The Legend of Diablo

Chapter 2-2

Hettie nodded to Duke, who whistled. His people had rounded up the snipers, their hands bloody. Some were missing more than just their trigger fingers, and one man clutched a stump that had been hastily bandaged.

Hettie took out a wicked-looking curved knife, and the snipers shied away.

“Money, magic, or Abigail Alabama. Information that leads us to one of those things gets you home. And don’t try to lie—I’ve got three truthtellers with their eyes on you. Who wants to start?”

The gang shifted restlessly beneath the scorching sun.

Hettie sighed. Her duster flapped, the leather snapping like a whip in the wind.

Captain Crenshaw gasped as a tiny cut, deep and small like a snakebite, opened up along the side of his neck. Another appeared across his forehead. Blood ran down his face.

He yelped and grabbed the side of his head, smearing blood across his cheek. A piece of his left earlobe was missing. Then a slice appeared on his jawline in the cleft of his chin and through his lower lip. He screamed as blood poured from his face.

Walker kept his eyes fixed on the man as he flailed, yelping with each new cut. The others squirmed as the Division captain was reduced to a fleshy whittling stick by his phantom assailant. It was no poltergeist, though; Hettie was using the time bubble to inflict her torture without being seen.

“Money, magic, or Abby Alabama.” Hettie pointed her curved blade at Crenshaw. “Or y’all can watch me shave him down to the bone.”

The wounds gaped like tiny, bloody, hungry mouths. Crenshaw spat a wad of crimson. “Don’t give this witch a single damned word or I’ll shoot you myself!”

Hettie frowned. “Really, captain, that ain’t good for morale.”

He showed her what he thought of her morale by extending his middle finger. Bad move, Walker thought, and sure enough, the captain howled and fell over, clutching a stump where his offending finger had once jutted. Hettie tossed the useless digit into the pile along with the others.

She paced along the lineup, wiping her hands on a handkerchief, and stopped in front of the last man. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Freddie Henricksen.” He added, lowering his face, “Ma’am.”

Hettie’s lips twitched. “Freddie. Tell me something useful and you can get up off your knees and sit in the shade over there.”

He licked his lips, keeping his gaze down. “I…I did security for a payroll wagon. Runs every Thursday from Gull Falls.”

She smiled. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She nodded, and one of her men grabbed Freddie and led him to the shade of a scraggly tree. “Freddie’s going home to his family on his feet and fit to keep earning money. How about the rest of you?”

“I did payroll, too,” another man volunteered quickly. “In Jailor’s Creek, last Monday of the month.”

“Me too!” another man said.

Hettie nodded, and the men were pulled out of the lineup. The secrets rolled out steadily after that. After all, it was just money, and banks were insured.

When half the men had been freed from the lineup, Hettie held up a hand. “Seems we’ll have plenty of cash for the next little while. How about magic?” She examined the remaining agents. “You boys know anything about the Fielding expeditions?”

“Y-you said money, magic…”

“Or Abigail Alabama.” She nodded. “If any of you has information about her, I’ll let you all go at once. Your compatriots were smarter, faster—they have less to lose giving up secrets about payroll wagons.” She flashed her teeth in a humorless smile. “Tips on magic or Abby. Whaddya boys have?”

Crenshaw started to growl a warning, but Duke hit him again to shut him up.

Reluctantly, one older man said, “I ran security for a Fielding expedition two weeks ago.”

“Uxbridge, you shut your mouth!”

He looked the captain in the eye. “Ain’t worth our lives, captain. I’ve got three girls to feed.”

Hettie seized on the information. “Where’d the engine go?”

“Did a short route through Kansas. Went to five towns before we drove the engine and the canister to Junesfield. They were put on a train and transported away.”

“Where does it go from there?”

“They don’t tell us that.”

Hettie checked with Lena, who nodded her assessment. He wasn’t lying.

“How many other Fielding expeditions met you in Junesfield?” Walker prompted.

“Haven’t I already given you enough?” the Division man asked irately. When Hettie’s eyes bore into his, he sighed. “Seven, as far as I could count.”

“Thank you, Mr. Uxbridge. Your information has earned you your freedom.” He was taken out of the lineup, and she addressed the remaining men. “If any of you can tell me anything about where the canisters are being banked, you can all go free right now. I’ll even give you your boots back.”

“We don’t know anything about that, we swear,” one young man blurted. “They don’t tell us anything about the Fielding expeditions!”

“I don’t suppose they would.” Hettie studied the prisoners’ smooth, pale faces and came to the same conclusion Walker had a moment ago. “All you greenhorns are too young to be on those expeditions. The Division’s only assigning veterans and elite agents to those details. Ain’t that right, Uxbridge?”

The older man stared resolutely at the ground as the younger agents peered at him.

