The town of Granite Hills.
Adam had grown up knowing about the community, but he’d never visited. He’d always felt doing so would sanction his family’s activities, silly as that might’ve been.
It was preventing things such as Granite Hills that had drove him to become a marshal, instead of taking over the ranch, as his mama had wanted. That had been back when he’d thought the marshals still stood for all they ought to.
There was something poetic, Adam thought, that the pursuit of his brother’s killer had led him back to one of his family’s most blatant sins.
A not so subtle reminder that maybe his baby brother dying was justice finding its way home by a path he wouldn’t have expected.
As his faithful charger plodded slowly into town, Adam noted the gazes of the locals. Not friendly, those. Not as fearful as he’d expected either. Adam had no doubt that his quarry had passed through. He’d found their trail in the little village they’d passed through, and the tracks besides.
Would’ve taken a blustering idiot to miss the fact two Hunters had rolled into Riverside and cleared out a demon decades old. Adam reached up to the scar running down his face. He knew exactly how dangerous that demon had been. More than one marshal had lost their lives trying to cleanse it.
He was one of the few who’d only lost a bit of flesh.
Adam straightened his spine. Just because the skyfaller killed demons, didn’t mean he was a good man. His brother had killed demons, and Adam had known few who were worse.
Even if he hadn’t been able to admit that to himself until recently.
Dismounting, Adam made his way to what appeared to be the local watering hole. Pushing through the double doors, he hesitated when he found the cots inside. Half were empty, but the others held burly men and women convalescing. “My apologies,” Adam said to the doctor, tipping his hat as he retreated.
She barely sparred him a roll of the eyes, turning back to her patients.
Having barely turned around, a hand grabbed his collar, the man on the other end of it towering over Adam by several inches. “We ain’t behind on our quota. Don’t need your sort-”
“Ah, Bert, that’s quite enough. Leave the good marshal alone,” a smaller man in a high quality suit said, rushing up to them. As Bert slowly released Adam’s collar, the smaller man turned. “My apologies, marshal. We weren’t expecting anyone today.”
“I’m not here on mine business,” Adam explained, gaze locked with Bert’s as the other man backed away. The man had a visible limp, one foot sitting slightly askew. “I am looking for someone. A Hunter.”
“Ah. Unfortunate timing. We just had a pair pass through. Quite helpful. Cleared out the demons and didn’t even charge us for it,” the man said, brushing his suit. “Rather uncharacteristic, but then Hunters attract all sorts, I suppose.”
“That they do,” Adam agreed. “I don’t suppose you could describe this pair.”
“Oh, better than that,” the smaller man said, gesturing for Adam to follow. “We have pict capture at the entrance, to prevent theft and vandalism. The workers here aren’t always the most civilized, as you saw.”
“Of course,” Adam said, pressing his teeth together as they passed a teenager with a collar wrapped around their neck.
Had his family really fallen so low?
Why had it taken chasing a skyfaller across half the hex for him to see it?
Adam’s attention was brought back to his task when the mine manager placed a pair of pictures on the desk. He almost snorted when he saw the skyfaller’s nose. The Sniffers had gotten it even more wrong than he’d come to suspect.
He pushed away his amusement as he took in the woman. He’d heard the descriptions, but hadn’t put it together until that moment. It was the same woman he’d seen at the duel, that had laughed in his face. He supposed she’d had every right to laugh, seeing how much of a fool she’d made him.
“Thank you, these are very helpful. May I request copies?” Adam asked, fingers lingering on the picture of the skyfaller. The man could’ve passed as one of his cousins, if a touch more handsome than most.
“Of course. Just give me a minute. Thing’s older than my grandma’s uncle, and that man lived through the Barrier war,” the mine manager said.
Adam nodded, not bothering to point out that there’d been a Barrier war on the other side of the hex not ten years ago. He doubted this man got news from Vaskerville, nevermind the far side of the hex.
Instead, he looked over the pictures again, trying to find that edge he saw in so many hardened killers. That said the man had taken a life, and would do so again. Like the pair he’d fought alongside to take down the squid-demon. Shame about that blow their buggy had taken. And a further shame that he couldn’t stay.
