Firstborn of the Frontier

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand’”

The warm fire of fearless determination flowed through Errol as his Heroism Spell took hold. His shaking hands stilled and his racing heart slowed as he let go of his crucifix and raised his El-Minister while peering out into the darkness, waiting for a target to emerge from the shifting shadows of the dark desert night.

So he was understandably taken aback when Howie turned on the lights and ‘whooed’, revealing a gaggle of screaming goblins sprinting right towards them.

The dull clang of the Ranger Repeater snapped him out of his funk, and Errol couldn’t help but smile at the sweet sound of Howie working the lever-action with a smooth click-clack, followed shortly after by the tinny clatter of brass hitting the cold metal floor and a second clang. To follow suit, Errol took aim at the closest goblin and pulled the trigger, taking immense satisfaction from the silenced bark of his rifle as it spat forceful death at Abby. Would have been better if he hadn’t missed, but he shot again, then again, and again, pulling the trigger as quick as he could until his target finally dropped.

Only for it to get back up again, cradling its arm where Errol’s shot had chunked it.

A hand landed on Errol’s shoulder and he threw himself to the side, moving away from the threat and slamming into the wagon wall. “Easy there,” Howie said, his voice muted and low, except it wasn’t. Errol’s ears were the problem, his lack of Hearing Protection causing issues inside the closed confines of the wagon even with Silenced weapons. “Just because you got thirty rounds in the mag don’t mean you gotta use ‘em all right quick. Take your time. Pick your shots. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.”

Cheeks burning from embarrassment, Errol nodded and refocused on the task at hand, but it wasn’t easy to slow down when the world was moving at a hundred miles a minute. Between the jostling wagon, the harsh smoke of his gun, and the tiny, zooming goblin, it took two or three tries before he hit his target at maybe 70 metres, and that was with him going slow. Howie most certainly wasn’t taking his time, rattling off his six Repeater shots from the hip without missing a beat before reloading faster than Errol thought possible, the movements so quick and efficient it hardly seemed human. Howie’s Mage Hands were there to help, holding up handfuls of loose 22 cartridges so he didn’t have to reach into his ammo pouch, and he slotted each one into the tube without fail. In the time it took him to reload and unload again, Errol was able to get another kill, but then Howie scored another six without blinking before letting out another ‘whoo’. “Alright partner,” he called, and the wagon slowed just a bit before veering around and picking up speed once again. “Stragglers’r all taken care of, so let’s see to our catch.” Turning to Errol with a smile, Howie added, “Trigger discipline.”

Could probably cook eggs on Errol’s face with how hot he was burning as he removed his finger from the trigger and shouldered his rifle now that the shooting was done. Still had the original magazine in it too, so he swapped it out with a fresh one from his belt, fumbling all the while. In the meantime, Howie grabbed a bottle from the singular crate he’d kept in the wagon, while his glowy blue Mage Hands grabbed one each and followed him out to the driver’s seat. “Look lively Errol,” he said, speaking over his shoulder. “Might be you can learn something of the Spells I’m about to use.”

Unlikely. It probably took hundreds, if not thousands of casts before Errol’s ‘Intuitive ways’ kicked in, but Howie expected results after a mere handful. Still, new Spells were new Spells, so Errol hustled his way to the front and poked his head out to watch the show. There weren’t any lights up front, leaving things shrouded in darkness, but the ambient glow from the sides of the wagon was enough for now. Lit Sarah Jay up real nice, standing there with her rifle shouldered and goggles on as she stared off into the distance, her jaw set in a fetching expression that was both stern and seductive. This was the Sarah Jay she showed the world, the dark ice queen who only rarely smiled, which made them all the more precious when she did, and he couldn’t help slipping his arm around her waist.

Only to have his hand slapped away. “Concentrating,” she said, without giving him a second glance, and for the third time in a minute, Errol almost died of embarrassment. Similar to the Heroism Spell, the Entangle Spell required the Spellslinger’s focus to maintain it, meaning a moment’s distraction might well have caused Sarah Jay to let the Spell slip and free whatever goblins were caught up in it. Not that Errol could see anything out in the darkness, but it didn’t matter since Howie was already mumbling in Latin and slinging his Spell. At first, it seemed like nothing happened, but then he grabbed another bottle from a floating Mage Hand and the pieces fell into place. With another gesture and mumble, the second bottle shot out of Howie’s still hand and sailed off into the darkness, and the third bottle followed a few seconds later. With no more bottles to Catapult away, he reached into his component’s pouch and came out with a mottled red and brown stone the size of a bapple, so smooth and spherical it had to have been polished or cut. Holding it in his left hand, he made his gestures with his right hand for a change, and Errol soon saw why as a glowing globe of orange-red flame condensed around the Firstborn’s left hand and grew the size of a man’s head. Winding up like he was throwing a baseball underhand, he lobbed the fiery orb off into the distance, tracing a neat, lazy arc across the night’s sky as it sailed through the desert and landed dead centre on a mass of goblins caught in a tangled growth of grasping green vines.

