Three shots echoed out as Arc pressed his trigger, emptying the cylinder, and putting three revolver rounds straight through the necks of the last of the kobolds who thought they could escape him. They collapsed one by one, thudding a song as their hide-clad bodies hit the cracked soil.

  A small wisp of smoke streamed from the tip of Arc’s gun before vanishing into the air. The spellslinger cautiously edged towards each of the dozen kobolds lying dead around him and gave them a kick. Not a single one of the scaly little reptile men let out as much as a groan.

  Arc had been walking for two days, making his way through the wasteland to one of Colt’s outposts. He would have much preferred the road, especially as it was free of kobold caves, but he wanted his arrival to be a nice surprise for the bandits.

  “Let’s see,” muttered Arc, rifling through his pouch for ammo. He loaded six bullets into his revolver, leaving another fifteen for an emergency. “Not a great stock.”

  The previous day, he had been unfortunate enough to happen upon a lone gnoll as it snagged an armadillo for dinner. It was clad in iron armour and it took three bullets to put the sturdy beast down. Today, the dozen kobolds had cost him eighteen bullets. The worst of his injuries were but minor scrapes, so he assured himself that his twenty-one remaining bullets would be enough to deal with Colt’s men. Frankly, he was hoping a single bullet would be all he needed.

  Arc took a swig of water from his canteen and then looked around to ensure that he was alone before loosening his orange scarf. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt a cool breeze graze his neck. Slowly, he raised two fingers and gently massaged two small, circular scars on the right of his neck, just above his clavicle. It was not painful, yet he winced and then immediately tightened his scarf once more.

  Taking a deep breath, he proceeded along the wiry grass, regularly checking his surroundings for more kobolds on the horizon or a slithering snake winding its way towards him. All was quiet as he ascended the hill, trying to see if the road was close by. The second his eyes were level with the peak, he dropped onto his chest and lay flat on the slope with the grass poking him in the arms and legs. He was here.

  Arc wriggled his way forward and peeked over the hill at the long antenna he had seen. His eyes followed it downwards to a broken metal dish, beside which stood a man with a pair of binoculars around his neck and a rifle in his hands. The building itself was small, as Kenny had said it would be, with at least one door nestled within the faded red bricks.

  “Two hundred and fifty?” Arc asked himself, trying to work out how far away the building was. “Three hundred maximum?”

  He needed to get closer without the guard seeing him and there was no way his Arcane Shot could reach him from this distance. He knew very well this may have been the case so he pulled out his spellcaster and clicked the cylinder back one notch before stashing it in his waistband and covering it with his t-shirt.

  “I hope this gentleman isn’t trigger-happy,” the spellslinger said under his breath.

  Arc stood up and held his hands high to the sky while ambling slowly down the hill towards the broadcasting station. He could feel the sweat manifest on his brow and a knot forming in his stomach. This was a stupid idea, he knew that. It didn’t take long before the guard turned towards him and raised his rifle. He stared down the barrel, ready to tap the trigger at a moment’s notice.

  “Afternoon!” called Arc, flicking one of his hands in a wave. “My name’s John Welling and I’ve come from Pembroke.”

  “Pembroke?” asked the guard, keeping his rifle at the ready as the stranger walked towards him calmly and slowly. “Who sent you and why are you here?”

  Arc stopped moving, knowing that the slightest misstep meant a bullet through his brain. “Kenneth Wormwood. He asked me to deliver some intel to you about Darcy the Jackal.”

  “Wormwood? The gnome?” asked the man, his curiosity piqued. “What’s he got to say about Darcy that he didn’t send word directly to the boss?”

  “Said he didn’t know how to find Colt and that this outpost would be the best place to broadcast the message to the rest of your crew, seeing as it’s a broadcasting station and all that.”

  “You armed?” asked the guard.

  “Yes,” said Arc, nodding down to his waist. “Got a revolver on me, about fifteen rounds left after a couple of scuffles on the way here and a hunting knife.”

  “Drop them on the floor, John. Slowly.”