The woman had the look too, the one who’d told him off.
The skyfaller… did not.
Which meant one of two things.
Either the man was more dangerous than Adam had thought or…
A thought occurred to him. One that he probably should’ve considered before crossing half the hex.
Perhaps the skyfaller wasn’t the one who’d killed his brother.
…Isekai-eh…
“My poor baby,” Metsa said, head leaned against Cella’s side.
“This too can be fixed,” Sotas said from where he was laying underneath the buggy. “Though not with the tools we carry.”
“Let me see,” Metsa said, crawling underneath beside him. Sure enough, she saw the problem right away. “Oh. At least we can get underway again. Just need to remove the linkage to the back wheels.”
“It will slow us,” Sotas said in agreement.
“Hopefully we can find someone with tools out here,” Metsa said, though she wasn’t hopeful. Tools for working on warp-wrought machines were scattered all across the ring, but hex six-oh-six wasn’t the most occupied.
“If not, we will only be a little late,” Sotas reassured her. “Perhaps not at all, if someone let me drive.”
Metsa laughed at her partner’s joke as she climbed up into the driver’s seat. Him, driving Cella. That’d be the day.
Sotas let out a deep sigh before chuckling and taking his place in the passenger seat.
A day later Metsa realized they had a new problem. They were leaking RDR.
“One little blow from a squid, and this is what we get,” Metsa said, cursing as she wrapped the offending hose with tape.
“A blow capable of sending Cella rolling a hundred meters is not so little, I think,” Sotas said, handing her a rag made from a torn up dress they’d bought in the last village for exactly that purpose. One that had been on sale, since apparently its owner had met their end to a demon and the locals were afraid it was cursed. There’d been a surprising amount of random household goods in that display. Several families worth, if Metsa wasn’t mistaken.
Never a good sign, but at least the locals said the demon was dead, a pair of passing hunters having dealt with it. Hunters who might’ve matched her trainees description. If so, Metsa had a dozen things to tell them about maintaining a low profile.
And one or two about doing good work.
“Bah,” Metsa said, having patched the buggy as best she could, returning to her seat once more.
A few hours later, they approached a bridge with a small house next to it, advertising the sale of RDR with an old symbol Metsa hadn’t seen anyone use in two decades. A silly fad that had never caught on, except with a certain crowd of people who were even more anti-imperial than most in hex six-oh-six.
“That’s gotta be a scam, right?” Metsa asked, staring at the little house. It was barely twice the size of Cella. “You think they really have RDR?”
“Would not hurt to ask.”
“Might wound my pride. And you know how delicate that is,” Metsa said while popping her door.
“The frailest of flowers,” Sotas agreed somberly while following her down.
“Hush you,” Metsa said with a chuckle, only noticing the man in his rocking chair after she was halfway to the door.
“Can I help you?” the man asked, looking blindly over Metsa’s head.
“Depends. You got RDR or you just too lazy to pull down your sign?”
“We do. This is a full service location. In fact, just last week, I helped this nice young trio of hunters repair their warp-stallion,” the man said, nodding as he rocked in his chair. “Wonderful voices, though the boy was a bit rough.”
“Well, Cella’s a bit more complicated than your average warp-stallion,” Metsa said, stepping towards him. “But if you’ve got the tools, I can fix her myself.”
“Of course, of course. Step into my office, and we can discuss the price,” the man said, leading her up the steps into his living room.
Metsa and Sotas traded a glance at the mention of hunters, though neither said anything.
“This is not an office, I think,” Sotas said as they stepped inside. “But is very nice home.”
“Thanks. My old flame Gerty set it up for me, back before she plucked out my eyes,” the man said, gesturing for Metsa to sit.
“Ha. No way. Old man Kessle? She swore she left you for dead,” Metsa said as she took a seat across from the retired hunter.
“No. Not dead. Just mostly dead. Maybe once we’re done talking business, I can tell you the story. Though, seeing as you knew my Gerty, I need to ask… she ever teach you how to sing?”