Then everything went up in flames and a chorus of wails sounded off in the distance as the immolated Abby burned and died.

“Whooooooo!” Howie exclaimed for the third time this night, shaking Errol out of his awe as Cowie slowed to a trundle. “Ain’t that a sight.”

“Holy fuck.” Low and husky, Sarah Jay’s voice was filled with admiration and disbelief, which made Errol feel even smaller than he already did. “Was that a fucking Fireball?”

“You’d think so wouldn’t you?” Flashing his big smile, Howie said, “What with it being a literal ball of fire which you throw and explodes? Nah, oddly enough, Fireball ain’t got none of that besides the explodin’. That there was an Elemental Orb, First Order Spell. Nowhere near as powerful as Fireball, or even Blast, but it’s got it’s uses. The range and arc for one, letting you lob ‘em farther than a Bolt and over obstacles in the way. Also lets you pick and choose the Element, namely Fire, Frost, Acid, or Electric, so long as you got the appropriate Elemental Stone.” Giving the red and brown rock in his hand a light toss, he caught it and said, “Real handy to have when you need to deal a specific type of Elemental Damage and a Cantrip won’t cut it. Most Spells need a whole different Spell Structure to change the damage type, or a Metamagic focus at least.” Gesturing at the bonfire some eighty metres away, Howie seemed to magically make the flames dissipate before adding, “Elemental Orb also leaves behind a lingering Elemental effect that injures anything that steps in it. In the case of Fire, it’ll even set things aflame, like the high proof alcohol I launched over before hand, but once the Spell effect ends, all those flames just go poof. Nifty little trick that lets you burn Abby to death without having to worry about losing Aberrtin or Spell Cores should the flames get too hot. Or you know, wildfires and such.”

“That’s a First Order Spell?” Errol asked, his pride unable to silence him for long. “How come we don’t have an Aetherarm for that?”

“Elemental Orb launchers exist, but they ain’t popular for lots of reasons really.” Giving a little shrug, Howie explained, “The Spell’s got quirks, what with the material component and how it don’t self-propel like Bolt. You gotta throw it to get it going, and because of that, it don’t go all that fast compared to Bolt. Doesn’t take much effort to get it going, and could do it with little more than a flick of the wrist really, but it’s the caster’s will and intent that actually sets the parameters of the projectile’s velocity and arc. Like, if I wanted to hit something two steps in front of me, I could spike the ground like I’m playing football, let the Orb roll off the palm of my hand, or I could launch it high overhead and let it come crashing back down a few seconds later. In each case, the Spell behaves as expected and uses as much or as little force as required, and it uses my thoughts and actions to set the tone. Can’t convey none of that using a Spell Core, so what ends up happening is the Core conjures up the Orb and then drops it right at your feet. That can be fixed using arcana-tech to give the Spell Core instructions and what not, but then the Aetherarm tends to get real expensive and bulky only to end up working best like a mortar or grenade launcher, and there are better Spell Cores for that sort of work, like Bombard and Shardburst.”

Waving his hands to signal an end to questions, Howie said, “Jay, you sit sentry up front while me and Errol collect our spoils.” Hopping off the side of the still moving wagon, he moved around back to meet Errol as he clambered down into the lights, which had somehow dimmed since he last saw them. Grabbing a hidden latch under the wagon, Howie gave it a pull to reveal a wide chute that opened up into a storage container underneath, one which smelled of sour death and harsh vinegar. “Simple is as simple does,” Howie said, gesturing at the chute. “Get your gloves on and toss them gobbo corpses in deep. Give ‘em a good wack before approaching though. Some might be playing dead.”

Wasn’t the first time Howie had said as much, but for once, Errol was grateful for the reminder. After donning his thick leather work gloves, he reached down to grab his new weapon hanging from his belt, a heavy-duty steel chain made up of one and a quarter-inch links. A mundane weapon, neither Augmented nor Imbued, though truth be told, Errol wasn’t sure what the difference was. Not that he expected a fancy magic weapon, as this was more than cool enough. The chain had a spiked lead-core weight at one end and a leather-wrapped wooden handle at the other, meaning it was pretty much a chain mace, but with extra emphasis on the chain so the Living Whip Cantrip could take effect. It’d taken them both by surprise to learn that there were other Spellslingers who used a weapon like this, which was far more deadly and effective than any leather whip or rope could ever be, so Errol was glad to have it now. Holding the heavy coil in his right hand, he gave it a good heft to familiarize himself with the weight before letting a loop unfurl. Setting the spikey head to spinning and slowly feeding more chain into the loop, he muttered the words to the Cantrip as he approached the closest goblin corpse in sight, one laid out flat just to the left of Cowie’s tracks.