  Arc did as he was told and carefully retrieved his revolver and all of the rounds, dropping them onto the ground. The bullets rolled down the hill and he hoped he could pinpoint each and every one later. Eager to please, he then flicked his knife downwards and it wedged in the soil with a faint thwip.

  “Anything else?” asked the guard.

  Arc threw his bag down too, took off his jacket, and then turned around, deliberately not turning out the pockets to reveal a lone Arcane Shot cartridge. He then threw his jacket beside his revolver and took off each of his boots in turn, shaking them to show that there was nothing concealed inside before putting them back on. He prayed that the guard wouldn’t ask him to lift his t-shirt or the spellcaster would be discovered and he’d have to run in quickly to get in range.

  “That’ll do,” said the guard, relieving Arc.

  He kept his eyes on Arc as he walked towards the edge of the roof. He leaned down and tapped on the window beneath him before standing back up. The window opened seconds later.

  “There a problem, Cryer?” came a rough voice.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Got a messenger from Pembroke,” said Cryer. “Says his name is John and he has a message about Darcy. Take him before Benson.”

  “He armed?”

  “Nah, he’s clean. He tossed his weapons and jacket aside. Even showed me his boots. If he’s able to strangle us all to death before we put a hole in his head then I’d say he’s earned the territory.”

  In his mind, Arc was thanking Cryer for selling his deception so well. It would be a shame to kill the na?ve bandit later but all of Colt’s men were guilty of atrocities; it was part of the initiation process. Not a single man would be leaving this station alive save for Arc himself.

  “Head on over to the door,” said Cryer.

  The bounty hunter did as he was told and walked along carefully. He glanced up at Cryer a couple of times as he approached, hoping he would look away for a second. Luckily, he returned to his watch when Arc came within a dozen yards of the outpost. He quickly grabbed his spellcaster and threw it onto the ground a few feet to the side of the door. As he raised his hand to knock, there was a click and the door opened before him.

  “Message from Pembroke, eh?” asked the man who answered.

  He was a tall man with a shaved head, wearing green military slacks and a red beret. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, but the half-smile on his face told Arc that this fellow was a cocky bastard.

  “That’s right,” said Arc with a nod. “Are you Benson?”

  “That’s me,” said the bandit. “Going to need to search you before I let you inside, envoy.”

  “Go ahead,” said Arc, holding up his hands once again.

  Benson patted him down, checking Arc all over. He left no stone unturned, even checking underneath Arc’s scarf, much to the spellslinger’s chagrin, but he didn’t mention the two scars that Arc hated so much. As he was being checked, Arc kept his eyes away from the golden gun that lay mere feet away and prayed that Benson was too focused on the search to even consider his surroundings.

  Once he was satisfied, Benson turned around and walked inside, taking no notice of the spellcaster. He beckoned Arc to follow him. Arc walked on, taking a small lunge to the side, scooping up the Golden Hawk, and then shoving it behind his back and under his t-shirt, relieved that his bold plan was paying off.

  Inside, there were another four bandits playing cards at a round table in the corner and another two drinking shots of gin as they talked about something that was making them guffaw to each other. When they saw Benson walking past with Arc, they all focused their eyes on the stranger in their midst.

  “Problem, fellas?” asked Benson. The men grunted and returned to their activities. “Sorry if that made you uncomfortable, John. We’re not used to having guests, at least not willing ones.” The bandit let out a sneering laugh.

  Scum. That was all that Arc could think right now, but he had to play it cool.

  Benson led Arc down a small hallway, past a couple of doors, and into an office at the far end. He sat behind a desk and gestured for Arc to take the seat facing him. The bounty hunter obliged and sat rigidly so as not to let his gun fall out from his waistband.

  “So, John,” said Benson, clasping his hands together and giving another cocky half-smile. “What’s this message of yours that brings you all the way from Pembroke on foot? Must be real important.”

  “Yes,” said Arc. “Kenneth Wormwood has intel—”

  “Kenny the gnome?” asked Benson, letting out a cackle. “That smarmy little bugger is providing us with intel now, is he?”

