Welcome to the beginning of Season 2 of The Wizard Killer.
Note that this is posted RAW, meaning it has not been edited nor revised.
Season 2 – Episode 7
Just before standing, I reach for two pistols from my salvage pile, and as I stand, I toss them forward. I put my empty hands out to my sides, palms facing forward.
“I just want to get the yig out of here,” I say squinting at them. The sun’s hurting my eyes.
The rifleman over on my right’s thin and wiry, with a glazed look about him. His black hair’s past his shoulders, and hiding everything but his eyes. He’s dressed in a patchwork of leather for a shirt and pants.
As I sweep my gaze over to the left, I see a set of slaves all chained together, sitting in a huddle. I think there’s six of them, can’t see better. I can tell, even from here, that they’re seriously sunburnt. None of them are fidgeting or crying out. There’s something I’m missing.
Next up is the jackal, and she’s exactly as I imagined her.
Her hair’s like a spiky desert bush, her eyes are very sharp and focus. She’s got blue paint across her eyes and on the edge of her chin and dressed in a tight jacket and patchwork pants. Hunched over, she’s keeping her hands close to her body, but I can see she’s deliberately moving her fingers about, maintaining something magical. Her lips are moving in time with the demonic voice in my head.
Finally, my gaze makes its way over to the guy who strikes me as the leader. Seven and a half feet tall, the man’s got a blue blindfold on, his hair in a small topknot, and he’s wearing nothing other than a cloth and rags on his wrists and ankles. He’s covered in paint and scars. Staring at him, the hum in my head’s at its loudest.
“I’m going to wake away right now.” I lick my lips, wondering if that’s what I’m really going to do.
Shifting my gaze between the three of them again, I catch a look in the jackal’s eyes that tells me everything.
As the sun glints off the rising rifle, I spring up onto the trunk and wipe my mana-pistol out.
Before I can get a shot off, the blindfold man punches the air in my direction and sends me flying backwards right through the tent.
Landing hard upside, I feel something crack and a new type of pain introduces itself. “Welcome to the family,” I grunt.
Scrambling back to my feet and dashing to the side, I feel a bullet graze my leg and then arm.
For a split second, I think about using the opportunity to take off, but shake that off. That rifleman’s going to pick me off, and there’s no telling what else they can do.
I bolt around the outside of the tents and am about to turn the corner when I slide under the flap of the blue tent.
They’re all looking about for me. The blindfold man’s standing in the fire pit, his hands outstretched moving about slowly, as if they’re his eyes. The rifleman’s standing like a toy waiting to be used, and the jackal’s got a weird looking bladed weapon in her hand. It’s like someone put a dagger on top of another dagger, but turned it ninety degrees.
That jackal doesn’t look like a leecher.
Who the yig are these guys? What are these guys?
I’m about to bet everything on a shot at the rifleman when my aim inexplicably shifts over to the jackal and slaves.
There’s a twig of conscience inside me for a second before I fire at the slaves. It’s better for them this way, anyway.
Three of the five of them are dead before the jackal even notices. She starts running at me with vengeful fury written all over her.
The rifleman jerks and I drop him next, leaving a huge blue smoking hole in him. The blindfold man turns towards me and stumbles.
As I fight to get to my feet, I slip and eat the two seconds leeway I had before the jackal arrives.
I expect her to lunge at me, but instead, she jumps and twists in the air. By the time I catch the glint of her blade, it’s being buried into my heart.
Falling backwards, I’m thrown off by the look of surprise on her face. She mouths the word Weslak as she stares at her broken blade and the shards scattering about.
Hitting the ground with a thud, I resist the urge to play my part and think about dying. Glancing down at my bloody chest, I see my hands are empty. Yig, I let go of my pistol.
Giving in to something inside, I pull one of the serrated swords off my back and embed it in the side of the jackal.
Her face erupts in anguish and outrage.
Yeah, how dare I.
The demonic whisper becomes a yell.
Sitting up quickly, I find the mana-pistol and fire at her. It bounces off some protection, setting fire to the tent.
Yig, someone can do that?
That’s when I feel these meaty hands grab me by the shoulders and haul me into the air, my legs kicking. Yigging blindfold man snuck up on me. Whose idea was it to take on three guys on my own?
With a roar, he sends me end-over-end through the roof of the tent.
Several ribs give way as I land with all the grace of a discarded rag doll. Face down, I take in a breath of dirt and kick off a coughing fit. It’s fiery torment and searing agony, served fresh.
Placing my hands ready to push me up, I try, but my body stops short of laughing at me. I can’t blame it. Maybe playing dead’s a good idea, at least for a minute.
“At least let’s turn around, we’re facing the wrong way,” I plead. “Where’s the fun in dying if you can’t see it coming?” My body ignores me and my sarcasm.
Laying there for a minute, my head starts shaking as a puzzle runs through my thoughts. The jackal stabbed me in the heart, didn’t she? I should be dead.
“Come up, get up. Get up,” I whisper to myself, barely coaxing myself up enough to be able to reach a hand over and touch where I was stabbed.
There’s a wound over my heart, but it’s not deep. With a pained grunt, I shove two fingers in. They don’t get far. There’s something hard there. What the yig is that? There’s also something sharp and small. Delicately I pull it out.
Holding the bloody piece in front of my eyes, it’s a shard from the jackal’s weapon. Frowning, I hope to reach back in and touch it again, but my body collapses to the ground.
Shuffling about like a dying fish, I notice the blindfold man about fifty yards away with a chain in his hands, leading the slaves.
He stops and turns to face me. The blue band over his eyes makes me feel like I’m being glared at by a cyclops.
“I guess… we’ll call this one a draw, then,” I mutter. “I’m good with that.”
He heads off. The slaves are holding some of the silks.
I consider raising a finger in protest, as I’m sure those would fetch me some good coin, but I leave it. For some reason, Death passed on giving me entrance today, no need to ask her to reconsider… yet.
Read Episode 8
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