“Real freedom means having the biggest gun in the room.”

-Captain Legarius Rand, 188 U.E.

 

Stephan whistled to himself as he pushed out a particularly difficult bowel movement, a newspaper unfolded in his lap. The toilet was a bit too big for him, having to accommodate for Vormor’s prodigious size, and he sat on the edge to keep from falling into the bowl.

Tensions were escalating between the LIS and the Ashlands. A giant had been spotted on the southern coast of Zarr. A stormbreather had swallowed a cargo ship travelling to the Valerian Dynasty, leaving only three survivors.

World’s going to shit, as always, he mused. At least I haven’t been swallowed by a stormbreather yet. That’s one to put on the bucket list.

There was a sharp pop. Suddenly, there was a neat hole in Stephan’s paper. He held it up, frowning.

More sounds, echoing through the house. Gunfire.

Stephan threw the newspaper aside and hastily wiped. Still pulling his pants on, he barged out of the toilet and into Vormor’s living room. Hurrying into the kitchen, he found sprays of bullets tearing through the walls, leaving jagged holes in the wood.

Stephan did his belt, ducked low, and drew his Rivello.

“We’re being attacked!” he shouted, straining his voice to be heard over the gunfire. “Everyone to the kitchen!”

Someone crashed through a window, pulling aside the black curtain and letting some sunlight trickle in. A pirate, judging by her grizzled appearance. She wielded a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, held in a reverse grip.

These must be Rand’s people, he thought.

Stephan overcame the brief shock and aimed his gun towards the pirate. He didn’t get the opportunity to fire, however, as the black curtain sprang to life and wrapped itself around the woman’s head. She let out a muffled scream and slashed at the thick fabric with her knife, but managed only a few slim tears. The curtain pulled harder, fabric groaning, and there was a pop. The woman went limp, and the curtain unfurled itself, allowing her to fall to the floor.

Stephan blinked, staring at the dead pirate in silent bafflement, and was glad that the house was on their side.

More pirates tried the same tactic, leaping through the kitchen windows, and were all similarly entangled by the curtains. One of them broke free, stumbling against the kitchen table with a shrill howl, and Stephan put through bullets in his chest.

Taira came into the kitchen from upstairs, her two insectoid servants trailing behind.

“I think it’s Rand!” Stephan called. “Stay low!”

Taira ducked, but the kithraxi—true to their nature—charged straight in. They rushed a pirate who had gotten free of the curtains, sinking their razor-sharp claws into his flesh, in and out. He toppled, and they swarmed on top of him, quickly drowning out his screams.

Another attacker came in through a living room window. Taira opened a portal beneath the kithraxi, sending them flying out the other end along with the corpse, barrelling into the pirate.

“Where’s Vormor?” Stephan asked.

Taira shook her head. “I don’t know!”

Wherever she is, she had better hurry.

The front door exploded in a bright flash and a shower of splinters. Two, three pirates ran through, smoke about them. The floor opened up in a jagged maw and swallowed the first two up to the waist. It snapped shut, bones crunching, men wailing.

The third leapt over them in a single bound. A wildkin, tall and muscled, covered in shaggy fur. His elongated muzzle dripped saliva, and a pair of curved horns extended from his forehead.

The wildkin held a stout shotgun in his clawed hands, aimed at…

Aimed at Stephan.

He threw himself to the side, kicking off the wall. The shotgun blast drowned out all other sound for a split second. His left shoulder flared with hot pain, drawing a cry from his throat. It felt like a handful rusty nails being hammered into his flesh, shredding muscle.

Stephan touched his shoulder. His fingers came away red.

The wildkin pumped his shotgun and aimed another shot.

Vormor emerged from the basement a writhing mass of limbs. The sight of her caused the wildkin to falter, pausing momentarily to take in the grotesque shape.

Vormor spoke a spell dripping with hatred in Zhurfuran. With a flick of her wrist, she threw out a web of fiery chains that wrapped around the wildkin, pinning his limbs against his body and causing his fur to smoke.

Stephan’s eyes went unfocused. His shoulder burned. It burned something terrible. He gnashed his teeth and crawled on one side up against a wall. He pushed with his legs, managing to prop himself into a sitting position.

