Dread Reckoning Page 2

  Royce woke with the feeling that there was a weight upon his chest and that something was watching him.

  He had spent years in the wilds of the West, becoming accustomed to being prepared against predatory animals and raiders. Such was his life when he abandoned the Falco family, adopting the ways of an outlaw constantly on the fringes of civilisation and running from the Law.

  He opened his eyes at a gradual pace; the ploy being that one could hopefully peer through their eyelids without an assailant detecting that their target was awake. Even with all that knack learned surviving the harsh frontier of the West, Royce wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

  A nightmarish beast clutched a limp rat in its jaws above his face, Royce bolting upright with fright as his heart pounded at the sight.

  It had already been difficult enough for Royce to fall asleep in a prison that was said to be haunted, even with a belly swollen with his Last Meal. But he also had to contend with the murderous madman in the next cell that slept his meal off like a child without a worry in the world - and he snored like a wayward ship blowing a foghorn in the darkest of nights. The impending dread that death was upon them in the morning didn’t grip Mortimer as it had Royce.

  Startled, he had catapulted the weight of a black cat from his chest – immediately apologetic! - to the hard floor at the foot of his bed.

  “Memphis! Memphis…?” Royce recognised the feline. “What the fugg are you doing here…? Where’s Lafayette?”

  The rat had managed to stay clamped in the cat’s face that had become a picture of rejection. Lafayette’s pet spat the creature, releasing it, as Royce recognised the rodent from the fracas earlier. The rat hobbled away toward Mortimer’s cell, still showing signs of its injury.

  “Oh no, don’t go near him!”

  Dark clouds blocked what little moonlight sifted in through the bars of the small cell window. But with the faint glow of lantern light from the death-watch station around the corridor corner and eyes adjusted to darkness, Royce was able to quickly scoop the limping creature into his hands. He knew he had probably saved it from suffering a fate worse than the one it had scarcely escaped from earlier if Mortimer had woken.

  Under Memphis’ watchful gaze, Royce wrapped the rat in part of the foot-end of his blanket to create a little nest. His bed was only a wooden ledge, supported by two chains from a rough wall, but it was all he could provide. While the blanket was of poor quality, the rodent showed no protest to the act of kindness and the feline didn’t appear to have any further interest in the other creature. It seemed that Memphis had brought the rat as an odd gift. Although, if Royce thought about it long enough, he knew this would somehow relate to some sort of peculiar exploit of Charles Lafayette.

  Royce bent a side of his pillow up, revealing leftover scraps he’d smuggled away from his Last Meal.

  After being told he couldn’t have veal or a duck carcass, Mortimer had requested that he only wanted beef - still on the bone - and a bottle of Thirsty Mule whisky. Both meals had come with mashed potatoes topped with butter and gravy alongside steamed beans, carrots and corn. Royce had declined meat when asked, wanting only to eat plants and drink tea. He saw no point in needlessly taking another life from the world when his own life wasn’t going to continue. His indulgence was some gingerbread and rock candy.

  After hearing Royce ask for it, Mortimer had added the same treats to his order like a child experiencing the fear of missing out. That was the second time he had seen the old lunatic fearful, a feeling that Royce previously didn’t think Mortimer was capable of experiencing, the first being when Lafayette informed him that death would be no escape from punishment for the terrible crimes he had committed in life.

  The Warden of Hayworth Penitentiary, Harry Linch, had made his presence known when the meals were delivered to the death-watch cells. He was a curious man that wore a monocle and carried a walking cane despite not needing either, strolling with the grace of La Grande’s high society that he belonged to – a grace that was wasted within these dirty halls that stank of impending death where none of that pageantry mattered. His visit wasn’t to introduce himself, nor was it to offer any sympathies, it was simply to appear magnanimous alongside the Last Meals. He presented himself as though he had graciously produced these final pleasures intended for the wicked with his own hands – but really, it just seemed to be an encounter of repetition, of pre-execution ritual.