  “I don’t know the details of any arrangement he has with your boss. He simply paid me to deliver the message.”

  “Naturally, naturally,” said Benson, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on the table. “Get talking, blondie.”

  “He said that Darcy’s looking to claim this outpost to encroach on Colt’s territory.”

  Benson chortled and then clicked his tongue. “Darcy doesn’t have the manpower to spare if he wants to take this place.”

  “Kenny says he doesn’t need the manpower. He was able to scavenge an old tank that’s still operational.”

  Benson took his feet off the desk and stood up, but said nothing. He stared at Arc pointedly and the spellslinger continued his fiction.

  “His men found it a few days south of here on a patrol and they were able to haul it back to one of the Jackals’ bases. It could move and shoot, but the armour was pretty beat up so they reinforced it and now it’s powerful enough to blow most of Pembroke to smithereens in an hour.”

  “Son of a grizzly whore,” spat Benson. “Makes sense why the gnome sent you here now, John. The last thing he would want is that tyrant running the show in Pembroke. We’ve got a good thing going and that jackrabbit is going to ruin it.”

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Benson. I’d prefer Pembroke remaining as is too.”

  Benson shook his head and muttered a few words under his breath. “A tank, eh? Damn, it would be very sweet if we could claim that for ourselves.” He folded his arms and drummed his fingers on his biceps. “How did Kenny come across this intel?”

  “He keeps it close to his chest,” said Arc. He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “But I reckon he wants to cut some sort of deal with your boss for a few special privileges when Colt inevitably takes over Pembroke. That runt loves to play the middleman, but he's got his favourites and his favourites are the ones that will make him the most money.”

  “That blasted gnome has always got another motive,” sneered Benson, taking off his sunglasses and revealing one blue and one grey eye. “Scummy little creatures they are. Can’t trust them as far as you can throw ‘em but, that said, he’s done us a good turn here. Just need to let the boss know…”

  This is what Arc had been waiting for. He needed to play it cool and make the offer when Benson was most susceptible.

  “Hmm,” said Benson, looking at the grimy window behind him. “Or, this could be the opportunity I’ve been looking for.”

  Or? Arc didn’t like the sound of that and he liked the look in Benson’s eyes even less. “I’m happy to relay the message to Colt for you, Benson,” he said.

  “Alright, that works,” said the bandit with a shrug. He took a deep breath and then headed for the door. “Follow me, John.”

  Arc felt a wave of relief as he stood up. He adjusted the Golden Hawk and followed Benson back into the corridor. Rather than returning to the room where many of his men were enjoying their downtime, the bandit opened up the first door on the left and walked on in.

  The second Arc stepped through the doorway, he felt the cold press of metal on his temple. He knew then and there that he had made a misstep and should never have come inside the building; Colt’s location be damned. The room Benson had led him to had iron bars going from left to right, halfway into the room, with a single open door. The three windows were all barred from the inside and there was no way of escape.

  “Sorry about this, John,” said Benson, putting his hand on Arc’s back and marching him into the cell. “Can’t have you alerting the boss when you’ve told me about the very thing that could let me take his throne, can I?”

  “Benson,” said Arc as the bandit leader closed the door, all the while keeping his eyes and pistol pointed at Arc. “I won’t alert anyone else about this. I don’t even know where Colt is.”

  “That makes two of us, doesn’t it?” said Benson with a sly grin. “He’s gone quiet since he left Pembroke last week. The boss man could be up to anything and we wouldn’t know a thing about it. Me and the boys have been left high and dry and I don’t take too kindly to that. It seems to me like a change in leadership is required, given the circumstances.”

  “I’ll not say a word,” said Arc, fighting the urge to go for his spellcaster too early. Talking his way out of this would give him the best chance of survival, given his limited ammo.

  “I’m afraid I can’t count on that, John. It’s nothing personal and, like I said, I’m sorry about this. It’s just the way the hand of fate pointed today.”

  Benson took a key out of his trouser pocket and turned it in the cell door’s lock. With a final cocky smile at Arc, he walked backwards out of the room, leaving Arc alone in the cell.