Hettie raised her voice so they could all hear her. “Did you know they’re forcing gifted to bank their magic? That they’re stealing powers from old and young alike?” The cold, hard anger pressed into them like the barrel of a gun. “Did you know they’re draining them dry?”

“That’s League propaganda!” Captain Crenshaw barked. “Those rogue sorcerers are terrorists bent on destabilizing gifted and mundane unity.”

“Whereas you’re all upstanding citizens dedicated to…what? Taking magic from your fellow man? Ripping children from their families to stock your ranks?” Hettie’s death glare panned over the Division men, many of whom were young enough to have gone through exactly that, even if the experience had been wiped from their memories.

“Mr. Uxbridge,” Hettie addressed the older Division agent. “Tell us the truth. Did anyone come forward willingly to bank their gift?”

The man lowered his chin.

“The League of Sorcerers has been telling the truth, hasn’t it? The Division’s been rounding up all the gifted. They hold them down while they’re kicking and screaming, put those clamps on, and drain ’em dry. And they kill anyone who tries to fight back.”

“Lies!” Crenshaw howled.

The men stared, appalled. “Uxbridge?”

Walker knew by the slight compression in the air that the truthtellers were applying a subtle spell on the Division agent. Even though Walker no longer had his stepfather’s borrowed magic, he could still sense when spells were being used.

Uxbridge’s face grew red, and he scratched at his neck. The flesh cinched in an invisible vise, and the man spluttered and fell to his knees.

Shit! “Undo that silence spell!” Walker shouted.

Lena leaped from the saddle and slipped a rope around the man’s neck, speaking an incantation. Uxbridge continued to struggle. “It’s binding!” she yelled, and the two other truthtellers joined her, placing their hands over the man’s shoulders, chanting in tandem.

Uxbridge jerked. His lips turned blue despite the sorcerers’ efforts. He thrashed, scrabbling at his throat as the binding spell silenced him forever. When he stopped twitching, Captain Crenshaw growled, “Traitor deserved it.”

A sick feeling swamped Walker, and he glanced over at Hettie.

Her eyes were wide, unblinking and cold. Slowly, she turned toward the captain. “Not every Division enforcer gets a binding silence spell put on him.” She pointed at the man’s shield—the badge that indicated his rank. “What’d he do to earn it?”

The truthtellers turned to face the captain, whispering their spell in unison, the sound like the shushing of a creek wearing down a river stone.

“Had an attack of conscience,” Crenshaw blurted. “The little ones cried too much for his soft heart to take. They had to put the binder on him to keep him from telling the world what was happening.” He glared. “Good riddance to him, I say. A dimcan like him was just taking up space. It’ll happen to the rest of us, too, if any more of you decide to turn traitor.”

“Uxbridge was a fifteen-year vet!” one of the freed soldiers said. “He didn’t deserve a binder!”

“And he ain’t no dimcan,” another snarled. “He was a good man, decent, modest. He didn’t flash his power around like you do.”

The captain seemed to realize what was happening. “You idiots! Uxbridge is dead because of that witch! She’s geised you all to turn against me!”

“I’m mundane,” Hettie replied evenly. “You know that. Your men know that. The only reason you keep calling me a witch is because you have a small vocabulary and very little imagination.” She conjured Diablo. “Truth is, there’s no word for what I am. Except disappointed.”

She raised the mage gun. Walker’s grip tightened over the reins and on his sidearm. “You got anything you want to tell me before you meet your maker?”

“Go to hell,” he spat.

She shrugged. “Been there twice already.”

She pulled the trigger. The captain shrieked as Diablo’s fire engulfed him in a brilliant blaze of green. The flame swirled and swallowed him up, then disappeared, leaving only a greasy smudge on the ground.

A sickly greenish glow enveloped Hettie. She set her teeth as the mage gun drank down a year of her life in one long draw. It used to be that she’d scream, long and loud, the kind of cry that tore a man’s soul apart. But these days, it was as if all she had was a little cramp. She huffed as Diablo released her, and she straightened, rolling her shoulders back. Dark shadows hung beneath her hollowed eyes, giving her the look of a skull.

“The rest of you are free to go,” she said to the Division men. “There’s been enough death today.” She withdrew a pouch of coins and went to Kade, the second-in-command. “You’ll deliver this to Mr. Uxbridge’s widow and daughters, along with my deepest regrets and apologies.”

Kade was still staring wide-eyed at the spot where his captain had been. He fumbled the sack of coins, seeming surprised at the weight.

She looked over the Division men. “Remember what happened here today. The Division isn’t your friend. Once they’ve taken magic from all the gifted, they’ll come for you next. They’re not interested in your loyalty, only control of your power, and one day you’ll realize how they first took it from you. Listen to what the League of Sorcerers for Free Magic is saying. Don’t trust the Division.”

