neither of us wish to see the Gate in the hands of the Strigoi nor, I think, do you wish to share your quest with Leedon's army. If you are not on a train tonight it will almost certainly be too late for you to become involved.”
“You know that if I do become involved, I’d kill you as quickly as any of the rest?”
“I expected no less, Captain but I need a hunter and you are the best.”
“I assume there is a train passing through tonight or you would not have mentioned it.”
“Yes, in the next couple of hours Tyre should be passing through, you can get off at Brigton and head south from there. The girl will be heading up river, I’ll send word on her location once you are closer.”
“I have no money for passage for myself and my horse,” Blake says calmly, still debating whether to trust the animated corpse in front of him and in his heart knowing that he has no choice but to follow every lead, however slight.
The clown reaches into the recesses of it ribcage and draws forth a bag, heavy with silver. “A show of good faith,” the corpse breathily intones.
“Drop it and leave,” Blake says, staying astride his horse, his gun still leveled.
“You will come then?”
“I will find this woman…”
“Lillian.” The clown interrupts.
“I will find her and what the leeches want with her, if it serves my purpose to intervene further I shall. You will get no more assurance from me than that.”
“None was asked,” the clown responds, bending his creaking body into a bow before scampering behind the rocks and back into the desert night.
Blake dismounts and retrieves the purse; sure enough it is filled with polished coins that glint even in the darkness of the desert night. Minutes pass, the purse lying heavy and unheeded in his left hand. Unconsciously Blake returns his gun to its holster and remounts, tucking the purse into the recesses of a saddlebag.
“It’s almost certainly a trap,” he whispers to his patient horse but the animal simply continues to stare down on the winking lights of the town.
“Guess the wind’s blowing that way though,” letting the animal take a few steps towards the settlement, “I just wish that, for once, we had a choice.” The horse remains silent, as it stoically follows where its master leads.
The guard of the south gate looks up at the sound of the horse’s snorting. Until that moment no one had looked directly at either horse or rider as they picked their way through the ragtag alley ways of the slums; they had not been invisible, as such, but the eye just seemed to slide off the pair; a blast of sand swirling in ever faster from the desert or some other minor distraction would cause an observer to blink or look away and in those few seconds horse and rider were gone, passing, unmarked into the heart of Limit. One of the beggars casually slumped a few meters from the gate slaps himself and rubs tired eyes, unable to hide his surprise that a lone man and such a fine horse could have made it so far though the slums at night, unmolested. Briefly, he wonders if the rider is one of the Guild, if his passage has been sanctioned but there are none of the subtle signs used by the people of the street, no marks on the saddle of his horse nor on his person to indicate the man is untouchable. The beggar even goes as far as to flash a few fazes in finger speak but the man makes no response. Not that the beggar would believe he is not watching but the stranger’s glances are those of a soldier not a thief. The dark eyes are always moving sure enough, seeking danger and weighing risk but it goes no deeper than that, the beggar’s own eyes flit in the same way but they also pause to mark anything valuable. There is no hunger in the stranger’s look
“There is a train expected?” The rider asks, leaning down in the saddle and fixing the gate guard with his hard gaze, quashing any notion of a bribe before the thought is fully formed.
“One is
“You know that if I do become involved, I’d kill you as quickly as any of the rest?”
“I expected no less, Captain but I need a hunter and you are the best.”
“I assume there is a train passing through tonight or you would not have mentioned it.”
“Yes, in the next couple of hours Tyre should be passing through, you can get off at Brigton and head south from there. The girl will be heading up river, I’ll send word on her location once you are closer.”
“I have no money for passage for myself and my horse,” Blake says calmly, still debating whether to trust the animated corpse in front of him and in his heart knowing that he has no choice but to follow every lead, however slight.
The clown reaches into the recesses of it ribcage and draws forth a bag, heavy with silver. “A show of good faith,” the corpse breathily intones.
“Drop it and leave,” Blake says, staying astride his horse, his gun still leveled.
“You will come then?”
“I will find this woman…”
“Lillian.” The clown interrupts.
“I will find her and what the leeches want with her, if it serves my purpose to intervene further I shall. You will get no more assurance from me than that.”
“None was asked,” the clown responds, bending his creaking body into a bow before scampering behind the rocks and back into the desert night.
Blake dismounts and retrieves the purse; sure enough it is filled with polished coins that glint even in the darkness of the desert night. Minutes pass, the purse lying heavy and unheeded in his left hand. Unconsciously Blake returns his gun to its holster and remounts, tucking the purse into the recesses of a saddlebag.
“It’s almost certainly a trap,” he whispers to his patient horse but the animal simply continues to stare down on the winking lights of the town.
“Guess the wind’s blowing that way though,” letting the animal take a few steps towards the settlement, “I just wish that, for once, we had a choice.” The horse remains silent, as it stoically follows where its master leads.
The guard of the south gate looks up at the sound of the horse’s snorting. Until that moment no one had looked directly at either horse or rider as they picked their way through the ragtag alley ways of the slums; they had not been invisible, as such, but the eye just seemed to slide off the pair; a blast of sand swirling in ever faster from the desert or some other minor distraction would cause an observer to blink or look away and in those few seconds horse and rider were gone, passing, unmarked into the heart of Limit. One of the beggars casually slumped a few meters from the gate slaps himself and rubs tired eyes, unable to hide his surprise that a lone man and such a fine horse could have made it so far though the slums at night, unmolested. Briefly, he wonders if the rider is one of the Guild, if his passage has been sanctioned but there are none of the subtle signs used by the people of the street, no marks on the saddle of his horse nor on his person to indicate the man is untouchable. The beggar even goes as far as to flash a few fazes in finger speak but the man makes no response. Not that the beggar would believe he is not watching but the stranger’s glances are those of a soldier not a thief. The dark eyes are always moving sure enough, seeking danger and weighing risk but it goes no deeper than that, the beggar’s own eyes flit in the same way but they also pause to mark anything valuable. There is no hunger in the stranger’s look
“There is a train expected?” The rider asks, leaning down in the saddle and fixing the gate guard with his hard gaze, quashing any notion of a bribe before the thought is fully formed.
“One is
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