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thesixswords · 3 years

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Six Swords:

The San Angelo Shake

Six days. Six long, hot, miserable days with little food, practically no ventilation, and a rather unkind host that made it feel like twice that time had passed. But Titus knew his role, and so he stuck it out. There had better not be a seventh, he grumbled to himself as he moved from his hay bale bed to rise for breakfast, the day's only meal.

After much deliberation amongst his fellow nuisances, it had been decided that he, the tallest, strongest, and - to face the truth of it - darkest of the bunch would be best for this position. But here, in this hot and damp hellhole of an undersized cell where he had sat for nearly a week awaiting the arrival of officer John Montgomery, he was beginning to wonder if they were right.

They were a stone's throw from the new fort at Concho, an outpost thrown up in the naive hope that native attacks down into the area would be deterred. Despite it not having the desired effect, it did lead to the first voluntary all-black units of the struggling Confederacy, which had all but shirked its more propogandic ideals in the face of retaliation attacks for the death of General Grant. But that didn't last long, Titus thought as he finished his small portion of biscuit and sausage. With a burp and, he hoped at least, an infuriating grin of nonchalance, he swept the shallow tin pot across the rudimentary bars of his home away from home and called for the bailiff.

"Come on now, you sleepy slackoff, I want seconds!" The young man assigned to watch over him, a thin and hairless fellow a full foot shorter than his towering charge, ambled over in a fit and snatched the small dish away from Titus. "Jerry, you'll never grow this place into a real business if you keep treating valued patrons this way," the prisoner continued to taunt the gangly man. "And where's colonel Montgomery already? I've been waiting a full week on his lazy ass, and yet here I sit. Slackers, all of you."

As if waiting for his cue, the blue-clad and sun-bleached officer opened the creaky wooden door to the jailhouse, nearly pulling it off its misaligned hinges in the process. "Well I'll be," the hardened old man said with a voice that sounded like gravel under a bootheel. "They told me there was a boy waiting to be escorted back to my fort, but I don't believe I recognize you." He scratched his head for a bit, looked at the young bailiff, then back to Titus. Eager to move forward, Titus offered the best bluff he could come up with on the spot. "Like you'd recognize me anyways, just one of a hundred in a barrack you'd never scuff those shiny boots on."

It seemed to work. The old man's gaze hardened and the cane he propped himself up with snaked off the ground almost too quick to spot. Titus felt its steel tip smash hard into his ribcage, and he went down involuntarily in a coughing fit. "You son-of-a-", he started, but another look at the raised cane stopped him short. He stood back up, straightened off the poorly fitted uniform that identified him as belonging to Fort Concho, and looked through the bars to the hills beyond where his small band of mounted men should have been. Come on, Pierce.

"Mr. Montgomery." The younger man was holding out a piece of paper and a fountain pen. "If we can just get your mark here to show you have indeed picked this man up." The old officer turned his attention to the bailiff momentarily, and Titus took the time to look the old man up and down. He wasn't particularly stout by the looks of it, but this was going to be harder than he had expected nonetheless. He was well-armed, booted, and covered in more layers of clothing than anyone in this climate should be.

"Come now, young Marlow," he was hollering without turning to face Titus. "Let's get you back to the tents and a hot meal." Desertion was fairly normal in these times, an irregular phenomenon turned into a staple of military service as the funding dwindled and the opposition and its allies grew. They expected the behavior; it had become so common there was no real punishment for the act in place anymore. The local authorities would just round you up and hand you off to be ferried back to wherever you'd been conscripted to.

So, when the old man pulled chains from within the large bag at his side, a cold chill went down Titus's spine. This wasn't supposed to be in the cards at all, and he did not do well with chains. Taking a deep breath to steady his voice, Titus inquired, "Come on, now, what's all this? Ain't we just headed up the road a ways?" The old man smiled at him again, and this time the prisoner saw something a little too malicious in his stare. "Ahh," Titus sighed, holding his arms through the bars to be restrained, "There's the man I've been looking for."

