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Dust and Sand – Chapter 12 – By Sean P. Wallace

Chapter 12

Dust and Naismith rode to Shadows Fade, stopping a few feet from her. A consummate warrior, she sized them up as they rode to the outcrop she stood on. Most of her attention was on Dust’s crotch, where his tattoo still lingered. Her ability to sense it intrigued him; there was a link between his tattoo and the Indians, a connection and a history, but he couldn’t remember anyone pinpointing it so accurately. He made a note to ask her how she knew.

Not that that would be easy… Dust didn’t look forward to talking to Shadows Fade second-hand. He preferred talking for himself and, without being arrogant, knew he’d pick up on changes in tone and wording better than most. Especially now.

This wouldn’t be his first time talking remotely; back in his ranger days, he sometimes brought young rangers into Indian lands who talked their talk. It never went well; there was always some misunderstanding, some accidental insult or vital mistranslation. Dust sometimes thought that those Indians who taught their languages made purposeful mistakes as petty revenge against the white folk. He could hardly blame them.

Even so, he’d wanted to learn the languages himself. He’d picked up the very basics but he hadn’t gone into Indian lands often enough for his superiors to pay for lessons and he never halted long enough to get them himself. It was no more of an option now; Indians avoid the Solution in case they’re made to spill their secrets.

He looked at Naismith and held back a sigh; the opportunity for fuck-ups was even greater now. Under any other circumstance, he’d cut Shadows Fade loose and mosey on. But he needed information, needed to know more about the Badlands, what was ahead of them and, especially, anything that might direct them to Penelope Chalmers. He hoped Naismith’s concern for her friend would override her anger at Dust.

But first thing first. “Ask her if she’s okay to follow us,” Dust said. “Tell her we have no time to waste.”

“Ask?” Naismith sounded surprised.

“Ask.”

She relayed the message. Shadows Fade watched her as she spoke, perhaps surprised that Naismith was so fluent, and nodded.

A stalking mass of blue energy then appeared behind Shadows Fade. Shaped like a wolf, it was much bigger and more impressive than it had been at distance, a compressed and potent killer. It moved slowly up to the warrior with menace and purpose. Grizzly eyes regarded Dust and a mouth filled with vicious blue teeth opened and closed between steps. That she could command such a creature brought her further up in Dust’s esteem.

It sat on its haunches. Shadows Fade petted the beast.

“That’s her Spirit Wolf?” Naismith asked, a tremor of terror entering her voice.

“Aye,” Dust confirmed.

They turned the horses, who were nonplussed by the Spirit Wolf, round and trotted them north-east. Shadows Fade and her wolf walked alongside them. Dust soon picked the Paints’ trail back up and pointed them toward the Paints’ territory. The wolf sniffed the air constantly and looked to Shadows Fade, communicating what it scented; they knew where he was leading them but neither slowed nor quailed.

Now she understood what they were hunting, it was time to talk.

“Ask her which tribe she’s from.”

Naismith relayed the question.

“She says she isn’t from a tribe but a band. Not that I – and she means me – could possibly know the difference,” Naismith translated, pruning the scowl that threatened to bloom when she passed on Shadows Fade’s disdain. Then she sniffed. “It seems like semantics to me.”

Dust wished Shadows Fade wouldn’t antagonising her; he didn’t want Naismith leaving them with no way to speak. And she probably realised this, knew the power that she wielded. Which made her even more dangerous.

“It’s not semantics but you’re right; the difference doesn’t matter. Where is her band from?”

Four brief words from Naismith. Three from Shadows Fade. “The south.”

Dust’d hoped he might have ties with Shadows Fade as he’d worked with bands in the east. But it seemed his only leverage was his damn nickname.

“Why was she following us?”

“A good question,” Naismith said, implying it was his first.

Naismith asked. Shadows Fade looked at Dust and began a long explanation, a series of words that seemed to be aimed at him. He recognised only one word from the stream – ‘Badlands’ – but her balled fists and bared teeth betrayed the emotion in her reply. Dust noted that her Spirit Wolf’s agitation increased too.