“Wha-Pah!” Errol whispered, feeling his cheeks colour again as he sent the spiked head hurtling towards the goblin like a snake darting at its prey. Wasn’t nothing as fancy as Howie’s Latin, but not everyone was classically trained by Marshal Theodore Ellis himself. ‘Wha-Pah’ was the words Errol had taught himself to use to activate the Cantrip back when he was fourteen, and he wasn’t sure how to go about changing them now. Or why he didn’t have to say them when his blood was hot, like during the fight with the harpies. Could be worse though, as there was a ranch hand who used to sing ‘When a problem comes along, you must whip it’, to activate his Cantrip, which Errol only avoided copying because it took too long to sing.

His chain arced out and struck his target with a meaty thwack, his first blow cracking a skull real good, and he waited a beat before casting the Spell a second time for good measure. Was real satisfying seeing that goblin corpse splatter beneath the weight of his strikes, splashing greenish-purple goo about the sands. Didn’t last long when he remembered he had to haul the corpse away, but he kept his grumbling to a minimum. Howie told him the very first day that Sarah Jay was the better prospect, and while Errol agreed, he hadn’t realized just how far behind he really was. All he’d done tonight was shoot maybe two or three goblins, so hauling corpses was the least he could do to earn his keep.

Though barely four feet tall and scrawny as could be, the goblin was heavier than it looked. Too heavy to carry one handed, so Errol gathered up his chain and grabbed it by the ankles to drag along behind him. When he got to the wagon, he fumbled about with the legs and head before figuring out the best way to dump it in, namely head first. Wasn’t exactly difficult, but wasn’t easy either, so as he steadied himself against the moving wagon, he looked over to see how Howie was faring. Well from the looks of things, carrying two goblins over his shoulders without a care in the world for how they were leaking viscous and acidic Abby blood all over his duster. Giving Errol a wink as he passed, he dropped the corpses in and said, “Can’t concern yourself with keeping clean and looking pretty. Gotta get this done right quick, as all the noise might bring more Abby down on us, or worse.”

Right. To hear Howie say it, the Frontier was thick with bloodthirsty outlaws who’d shoot you for so much as looking at them funny. Probably was exaggerating about how many there were to make himself look better, but Errol didn’t doubt the existence of such wicked men. Especially out here in these lawless lands where no nation held power, a situation which seemed so unreal. How could they live without laws or morals to guide them? Wouldn’t they just kill and kill until there was no one left? It made no sense, but according to Howie, there were plenty of thriving communities out here in the desert, though nothing as nice as New Hope.

Wha-Pah and haul. Wha-Pah and haul. Wha-Pah and haul. Errol fell into a steady rhythm and worked up a sweat gathering up Abby corpses alongside the trundling wagon. Once again Cowie demonstrated his sharp wits, always sure to slow and stop whenever he passed a cluster of goblins to pick up. Errol could swear the bull was playing games though, because whenever it came time for him to dump his cargo, Cowie would move a few steps forward and force him to carry his load a little further. To make matters worse, he couldn’t even match Howie in physical labour, who tagged corpses with a manually casted Bolt and went jogging off before Errol could even see them. Somehow, Howie didn’t need goggles or lights to see in the dark, which meant he probably cast Darkvision on himself. Add another Second Order Spell to the list to put the Firstborn even further ahead of the pack. It wasn’t even a matter of age anymore, as most folks learned a couple Cantrips and maybe a First Order Spell or two before calling it quits. Wasn’t just a matter of skill, but time as well, because knowing a Spell wasn’t enough to make it worthwhile. Anyone with money could just buy a Spell Core to do the same, and most industries ran on utilizing those very Cores. Sure, some arcana-tech might be needed to make them usable, but that meant you could also stack Metamagicks on it too, which would make the Spell Core more powerful than manually casting the same Spell. Most Spells just weren’t worth learning for everyday use, full stop.