This time it was the colonel who stopped short, and Titus stuffed down his distaste as best he could and smiled warily. With the chains around his forearms and the two lawmens' hands on their guns, the bars swung wide and he stepped beyond the confines of his small cell for the first time in days. "Gentlemen," Titus swooned in mock hysteria as he addressed the several other shackled young soldiers awaiting transport, "Do you feel that?" His eyes centered on the colonel and left him feeling even more uneasy. "Freedom."

Once they'd saddled up a spare gelding from the Colonel's tiny convoy, Titus was led over and hopped up of his own accord. His chains rattled around as he tried to settle in, causing the whole assortment of horses to stamp about nervously. In the midday heat of the Summer sun the streets were empty as far as the eye could see. It hadn't rained for almost two months now, and the dust kicked up by the stamping hooves hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Where were Pierce and Iain?

Despite his growing concern, and despite the growing heat, Titus relinquished himself to finding what little pleasure there was to be had in his current predicament. The smell of the horse beneath him; the scent of the wood and dirt and alcohol that flooded his nostrils from the nearby bar. It genuinely was a relief to be out of that hotbox, granted it would be considerably more relieving if he weren't wrapped in iron links.

He decided those links would be his escort's undoing before this was all said and done.

After an obligatory goodbye, the grizzled colonel Montgomery hoisted himself into his saddle, tucked his cane into its own sheath at his side, and gently kissed the mares into motion. And... everyone started down the road uninterrupted. Titus looked from window to window and scanned the building tops in search of his companions. This wasn't supposed to be the course of today's events, but then even the most clever plans rarely lasted the duration of their enactment. Hopefully his rescue attempt would be underway soon.

By the time they had passed between the last set of buildings and were turning toward the fort, the unrest had grown into a full-scale panic. Titus shot his eyes from left to right, trying to keep his mood hidden from the others around him. Perhaps the two young outlaws had found some new distraction to impede their focus on the task at hand. Maybe they were just hungover and sleeping it off, or still drunk and God-knows-where gambling away the last of their meager earnings. All were just a tad too possible for comfort, and he was already a far cry from anything resembling comfortable.

When they had been on the trail for what must have been more than ten minutes, Titus decided he'd had enough. If his partners couldn't be relied upon to show, he would have to take matters into his own hands. He looked down at them now, creased heavily from a life of hard labor and wrapped in metal rings. Then he looked up to John Montgomery and around and back at the handful of fellows in his position. All in chains. All miserable. Not one with an ounce of fight in their eyes. So be it, he told himself, and took a few quick breaths to force a little life back into his starved and fried brain.

In one deceptively quick stroke, he kicked free of his stirrups, crouched deftly on his saddle, and sprung straight for the colonel. In a fray of neighing and jumping and scattering equine, they both crashed to the ground. Titus could feel his shoulder hanging out of place as he painfully worked his way back up, and seeing his adversary do the same took the extra effort to kick his feet back out from under him. The old man cursed as he fell again and scrambled around in the dirt, but Titus was standing now and headed straight for his throat.

Their eyes wide, the handful of shackled men worked in silence to settle their horses, perhaps unsure whether to join in or run for the hills. Titus didn't stop. He pounced on the now furious officer and held him down as he patted him over for keys. Finally successful, he slammed a fist down on top of the straining man's noggin and left him in a stupor long enough to turn defiantly to his newest rescuees and toss them the oversized keyring. Turning back to Montgomery, he grabbed his own chains and pulled them taught like the world's nastiest garrote.

Montgomery was on his feet finally, grabbing blindly for support in lieu of his cane, and so Titus made a point to find it for him. Picking it from where it had been initially flung, he dusted it off and tossed it gingerly to the stunned colonel. Then he walked over to the edge of the path where the other captives were freeing themselves and found a sizable branch to wield. Walking slowly back to his would-be captor, he gave a warm smile and hoisted the large hunk of wood over his head. "It's good to see you've regained your senses."

The old man hacked up a bit more dust, knocked himself in the head a couple times, and twisted the handle of his cane. From within he pulled a blade as long as the cane itself and narrowed it at Titus. "I suppose that's not entirely unwarranted," the big prisoner said and started forward suddenly. He had always been too quick for his size, or so he was frequently told - it all felt rather natural to him. Nonetheless it was obvious he caught the colonel by surprise; the size of his eyes as the thick branch was broken in two between them said as much. Without even the opportunity to realign his thin blade for the oncoming attack, John Montgomery fell to the ground in a pile of bark and chips.