Shadows Fade paused and gestured to Naismith to relay what she’d said so far.

If the command annoyed Naismith, she didn’t show it. “She says that her band are now terrified by the horrors of what we call the Badlands, that they no longer protect the land of their ancestors. Shadows Fade claims to be the only one who takes up that duty; she and Claw of the Gods – I think that’s her Spirit Wolf’s name but it’s a complex term – hunt here to clear it of evil.”

Dust nodded. He waved Shadows Fade on, his respect for her rising.

Shadows Fade started again, relaxing as she spoke.

“Jesus, Dust, they found us with that little boy! Yesterday, whilst hunting, they picked up our trail. She says they followed it and watched you greet him, kill him. You weren’t scared. Neither was I. According to her, only three types of people aren’t scared by ‘dark spirits’; the foolish, those who fight them and those who join them. She didn’t want to see the cults or harrier bands out here getting any stronger so-”

Dust cut in. “So she followed us to see which one we were.”

He smiled; he couldn’t help but like people who chose to fight the Triangle. Her earlier anger was honest, true, so she was not exaggerating in stating her band’s reticence to fight. Though perhaps she was being unfair; when the Indians had ruled this land, it was their sacred duty to fight the Triangle but now they had been decimated it was understandable that they not risk their lives. Even more so when their former aggressors were willing to do so instead.


But he wasn’t about to ignore the most interesting bit of information she’d given them; there were cults and harriers operating in the Badlands now. That was further proof that the Badlands was evolving, becoming more dangerous.

“I cannot believe she was after us for that long,” Naismith said, looking down at the earth. “And that you did not notice.”

She was annoyed, scared, so he let her criticism slide. “I’m not perfect. And we were never in any real danger.”

“No?”

Dust looked at the Spirit Wolf and reconsidered. “No,” he decided. “Anyway, could you thank her for explaining?”

A brief exchange followed. But Naismith didn’t translate; she just stared at Shadows Fade.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Naismith said.

Dust slowly exhaled. “She decided to say something.”

Naismith crossed her arms. “Don’t worry, you’re not in any real danger.”

Shadows Fade looked from Naismith to Dust, brow furrowed. This wasn’t the time to look weak or press Naismith further. So Dust shrugged. “Fine. Please ask her if she’s seen anything of Penelope or her armed guard.”

She held Dust’s gaze for a moment and then turned to ask Shadows Fade, asked his question.

The warrior shared a look with her Spirit Wolf before replying. That wasn’t a good sign; no-one reacts like that if they need to share good news. She responded after a few seconds, talked as though carefully choosing her words.

“She says that they were hunting a… a ‘dark spirit’ yesterday that might have been… wait, let me check that…” Naismith asked something and Shadows Fade repeated two of the words. “Okay, this dark spirit was an Eldritch Manifestation inhabiting the corpses of a great deal of men. She guesses that somewhere between forty-five and fifty men were needed to make such a thing. And some of them had worn a uniform, a blue uniform…”

She turned to Dust. “That’s what the soldiers would have worn!”

“That’s Penelope’s whole escort,” Dust said bitterly.

Naismith went pale. In the morning sun, the effect was drastic. “Oh my Lord…”

Dust cursed himself; he should have had more tact there. He reached over and patted Naismith on the shoulder. “It means nothing. Whoever kidnapped Penelope would have had to kill the soldiers to get her anyway.”

“Was that supposed to improve my mood?” Naismith asked with an arched eyebrow, anger draining her fear. “That her captors are capable killers?”

“Well, it doesn’t change anything.”

Naismith shook her head. “You’ve not spent a lot of time around women, have you?”

“Not recently.”

Shadows Fade said something, her voice gentle.

Naismith replied with a small smile, then said “She says that she killed the dark spirit. She hopes that makes us feel better about their deaths.”