The Rogues collected the cart containing the Fielding canister and engine, the Division men’s horses, supplies, and loot. Hettie mounted her own stalwart mare, then flicked her gaze toward Walker.

“Let’s ride!” he shouted. The Blackthorn Rogues galloped out on a wave of thunder and dust.

Though Javier had never put much stock in the church’s teachings, watching Abzavine consecrate the very earth beneath their feet and coax life-giving water from the desert had him rethinking his faith. He decided the angel Abzavine could be nothing but one of God’s divine messengers. And the people he brought to the oasis agreed.

They were but thirty-four at first, many of them friends and family, orphans and grieving widows who’d lost loved ones to the violent men who’d harassed them for years. As word of Punta’s refuge spread, more people arrived every day. The village was mostly an arrangement of tents, but it would soon be more. He welcomed anyone and everyone needing safety. Respite. A home.

It wasn’t as though he could turn anyone away, after all. Javier was partly to blame for their misery. He’d told himself he could not have stopped the beatings and rapes and extortion. He’d told himself he could not have stopped the m******e. Giving himself up to Duarte, leasing his powers to the army and their evil deeds… No, he wouldn’t do it. But his sanctimony didn’t help him sleep any better at night.

“Looks like we’ll have more mouths to feed at supper.” Fernando pointed to the specks on the horizon. He glanced back over his shoulder toward the women preparing the evening meal. The beautiful Yani glanced their way in that moment, and she gave a shy wave. Fernando ducked his head, embarrassed. “I’m not sure we’ll have enough,” he said. He peeked back at Yani and gave a short sigh.

“There will always be enough.” Javier said this with certainty, but anxiety swept through him. What if it was Duarte’s men? His Vision told him it wasn’t. He and Abzavine had spelled the area to make sure only those who knew about it and had the right intentions could come here. Still, one day Duarte might come for Javier, and the mad captain would not hesitate to kill every last person here.

Javier’s grip tightened over the mage gun. Never again. He would not allow anything else to happen to these people. They had suffered enough because of him.

“I want to build a wall,” he said.

Fernando glanced up. “A wall?”

“To surround the village.” He nodded toward the cluster of homes around the well. “We need protection.”

Fernando rubbed his jaw. “All right, but what would we build it with? The land may sprout good corn, but it will be years before we have enough trees for timber.”

“It’s said the old masters across the sea raised the stone straight out of the earth to help build their Great Wall to protect their kingdom. They pulled up the firmament itself, like roots from the soil.” He scanned the land around the village. “I’m sure I can do something like that here.”

“A wall won’t stop refugees from coming,” Fernando pointed out skeptically. “That is why you built this place, no?”

“I’m not trying to keep all people out. Just the wrong people. I want to feel safe.”

Fernando sighed the way he often did when his friend got ideas. Javier was the one with the prodigious gift and the mage gun—it wasn’t as if Fernando could stop him.

Javier approached Abzavine for guidance on the wall spell. The angel had taken to perching on a nearby butte, watching and protecting the villagers, or more specifically, Javier and the demon-possessed gun holstered at his side. He wore clothes and shoes like any other man yet always seemed naked to Javier somehow. He rarely came down to the village. He needed no sustenance, from what Javier could tell. He simply kept vigil up on his tower.

The angel already seemed to know what he was going to ask as he climbed the steep path. “You’re thinking of defenses.”

“I’m thinking of the future. We need to protect the village in case the army comes out here looking for us.” For me was what he’d meant, but he didn’t want to sound too self-important. “You’ve said you will not intercede should they try to hurt the others, and I understand that. What I’m asking for is the means to protect myself and these people, should the need arise.”

“You have the gun.” Abzavine nodded at his hip.

Javier grimaced. “I will not use Diablo unless I have to. I am a peaceful man.”

“A peaceful man with a gun.”

Javier chose not to read too much into his casual observation. “What we need is a wall. One that might withstand attacks both mundane and magical.”

The angel considered his request with a tilt of the chin. “Walls are for keeping unwanted elements out…and animals in.”

Sometimes Abzavine reminded Javier of a precocious child trying simple concepts on as if they were dress-up clothes. But then, what would a divine being from heaven know of warfare and suffering? “Yes, that is exactly what we need.”

The angel’s eyes became like murky pools, glazed and unfocused, as if he were staring into a deep well. “It is something we can do,” he said after a moment’s consideration. But then his gaze glided up to Javier’s face. “What will you do if the army does breach your wall?”

“For all our sakes, we will have to make sure it can’t be breached,” Javier replied grimly.

“For your sake,” Abzavine amended. Though it didn’t sound like a correction as much as it did a portent.