Still clawing to regain his footing, the damaged man couldn't find his voice to beg for mercy. Which was just as well, Titus figured as he circled around behind him and stood him back up - he wasn't planning on showing any. He wrapped his metal restraints around the defeated officer and reared back with all his might. It took a few minutes, and it wasn't a pretty act to behold nor even hear, but every one of the freshly unchained men stood rubbing their wrists and looking on in wonder as if all the kicking and slobbering was the most beautiful sight of their young lives. It was done.

From a patch of old mesquite behind them a familiar voice cut through the final gasps of the late Mr. Montgomery. "Aw, are you beatin' up that poor old man Titus? I thought you had more self respect than that." He wanted to be mad. He wanted to curse the two jackasses for sitting by while he helped himself to the solution. But, at the sound of Pierce's rude remark, Titus couldn't help but grin. He took the cane from the ground in front of him and shot it like a spear at Iain as he stepped from the brush. "I swear, even when you're on task you're useless!" the big man countered.

They closed distance on eachother and shook hands heartily. Pierce went to work unlocking the shackles still in place around Titus's wrists, and Iain lost himself admiring the scabbard that had just rapped his skull. His hands finally free, he held them out eagerly and added, "I can't believe you let me think I was going solo." Pierce gave a quiet chuckle and hoisted the oversized blade Titus had grown fond of into his waiting hands. "We had you covered the whole time. You know how it goes though, had to let you sweat a bit."

"I've been sweating for seven days straight," He shot back. "It was only six," Iain cut in, walking between them and pushing the blade of his newly-acquired sword into its sheath, "and this is mine." Titus threw another haphazard fist Pierce's way for good measure, but the nimble cowboy just dipped beneath it with a grin and was already stepping past him with hat-in-hand waving. "Finish up and come get you some hot food already."

With a final nod to usher off the few soldiers who'd lingered since the colonel's death, Titus stopped grinning and turned back to the corpse. "Let them know who did it, eh boys," he growled in his deep voice, and thrust the tip of his longsword straight through the chest of their latest target. With a sigh that released more tension than he'd realized he was carrying, he walked back over to the horse he'd been supplied and began checking over its girt, bridle, and blanket. It would be a relief to be back home.

Philema still didn't approve of all of what they did, he knew. But his sister knew as well the importance of their call to action, of providing a sense and symbol of unity for the masses of impoverished and war-torn in what was the bloodiest time anyone had ever known. She would be waiting for him at the inn, taking care of everything as always while he shirked his chores to roam abroad. "She's a gem, your sister," Pierce broke through his thoughts as if reading his mind. "She knows you do only what you must, old friend. You're not a wretch like me." His companion gave a knowing wink and rode up towards the crest of the nearest hill.

Iain was already mounted as well, and so Titus swung up into his saddle and cinched his great beast of a blade firmly behind his back. But by the time he had lumbered around to match Iain's gait, shots rang out. Turning to find the source of the sounds, they could see smoke rising from Pierce's rifle as he aimed and cracked another round off over the hill. Shoving it into his saddle, the veteran horseman kicked his mare hard and came racing towards them.

"Move! Move! Move!" he was shouting as he barreled through them, and so they tore off behind him hooping and hollering to the cracking brush and popping rocks of armed pursuit.

#Short #Story #Civil #War #Western #Fantasy #Six #Swords

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thesixswords · 4 years

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Six Swords:

The Congress Ave Shuffle

As if chased away by the hundreds of eager locals vying for an opportunity to push beyond the barely-sufficient shade of their porches and awnings, the brutal August sun finally dropped from view and the lights, sounds, and smells of night in the city limits took its place. Saloon music began to plink away from within unshuttered windows, the entertainers and various adult companions began to appear from balconies all around, and the whole cacophony of glasses and boots and voices grew steadily in the cooling dusk. Pierce looked over as his companion breathed it all in with a sigh of relief - he may not have been much for the clutter and claustrophobia of Austin, but Iain looked like he'd finally found his promised land.