  Harry Linch did perform one unexpected duty; denying Clyde Mortimer a rather visceral conjugal request that involved the Warden’s entire family – the Warden included! Whilst that request would upset the stomachs of most, it only increased the appetite of the lunatic murderer.

  Royce had hidden some of his meal to help him get through the night, to pass the time - what little of it remained - if getting to sleep was going to be difficult.

  He held a piece of loose corn, that he had stripped from the cob earlier, near the rat’s nose. “I don’t know if this is any good for you,” Royce whispered, “but do you want it?” The creature took the offering in both forepaws, its nose and whiskers twitching, and nibbled on the yellow food.

  Royce watched the rat. “Corn, hey?” He offered the creature another piece. “Every soul deserves a name. You will be… corn… Cornelius.”

  “And what about you?” Royce held an offering to the cat, knowing very well that Memphis was unlikely to accept anything. “Carrot?” Memphis was as disinterested in the vegetable as a cat could possibly be.

  The snoring had stopped and the old lunatic started, “Looks like somebody else’s conjiggle request was approved.” Mortimer chuckled, slapping his knee. “A rat in your bed. You really are a Rat Lover.”

  After laughing louder, the wrinkled man answered, “And no, Roy, you can stick your fugging carrot where the sun don’t shine.”

  “Shut up, Mortimer,” Royce still spoke softly, not wanting to attract attention from the guards. He realised that Memphis was nowhere to be seen and hadn’t been spotted by Mortimer, which was bizarre as there was no simple escape route - it was, however, Lafayette’s mysterious black cat, so Royce knew to expect no less.

  “I bet your Injun name would be, Sleeps with Rats.” The lunatic guffawed.

  McLaren called from the death-watch station, “Shut the fugg up Mortimer!”

  “But,” Mortimer was to the bars of his cell, “there’s a rat in here!”

  Royce went over to the other cell and reached through to Mortimer’s arm. He yanked the madman against their shared bars, the head-wound reopening. “Close. Your. Mouth.”

  As Reed made his way into the cell corridor, answering, “I know, Mortimer, you’re it, and I’ll give you a drubbing like the rat you are,” Royce was already back in his cot, stashed food and a nestled rat covered as though nothing was amiss.

  Mortimer cussed, “Fugg you!” He sat back on his own wooden ledge. “Roy’s got a rat. Give it to me, I’ll get rid of it.”

  “Last time, Mortimer,” the guard warned.

  “Chew the meat off the bones,” the old man imitated the motions, “slurp the blood from the tail like the nectar of a dead harlot.”

  Reed beat his baton along Mortimer’s cell bars while reaching for keys. The lunatic rolled back and drew his blanket over himself, not wanting to be beaten back to sleep. The guard waited a few seconds to see if there was another peep, then returned to his station.

  While the rat was warm in its nest, the cat was still nowhere to be seen.

  In the seconds after Reed had left, Royce could see through his almost-closed eyes that a locomotive engineer was standing outside the cells. He wore all the clothing and trappings one could expect of a train driver; overalls, gloves, the cap. The face drew his attention the most, as though he could recall it from the past. The most disturbing part was that Royce could see through him to the wall on the other side…

  He didn’t startle as he had when the cat was upon him, the years of preparedness still he
ld true for most things – even if not a magician’s cat.

  “That’d be right,” Royce muttered, almost so the apparition could hear him, “I’m sharing my Last Midnight with a murdering lunatic and a fugging ghost who’s face I can’t recall.”

  Like Mortimer, he rolled over to face his wall and shut his eyes, being careful that his feet didn’t disturb the wounded rat. “You’re alright, Cornelius, but I don’t have time for this other fuggunshyt.”

  All Royce could do was force himself back to sleep.

  Royce Falco awoke again, this time to the unmistakable gentle rocking of a moving train. After the incident with Memphis delivering a rat, he was mentally prepared for whatever imagery could assault his senses next.