The next pirate that came through the window sliced the curtain clean off with a curved dagger. Stephan raised his gun, vision swimming, and fired. He missed the first two shots, but the third one found its mark, tearing out the back of the pirate’s skull.

“We have to hold out… until the captain gets back,” Stephan grunted.

“Don’t worry, mister cook,” Vormor said. “We will—”

She was cut off as a gunshot cracked and brown blood spilled from one of her arms. She blocked another that was intended for her head with a forearm, a second arm falling limp.

Rand stepped through the front door with a rifle pressed to his shoulder, a golden smile on his lips. He trod over the corpses of his comrades and ducked under a candelabra that swung out from the wall.

“May I come in?” he asked in an almost musical voice. “I apologize for inviting myself in, but I’m on important business. I’m sure you won’t mind.”

Vormor threw a fan of ashes that ignited mid-air, forming gnashing mouths of fire that honed in towards the rival captain. A pale-skinned imp sprang past a pair of her long arms and headed for Rand with a high-pitched shriek.

Rand’s smile widened, and he clawed a silver medallion out of his faded coat. A crescent moon. Vormor’s spell met an invisible barrier before they reached their target, fizzling out with a whimper. Rand turned his rifle on the imp. Aiming with one hand, he put two bullets center mass in the demon. It stumbled back, struggling to stuff grey viscera back inside its chest cavity.

The silver medallion released a soft pulse. The wildkin restrained in front of Rand was released from the fiery chains, the spell breaking into a cloud of ash. The wildkin rose, brushing the smoldering bits off his fur and retrieving his shotgun.

“Tano!” Taira cried.

A split in reality cut off the hallway, a portal that sparked at the edges. It led to a narrow alleyway, a pair of orphans scrambling out of the way.

Stephan felt an iron grip under his arms and looked around to find the kithraxi hoisting him up. His feet numb, they dragged him across the floor with little care. A tingle went through him as they crossed the portal, and Taira was close behind. Vormor limped into the alley, nursing her two wounded arms, and the portal swiftly closed up behind them. The Spider sank into the shadows, sunlight causing her skin to bubble and flake away.

Stephan looked around at the buildings, struggling to keep them apart. The place was not familiar.

“We lost,” he muttered.

“At least we’re alive,” Taira said.

“We’re as good as dead when the captain finds out we lost the map to Rand.”

“Not all of it,” Vormor said. She pulled a bronze plate from a recess of yellowed bandages on her belly. “I managed to save one while you were holding off those hooligans.”

“Good. That means we have a chance.” A wave of pain made Stephan grit his teeth, and he laid down flat on the ground to avoid disturbing his injury. He did his best not to look at it.

Taira got down beside him and took his hand.

“Be honest,” he said. “Does it look bad?”

“You will be alright,” Taira said, sounding less than certain. “But you may need a doctor.”

*****

The Golden Son kicked off his worn shoes, pulled the boots off a dead soldier, and stepped into them. He took a few teetering steps and gave a pleased nod, laces trailing on the floor.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, friends,” he said, “but I came out of this ahead.”

Quintilla struggled to take in what she was looking at. He was the Golden Son, no doubt about it. No one else had a gun like that.

She had expected someone a little more… coherent.

Regardless, she was not one to pass up an opportunity. She approached the man, picking up a bottle of whiskey off the floor that had survived the shootout, and thrust it in his arms.

“It was an honor to fight alongside you,” she said. “What can I call you, sir?”

The Golden Son peered at the whiskey in his hands and smacked his lips. “You can call me nothing. A man ought to be cautious with his name.”

“Fair enough. After such a daring rescue, I have to invite you back to my ship for dinner. I would be very offended if you refused.”

With the Golden Son on their side, the crew would be unstoppable. His skill was legendary. His very reputation was enough to deter any fighter with half a brain. Disregarding his present condition, it was clear he had lost none of his prowess.

“Then I invite you to be offended. I have places to be and people to see.”

The Golden Son brushed past her and strode across the bar, carefully stepping over the corpses. He took a shaggy fur coat off a hook by the door, shrugged into it, and stepped through into the sun, whistling discordantly to himself.

“Take care of yourselves now,” he said in a sing-song voice before disappearing from view.

The crew looked at each other for a long moment, the silence only broken by the dripping of a leaky pipe.

“What the fuck just happened?” Yin asked.

Quintilla shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know, kid.”