Pierce couldn't blame him. After more than two weeks of walking through the rough, hot, dry Texas hills with little more than a bath and a nap, even he was looking forward to a stout drink. Pulling back out of his thoughts, he realized Iain had already wandered off and quickly fell in step behind him. Their destination tonight was hosting a rather extravagant affair, so they were dressed to match - polished boots, clean slacks, and long coats over vests over patterned button-up shirts. Their hats were the only giveaway, newly cleaned and shaped but still worn with years of hard use. They would be checking them with their guns at the door though, so there was little to worry about.

Of course, as much as business was business, pleasure was pleasure, and they had little experience denying themselves a good time. Tonight's struggle would be finding the balance between those two more than anything. But that was the fun of it all, Pierce told himself with a grin as he removed his hat and dipped his head in greeting. The man they were here for, a fellow who by all accounts was difficult to miss in a crowd, was the financier and host of this particular event. And for all his apparent hospitality, he'll surely regret filling our bellies.

The fiasco was already well underway as they stepped out onto the old wooden floor, complete with a dozen liquors, twice as many freshly-baked pastries, and still twice as many more bright, flowing skirts of working girls. The shuffle of people in and out various rooms and up and down the stairs made moving about fairly safe. There was little chance of being recognized; for whatever their infamy the Six Swords had never had a single face put to them. But they were only a stone's throw in either direction from their childhood homes, and who knew who might pop up at an event like this.

Catching a familiar face out of the corner of his eye, Pierce elbowed Iain and politely excused himself from the circle of locals they'd attached themselves to. With a quick glance around the room and a renewed satisfaction in their sense of anonymity, the two men casually made their way up the stairs and into the furthest room down the dim hallway. One could hardly expect trouble in a place like this, what with all the affluence about and their distaste of patrons strapped with weapons… but then that was why Braxton had arrived early.

With a light nod and a heavy clasp of hands, Pierce and Iain entered the room quietly. Braxton, almost twice their age and more than twice their stature, moved without comment to his bedside and stooped low to reach beneath the mattress and frame. "Here we go boys," he offered with his typical general's mix of collected and confounded tones. "Once the speech gets underway, all eyes will be front and center for you to move into position. When the old fart's through we'll have no trouble picking him off." The briefing complete, he handed over the pair of blades he'd pulled from their hiding place, Pierce's heavily curved sabre and a paper-thin spadroon Pierce handed in turn to his partner with a look of mock disgust.

"Oh, shut your mouth," the latter was already saying, plucking the long sword from the two fingers Pierce was holding it in as if it would infect him on contact. "You just wish you could do more than hack like a heathen with that piece of overweight garbage." Iain flicked his blade out to rap against his companion's, but Pierce was already winding around his point to nip at his exposed hand. They both chuckled a bit, then straightened up and offered Braxton another outstretched hand. "See you soon," the older man said, and turned to the window to make his escape.

Always focused, Pierce thought of the old fellow, and with another grin and a wave of his emptied glass, they tucked the weapons in their dusters and headed towards the nearest cluster of bodies. As they slowly made their way to a small dark den of a room behind the island bar that kept customers safely away from the spirits they desired, an unwanted voice rang out. "Iain? Iain!?" Iain wasn't turning.

"I thought that was you," the voice came again from right behind them, and a hand landed firmly on Iain's shoulder. Forcing a smile through his scowl, Iain turned somewhat awkwardly, likely because of the large blade in his coat, and threw up an obligatory hand in greeting. "I'll be," the stranger barked loudly, "I haven't seen you since they ran you out of Fort Catahoula!" "Great," Pierce was whispering as he turned to greet more strangers, "he has friends."

"This here's the meanest sumbitch I ever saw with a knife," their unwanted associate was saying to them now. It had been well over half an hour, and this man was steadily growing louder as the night settled in. Iain gave a sheepish look and patted the drunken man on the back, looking around frantically for the bottle that would end this conversation prematurely. They couldn't exactly say they had another engagement or group to be around; this was the talk of the town and they weren't residents. Spotting the object of his immediate need, Pierce leaned over into a circle of partygoers and quietly plucked the bottle of whiskey that was supplementing their mood.

