He hadn’t been the target, had never been. The chapel was.
Dust awkwardly scrambled to his feet and took cover behind the chapel. “Can you see the shooter?” he shouted to Naismith.
“No!”
“Keep an eye out!”
“I… I don’t know if I can,” she called back.
Dust took a deep breath. Shadows Fade seemed to have been tied up, perhaps by a second wave, so he was still alone. And he could not fight alone whilst his arm was so badly wounded; he’d recover eventually but he’d have to force it if he was going to survive. He concentrated, stole a moment of quiet calm amidst the battle and begged his tattoo to seal his wounds. The dull pain stopped immediately and the healing began; his flesh reknitted itself and his skin healed over, giving him a new series of scars.
Healing wasn’t easy. Magic was destined for destruction and making it create cost dearly. So such strong magic came at the cost of draining him; as soon as it was done he felt like he’d run for two days solid. Then wrestled a bull. His tattoo felt icy, as it always did when he begged so much magic from it.
Being whole was a blunt edge for such a fight but it would do.
He cast his magical senses over to the chapel; half a dozen strong creatures were left. He didn’t need magic to know they were supported by the harrier, only his ears as he kept firing into the chapel.
But he wasn’t using normal bullets any more; there was blood magic entwined with each one. That was severe, dangerous magic for a novice to use. This had to be a final push, an all-or-nothing move by the cult inspired by panic. Getting the Word was important for them, sure, but risking their harriers’ lives and drawing attention like this was dangerous. If they didn’t succeed, people would know.
But that was a side issue. For now Dust snuck round the chapel until he was in a good position to take out the eldritch horrors. Moving freely again was a blessing. His eyes remained on the horizon, constantly searching for the harrier so he could dodge more shots, but none came.
He reloaded the other gun, took a deep breath and then started firing. Six Illicits – greatly muscled creatures with four arms, three legs and solid iron chains around their necks – were battering the chapel. The chapels’ walls splintered beneath their attacks in spite of the spells that seared their flesh. Two more shots rang out as he watched, tearing holes in the walls for the Illicits’ great fists to widen.
With half an eye on the northern horizon, Dust shot twice more, killing three of the Illicits. The bright shots tore their heads right off. Immediately, a shot came at him but he was already moving so it missed by an inch. The Illicits did not look up, did not mourn their lost brethren, instead concentrating on making a hole in the chapel.
If they got in, it would all be over. Dust drew his normal gun, moving fast as he could, and aimed both weapons in opposite directions. His erratic movement made him an awkward target as he unleashed two volleys; the Colt struck roughly where Dust thought the shooter was and the other gun perforated the Illicits. They fell to the floor, lifeless lumps of meat.
No creatures remained. Both his guns were empty. Then the harriers shot back. No, that wasn’t right; the boom came from the distance but hadn’t been aimed at him or the chapel. A scream followed, human. Dust reloaded his other gun and held it ready, waited to see what had happened.
He smiled when Claw of the Gods appeared on the horizon with a rifle in its blue mouth, which it promptly bit in half. The message was clear and filled Dust with as much cheer as a whole bottle of good whiskey; the shooter was down.
The wolf howled and seemed to gesture back along the horizon. It wanted him to follow.
“Naismith?” he shouted.
After a second, she replied “Yeah?”
“It’s all clear. Come on, we need to get going.”
Another pause. “Why?”
“Shadows Fade is calling us. I think that there’s more for us to do.”
Dust waited. There was no response.
He was almost ready to leave alone when she appeared beside the chapel. She had discarded the dark fabric and wiped most of the soot from her body. Her now-revealed face was white as new paper and the rifle in her hands shook terribly. Somehow, this had been a worse experience for her than fighting the Paints.
He couldn’t take her in this condition, not when there might be more fighting. So he walked over, covered in ichor and dripping blood, and embraced her like a daughter. She did not resist, simply let him hold her.
“You did well,” he said after a moment. “It was your first real fight. Don’t blame yourself.”
“Thank you,” she sobbed.
He held Naismith tighter for a moment and then let go, stepped back. She wiped her eyes and looked away. “What must you think of me? I am trying to prove I’m capable of succeeding my Father but here I am, bawling like a pitiful wallflower.”
“Everyone has trouble with their first few fights,” he said.
“Does it get easier?”
Dust shrugged. “You get more used to it.”
She wiped her eyes again and said “Well, Penelope will be going through worse. Let us finish this so we can rescue her, huh?”
He turned and saw Claw of the Gods waiting on them. The wolf padded at the floor restlessly and kept gesturing to the horizon.
“Yeah, we’d better go,” he said.
