and through from friendly fire. Ain’t all that friendly if you know what I mean, so here’s hoping these shirtless hillbillies know how to pick their shots.