"Here we go," he offered, setting it down in front of them all and circling up a handful empty glasses. "To old friends," he said, and picked up his freshly poured drink to drain its contents. After the others greedily followed suit, he handed the bottle off to the stranger and remarked casually that they were off to mingle. "Not without meeting my other old friend," the man replied without hesitation, and circled around a few times in a stagger until he found his quarry. "Mr. Mills," he yelled out over the noise, and as the man being called looked their way, Pierce and Iain looked at each other.

"Here's the man we should all be drinking to," the stranger said as Mr. Henry Mills stepped up to shake their hands. Moving as loosely as they could with three feet of steel hanging down their sides, each offered a hand in turn and tried their best to give no hints at the fact that they already knew this face well. "How are you gentlemen?" Mr. Mills asked as they all sipped on another round. The silence was a bit awkward, but not so much that it wasn't overlooked. Mills continued unphased.

"Hopefully I can persuade you fine folks to add yourselves to our flock of faithful and fine servants of this great state's persisting ideals of class and culture. I know in the midst of such civil conflict many see a reason to revisit their values, to reconsider some of those staples of society we've long held dear. But here in the heart of brick, mortar, and barbed-wire we find it vital to stand true beside those things others would now call into question."

Pierce could see the distaste on Iain's face, which meant their illustrious host probably could too. "And so it follows," Pierce added with perhaps more malice in his voice than he should have allowed, but turning the attention on himself nonetheless, "That all those born to a lower class must be kept there lest the world discovers they're just people too. We get it old man." Mr. Mills looked upset by the comment, but it was too late and had served its purpose at any rate. Standing up alongside the stranger who drug him over and the handful of hopefuls on his coattails, the men at long last ambled off to find more amicable company.

What a character, Pierce thought to himself as he looked back over at Iain to join him in making their exit. Iain's face said the same and more, and they got up happy to be free of the burden and finished making their way to the darkest corner of the place. Henry Mills was finally circling up to his prepared speaking area, a pair of tables pushed together with a podium on top, and the two outlaws settled in for another, longer version of the hate speech they had just pried away from.

After plenty of emotional rallying and recementing of the rather shtickish community goals of less poor people, faster, and over a larger area, things began to die out as those who had only shown for the free food and booze slipped away before they could be recruited. Keeping calm and still, Pierce and Iain waited. Eventually the would-be-politician would take his leave, so would they, and the world would thereafter be one corpse closer to a perfect place.

Another half hour passed, and at last the bar was all but emptied. Mr. Mills gave a hearty and fond farewell to the last few supporters remaining, then headed for the stairs to his personal suite. Pierce and Iain set their glasses down, looked around quickly to make sure they were free to make their move, and rose from their seats to follow. With nobody the wiser, they crept past the handful of tipsy stragglers and went straight in the door behind him.

"Well hey there, gents," came a loud and familiar voice. Mr. Mills was put off, turning in surprise to find the pair in step behind him, and with their newest nuisance in the room their cover was blown. Swords already half-drawn, the two killers hesitated. "Holy-" the loud man was starting to say, jumping up from his seat and searching for any crevice he could squeeze his oversized gut through to escape. "You're one of them!"

Iain cursed openly as he walked over to the man and pushed him back into his seat with the tip of his spadroon. Pierce was already at the target's throat and looking to his partner in crime for the next course of action. With a final swear to the god that put them all in that room together, Iain slid the blade towards the man's neck and sent him sprawling over backwards. With a frown of inconvenience, Pierce slid his sabre's edge slowly across Henry's throat and let him drop to the floor. The unexpected guest in the room was halfway through a window when they finally stepped up beside him. "Damn shame," Pierce said. "Do you really know him?"

Iain looked at him, decidedly unhappy with the situation, and nodded as the poor man dropped to the dirt road below. They couldn't let him go, and they certainly couldn't rely on him to keep his mouth shut. Furthermore, he was clearly a personal friend of the old racist corpse they just left behind and would likely turn this story into a fantastic propoganda tool for the pro-slavery movement that had doubled down since the civil war ran cold.