Dust reappraised Shadows Fade. Eldritch creatures that could knit corpses together were terrible and strong; killing one would be hard as Hell. Yet Shadows Fade claimed to have done so alone and had no visible scars from the battle. He’d not considered her as something close to an equal before; now he did.

But Shadows Fade didn’t need his attention now. “Does it?” he asked Naismith. “Make you feel better?”

Naismith put one hand to her shoulder and rubbed it. “A little,” she admitted.

“That’s good, at least. I’m glad.” He paused, let her absorb his small kindness. “Has she seen anything else we should be interested in?”

Naismith asked. Shadows Fade replied at length.

“Bunches of men with engineering equipment keep coming out to repair the telegraph lines. They dash in and out like… children, she says. And a ‘white band’ further up the line is under attack. I guess she means a town.” Naismith asked something and got a reply and a shake of the head. “She doesn’t know the name of the place.”

Dust frowned. The telegraph poles again. There was some link between them and the cult; according to the reports, the last telegram successfully sent through had been the cult’s demands. There was no mention of a distress signal from a town or encampment before that.

“Ask her whereabouts the TTC have been repairing.”

Naismith asked. Shadows Fade pointed ahead of them, to the Paints’ territory and the rough place where Penelope Chalmers had been kidnapped.

“I don’t need that one translating.”

Naismith laughed. “I should hope not.”

So the Paints were protecting the damaged telegraph poles, ensuring the line didn’t work for long. But why? Dust’s mind raced; the cult must have expected a response from the Solution, for the Senator to try and rescue his daughter, so perhaps the Paints’ purpose was to stop news about the attacks on this town escaping… because the cult were involved in them too. Or perhaps they were based nearby and didn’t want the search to be narrowed so easily. The link was tenuous but it explained the connection.

If he was right, the cult weren’t just a bunch of nuts; they were organised, methodical. It was good to know the kind of enemy he was up against. And if they were that smart then it’d be even better to have more fire-power for the eventual fight.

“Now you might not like this one but consider it; would you ask Shadows Fade if she’d consider coming with us?”

“Pardon me?” Naismith asked.

“Would you ask her if she’ll help us rescue Penelope?”

Naismith looked at Shadows Fade and then trotted over to Dust. She put her palm on his chest to halt him and he got a waft of her perfume, a strong lavender scent he couldn’t remember her applying.

Dust reined Horse in and let her form her response.

“I am sorry but you cannot be serious here,” Naismith said. “You genuinely want to invite this… person… along?”

Horse whinnied, nervous at the sudden stop. Dust patted him gently and said “I rarely joke.”

“Then I can only conclude this is your one joke for this week. I mean really, bring a red skin along with us? I get that you respect them for some reason but look at her! She’s vicious, dangerous; she’ll scalp us the moment she gets the opportunity.”

He held his opinions back. “No she won’t. She respects me.”

Naismith leant in and kept her voice low. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better? The fact that she holds you in some kind of high regard won’t stop the likes of her stabbing us in the night! These people are uncivilised, Dust. They aren’t like us.”

Hearing this nonsense brought Dust a moment of clarity; this was Dick’s real punishment for causing a fuss at Low Tracks again. The old fox had known how much she’d get on his wick, this wealthy girl who thought she knew it all. Losing a slither of his ear had been a distraction, a fleeting expression of Dick’s rage; in Naismith, Dust could feel the General’s cold anger at work. It was almost enough to make him smile.

“And I suppose she’d say that any blanket we gave her would be filled with disease, that we’re bloodthirsty and vicious.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, probably feigning such ignorance.

Dust kept calm. He reckoned he’d need to use a lot of words, mimic how she liked to communicate, to bring her around. So he took a moment to frame his response and said “That stereotypes get us nowhere, that she has just as much to worry about from us. If she were bloodthirsty, she’d have ambushed us when she thought she had the drop on us. She’s strong but not strong enough to worry me. But listen, you want to see Penelope alive again? Shadows Fade represents a significant increase in your chances of doing so.”

Naismith’s eyes narrowed. “That’s something of a low blow, invoking Penelope’s name.”