  The soothing sway of train car travel had come first, followed by the sibilance of released steam pressure. Then the low mechanical squeal of metal upon metal as big wheels turned upon their tracks. Dim voices murmured their conversations all around as a newspaper rustled. Through the wary slits of those vigilant eyes, he was greeted by some of the great green plains of Wakoda Territory passing by outside the glass of his train car window.

  Royce sat up from his restful slump, moving strands of hair from his face, and realised that there was a hat upon his head.

  Charles Lafayette sat across the aisle from him in their facing chairs, engrossed in a thin book with a gilded title, Rime of the Ancient Mariner. A pair of children ran between them, one wielding what could only be described as a wooden executioner’s axe and the other pulling a raggedy doll along by a twine noose around its neck. A man in another chair along the car read a newspaper with a very bold headline, Wanted for Mass Murder: Royce “Red Roy” Falco. Somewhere else in the carriage a group of women argued about how it was possible for the Messiah to rise from the dead.

  “What the fugg?” Royce bolted straight. “Did you bust me out of The Hole?”

  “Not at all, dear Royce. I explained that I wouldn’t partake of such mediocrity. A phenomenal feat of escapology from Hayworth Penitentiary, worthy of the ages, will be of your own reckoning.”

  Royce felt something wiggle in his leg pocket.

  Further to his surprise that he was wearing a hat, he wasn’t wearing the black and white bee-stripes that Hayworth Penitentiary issued their prisoners. Instead, he was decked in the garb of his days living the frontier life; his favourite bowler hat, red kerchief, jacket, trousers with chaps and boots. Assuredly, he knew it was his attire as there were no spurs on the boots – never spurs, Royce hated the idea of them. Although he did feel slightly naked without a holstered revolver hanging from his side.

  He reached into the wriggling pocket, producing the injured rat that he had comforted in the blanket of his prison cot.

  “What’s this?” Royce held the sniffing creature before the magician.

  “One would be forgiven for thinking it to be simply a common brown rat,” Lafayette answered, twirling his moustache, “although I do believe that his appellation is Cornelius.” The magician considered the creature with a fondness not usually offered to rats. “Although the probability is that he is the runt of the litter, he remains a handsome fellow. Fortune favoured this creature after his encounter with Clyde Mortimer, Fate having brought you and Cornelius together.”

  “Are you done? I know what a rat is.” Of course, Royce thought, Lafayette somehow knew the name given to the rat – and there’d probably be no point asking how or why. “What’s Cornelius doing here… did you bring him to the prison?” He looked around the train, looking for some sign that this experience wasn’t real. “Are we even still in Hayworth?”

  “Why is Cornelius here, you ask? You are the merciful one whom always takes pity upon unfortunate creatures and decided no differently with this unique specimen. Your strands of Fate have crossed paths. A question, if you will: why did you hide Cornelius from pitiless eyes and nourish him with rations that you secreted away for yourself after Mortimer’s cruelty?”

  “Because they’re always better with me.”

  “They…?”

  “Animals. They’re always better with me.”

  “They are always better with you… or, are they always better because of you?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  “Is it really so difficult, Royce?”

  “Fine. Fugg.” Royce shrugged. “Animals in my care always seem to get better, heal, become healthy. Sometimes, even people. It just happens. I don’t get it. I don’t know why.”

  “But of course, you do, dear Royce. Those that you choose to take under your protective vigilance benefit from your more… miraculous… qualities. You know what occurs, you simply don’t acknowledge that it is anything as extraordinary as it really is.”

  There was a pause as Royce and Lafayette’s eyes engaged across the train car aisle over a truth given form by speaking of it out loud.

  The magician added, “You are the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son - a familial position, Royce, that you have struggled to reckon with for all your life - such power is your domain.”

  “What if I’m not the Seventh… Kayne, he could easily be the Seventh - we were born on the same day. We have the same father, but only because our beloved Papa forced himself upon the mother I never knew while on one of his fugged-up crusades across the West. I bleed half my father’s Falco blood and half my mother’s Wakoda blood. I am less Falco than Kayne, he’s whole – he’s pure, as the family likes to say - and I felt more kinship with my one Wakoda brother than any of my Falco brothers.”