Left with so little in an increasingly cut-off and scorched-useless Confederacy, people had had no choice but to see their former servants as equals. There wasn't enough circumstance left for the pomp, as Braxton so eloquently liked to put it, when the Masters began begging their slaves for the secrets to less-frivolous survival. Suddenly the biggest supporters of the war effort became pioneers of a movement for equality and true freedom for all.

Pierce drug his boots over the dead man like a beat dog. And this filth almost undid it all single-handedly. Through his veiled speeches of carefully chosen words, Henry Mills had managed to restart with a vengeance what the Union had all but killed in its initial fight against secession. "Planter trash," he heard Iain say behind him in voiced approval of the extra kicks. "And his friend."

They exited the way Braxton had earlier, using the overhang under his window's ledge instead of careening to the ground, and quickly picked up their new mark's trail. After a quick assessment of the utter mess of lines and dents he left in the street, they hauled off after him behind the bar and picked a direction. As luck would have it, the intoxicated escapee was still standing in the back alley, struggling rather helplessly at the sill of an old shop window.

"What are you doing friend," came Iain's voice from the dark. The staggering and struggling stopped for a moment, and the reply finally came. "You're no friend of mine, Iain Tavish of the Six Swords!" Pierce shook his head and stepped forward into cutting range. "What kind of attitude is that amongst old comrades. Is this not the same kid who held the front lines solid after the massacre at Appomattox? The same soldier you'd rather have beside you than in front of you with a knife in hand?"

"Looks like he traded that knife for something more capable of cold-blooded killing," he shot back, the stench of alcohol on his breath filling the entire humid alleyway. Then his eyes lit up with recognition and he reached for the pistol that should have been at his waist. "You left it at the door dumbass," Iain dryly explained. "And so did we, so let's handle this before I can't get them back." Drawing the sword back from beneath his duster, he aimed it directly between his opponent's eyes.

"I truly do apologize for this," Iain continued. "We're not much for a mindless death, but if you're looking out for that slaver fanatic you ain't have much of a mind to begin with." He took another step forward as if to say more, but the swagger of his adversary disappeared for an instant and became a mad charge under the blade. With a surprised hop to the side, Iain attempted to leap clear but was brought down in a tangle of fists and feet anyways.

Iain fought hard for that upper hand, or so it seemed to Pierce from his vantage point a few steps back. "What are you doing, man? Get behind those joints!" he cheered in amusement as the two men rolled around in a cloud of dust. "Iain you cheat, stop fighting dirty!" "You know," came the heated reply between labored breaths, "You could be halfway back to your hat by now you lazy coward." He stopped to fend off a few pounding blows while straddled by the crazed man and deliver a few in return. "You could at least give him a swift kick to the saddle bags."

Still smiling, his night's work having turned into a far better experience than he had hoped for, Pierce obliged and planted his boot right between the big guy's thighs. With a howl and a hand on his crotch, he went over like an unbalanced bag of grain and met his end quickly after when Iain rolled onto him and pushed a knife deep into the back of his neck to make him silent. It wasn't their most scrupulous moment, but the job was done snd they were no worse for wear.

With the dust still roiling at their backs, the two men hurried back over to the bar and hotel they'd left and climbed back up through the window. There was nobody left but the innkeeper, and a quick tale of the paid-for passion of one of his employees left him happy enough to not ask questions. Tonight they would sleep well in a warm bed and wake late to a hot breakfast, but they wouldn't dare do it here.

By morning the place would be crawling with concerned citizens and overzealous law enforcement, and since both were bad for business they would be happily on their way back to the Good Book bar and the handful of fellow minds this newly-independent South had deemed the worst band of vigilantes ever to be born in God's finest countryside. Though they'd never admit they were fond of the name, though they'd never intended the moniker to stick, the Six Swords were here to stay and Pierce was proud of it.

#Six #Swords #Historical #Fiction #Short #Stories #Civil #War #Alternate #Universe #Dystopia

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