“Know what they call a dirty fighter in the Rangers?”

She shook her head, not following the change in subject.

“Alive.”

Naismith searched his face and then shook her head. “Fine. But on your head be it.”

She removed her slender hand from his chest and asked the confused-looking Shadows Fade whether she would consider joining them. A conversation followed. Penelope’s name was mentioned, as was his. Then Shadows Fade looked at him, examined him in such a concerted way that he felt a grain of discomfort, and said something.

“Well?” Dust asked.

“She says she’ll do it on two conditions.”

“Which are?”

“The first is that you come with her afterwards and talk to her band; she hopes that the famous Wanted Man might influence their pathetic cowardice.” She paused then added, “Which I suppose is reasonable if they’re being babies about this.”

“I think we can manage a small detour once we’re done.”

Naismith said nothing in the most pointed way possible.

“And the second condition?” Dust asked.

Naismith barked a short question. This time, Shadows Fade simply pointed towards Dust’s midriff and said three short words.

“Prove who you are?” Naismith said hesitantly.

The meaning was clear; she wanted to see his tattoo. Dust supposed it was a fair request. He’d have asked for the same in her position.

Having the tattoo had been odd at first but he’d become so accustomed to it that its importance hardly crossed his mind. But he understood the impact it could have; it marked him out, set him aside, showed for definite who and what he was.

So Dust rolled his sleeve up, closed his eyes and centred his thoughts on the tattoo. It was a wilful thing, headstrong as Dust, so it took some concentration and a few pleas to move it. And the damn thing would never stay where he wanted, preferring to migrate around his body as though exploring and, like in Low Tracks, get him into trouble. This time he barely had to ask before it started moving. It usually left no trace of its movement but a rapid passage was always marked by the feeling of a feather lightly falling across his skin; up his torso then along his arm.

When it got to his bare hand, he opened his eyes and his palm to show it.

Shadows Fade’s eyes widened.

“My God,” Naismith said.

Naismith and Shadows Fade saw a beautifully-rendered drawing of Dust, one so lifelike that he could almost use it as a mirror. It sometimes changed in size but was usually the size of his hand. In the tattoo, he faced the viewer, looking up slightly. He wore a Ranger’s outfit; tans gloves, cross-draw holsters with no guns, high-heeled black leather shoes, big spurs and a tan waistcoat with his badge displayed proudly.

But that wasn’t what shocked people. It was the wounded state that did that; manacles with links bigger than his head hung from his arms, drawing blood as they tried to drag him down; and two spears had been thrust down through both his shoulders, their tips protruding from his ribs and their hafts crossing behind his head. In spite of this, the tattooed Dust stood tall and firm, determinedly ignoring the bonds and wounds.

Naismith flinched. Shadows Fade took a step forward, scrutinised the tattoo; Dust guessed it had shifted. Sometimes the drawn Dust would adjust its position as though to alleviate sore muscles or blink and sigh. But it would always return to that strange and stoic position.

“Is she satisfied?”

Naismith didn’t hear him. She just stared, fascinated.

“Naismith?” he asked, keeping his voice kind.

She shook her head. “Huh?”

“Is Shadows Fade satisfied?”

Naismith looked at Shadows Fade and back at Dust. “Oh, of course. Sorry.”

She asked Shadows Fade is that was enough. The warrior considered his tattoo for a moment longer and then nodded.

“Does… does that hurt?” Naismith asked, pointing to the tattoo.

He looked at his hand, at himself. The drawn him almost seemed to hold his gaze. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Did it?”

The tattoo’s shoulders slumped slightly at this question, as though the truth weighed them down. “More than you can imagine,” Dust said before he caught himself.

He released his tattoo, let it wander where it may, and looked at his growing team: Naismith, with something approaching respect in her eyes; Shadows Fade, who had already turned to survey the way ahead; and Claw of the Gods watching him closely. They were a strange old posse.

“Shall we head out?” he said, his tone indicating he wanted nothing more said about the damn tattoo.

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