  “Fate has graced these gifts upon you whether you feel destined to have them or not.” Lafayette took on a look of concern. “I am glad that you have spoken fondly of your Wakoda brother, for I bring good tidings that he has accepted the Fate that he once refused…”

  “Hawk?”

  “The very same, although he has returned to a name that he had not held dear for some time.”

  “Red Hawk?”

  “Almost…”

  “No, not…” Royce could see the understanding in Lafayette’s piercing blue eyes. “You mean…”

  Lafayette’s raised brow lingered for Royce’s response.

  “Thunder Hawk…?”

  “Indeed. Thunder Hawk, the Wakoda Spiritwalker has returned.” The magician was pleased with Royce’s deduction. “Your good brother has forged new alliances during your absence beyond the single company of the irritable veteran, and has passed your Aetron to one of them.”

  “Well,” Royce remembered, “I never expected to see my Aetron pendant - or Hawk - again.”

  Lafayette continued. “What you must understand is that Fate brought them together. Your brother was Doomed by his own misguided actions, but this new partnership, this band of outlaws as they have become, they altered his Fate by defying the Law and embracing an old frontier legend.”

  “Sounds like something Hawk would do. He’d take on the Law if he’s a Spiritwalker again.”

  “Whilst he is a Spiritwalker, their plight against the Law is far from over and will eventually bring them against those more powerful in the Falco dynasty. In this regard, they are without direction.”

  Royce released a silent sigh. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Dear Royce, you must take them under that same protective vigilance that you show more to animals than people. You must guide them through the tribulations to come – not around, but through - the only way around is through…”

  “How am I supposed to do that when I’m stuck in some…” Royce thought a moment… “dream train… that may as well be headed toward the gallows?”

  “The answer to that question is why you are here aboard, but this is no dream train.” The magician waved his hand across the view of the endless plains. “Depending on your perception, you are either: residing in Hayworth Penitentiary as a prisoner of your own mind, or you are travelling as a passenger aboard a vehicle of the landscapes of your own conscience.”

  R
oyce’s mouth opened, but he didn’t know what words to use.

  In response, Lafayette explained. “This train carries neither the blessed nor the damned. These souls are each at the very edge of a personal reckoning that will decide their Fate. Whilst this train travels through a realm of Mysterium, it is destined to arrive shortly at one of three points of Fate in your own history that contributed to you being wanted across Wakoda Territory as the outlaw, Red Roy.”

  “What three, Chuck? What do you mean?”

  Lafayette’s eyes widened at the use of the nickname, Chuck.

  Royce was becoming thoroughly confused. “Does Kumiko still hang out with you? Can we get her to translate your babble?”

  “Miss Watanabe,” the magician’s wide brim hat lowered, covering his eyes, “is no longer in my employ as a Magician’s Assistant.”

  “Dang.” Royce crossed his arms with disappointment. “Did she get sick of your cryptic shenanigans?”

  “Somewhat, to that end…” Lafayette answered with pause. “Miss Watanabe chose to diverge from the Fate I had seen for her.”

  “We can do that? So then, what are these three Fates you have seen for me?”

  “Dear Royce, I ask you, to which incidents of your life are you the most confident of being in the moral right rather than the lawful right?”

  “Well, I don’t know which three would be the best three – there’s a helluva lot of times the Law didn’t agree with my point of view of what’s right and what’s wrong.”

  “The first,” Lafayette explained, “was the incident at Miss Kitty’s in Sundown. You killed all the men attempting to have their way with a lady of the night against her will. The only man you left alive that evening was a patron that was passing by that did nothing for the lady despite her pleas. Thus, in response, you hung him from Miss Kitty’s balcony by his ankles, upside down, as naked as the day he was born, for all of Sundown to see his shame.”

  “The Law may not have been pleased,” Royce chuckled to himself, smiling, “but Miss Kitty was.”