Like the Bolt Spell. While the goblins were probably using Spell Cores, their Bolts were no different from a manually casted Bolt, and the brief fight showed that proper Aetherarms with Metamagic attachments were far superior in every possible way. Another example was Sarah Jay’s Entangle Spell, which did an excellent job holding down a good portion of the goblins, but an Entangle mine or grenade would do the same without needing a Spellcaster to Concentrate on maintaining the effect. No, the only advantage of manual casting was the ability to push the Spells slightly further, like Howie did with his arcing Bolts, but that took dedicated practice and familiarity to accomplish. Cantrips aside, there were only so many Spells you could cast in a single day, so a single Spellslinger could only familiarize themselves with so many. Given the large number of Spells Howie had demonstrated already, chances were his familiarity with most of them was passing at best, meaning all his study and hard work could be negated by anyone with money enough to buy the necessary Spell Cores.

Course, Howie also had money enough to buy all the best gear and trick out his wagon. Add in Spellslinging lessons from the Marshal, guns from Armand Kalthoff, and training from his daddy, who apparently had been a pretty big deal round these parts, it was no wonder Sarah Jay why was so starstruck by the Firstborn. Hard not to be ahead of the game with the deck was stacked in your favour, and Howie took it a step further by working harder than anyone Errol had ever seen.

Wasn’t fair, not one bit. Especially given how no one said nothing in the days following Howie’s encounter with Richard, with no consequences to be had at all.

“Wah-Pah,” Errol declared, hurtling the weighted end of his chain mace high into the air before bringing it straight down on a goblin corpse like a pouncing marty. Had to do something to keep his mood light. Wasn’t like he wanted Howie to get in trouble or anything. It just didn’t seem fair is all. Didn’t help when Errol noticed his aim was off, with his chain smacking the goblin in the shoulder instead of the back of the head, and he sucked his teeth in exasperation. Two months away from the ranch and already his rope skills were already suffering, though in his defense, the chain mace was a lot heavier and less responsive that good old-fashioned rope. It’d come back soon enough though, so he stifled a sigh and trudged over to pick up the corpse. He’d been getting good mileage out of the Heroism Spell at least, both today and during the harpy attack. Thankfully, he hadn’t needed the defensive aspects of the Spell just yet, as his version could barely blunt a punch much less any claws or fangs, while people protected by Father Nicolas’ Heroism Spell could get shot point blank with a Metamagicked pistol and live to tell the tale.

Bending over to grab the corpse, Errol’s heart skipped a beat when its beady red eyes pop open, so full of inhuman rage and hate. Letting loose with a wet, gurgling howl, the goblin lashed out with its clawed hand. The yellowed talons just narrowly missed Errol’s nose as he threw himself back into the sand with a yelp. Falling on his ass with a thump, he crab-walked away as the goblin popped up onto its feet and turned to face him, one arm raised to attack and the other hanging limp as it threw itself forward with bloodlust and glee, its yellowed fangs parted and shockingly pink tongue sticking out from between dark green lips. Lifting both legs on instinct, he lashed out and hit the goblin with both boots in mid air. A sickening crack sounded, one which sent something flying up and away in a spray of green, purple-tinged fluid as the goblin collapsed into a heap. The object came back down a full two seconds later, smacking into the sand with a wet squelch, and it took a few seconds more before Errol realized what it was.

The goblin’s tongue, which had been neatly severed by his sturdy, Ranger issue boots.

A sharp hiss sounded, followed by Howie asking, “You alright?” Leaning sideways to appear in Errol’s line of sight, Howie gave him a little wave with his shiny steel revolver in hand, the barrel still hot and smoking from a recent discharge. “You get scratched or bit in any way?”

“No,” Errol replied, his heart racing as he struggled to find breath. “Didn’t… Didn’t touch me. Just surprised is all.”

“Yea, they’ll do that.” Glancing at the severed tongue sitting in the sand, Howie gave it a little kick while holstering his gun and said, “Nice recovery, but best to kill it while its still pretending. Wounds inflicted by gobbos tend to get infected, as they a downright filthy bunch, so even a tiny scratch can turn life-threatening if not treated. Probably ain’t any more playing possum around here though, as they’d have gotten up when you screamed. They’re clever, but not all that patient, always eager for a taste of blood.” Extending his free hand, Howie gave a little grunt as he pulled Errol up onto his feet. “How ‘bout you hop on the wagon and take a breather? I’ll clean up the rest of the stragglers, and you can jump back in when you feelin’ ready.”

Much as Errol wanted to argue and keep helping, he couldn’t find the courage to do anything but nod. He’d lost hold of the Heroism Spell when the goblin spooked him, and now it felt like the world was squeezing him in from all sides, leaving his chest tight and mouth dry. As he climbed over the chute and into the back of the wagon, Sarah Jay asked, “You alright hun?”

“Yea, I’m fine,” he lied, fighting to keep his voice from cracking and praying she wouldn’t turn around to see just how bad he was. She didn’t, mostly because she was a good little soldier standing sentry and watching for threats like Howie asked, and Errol both loved and resented her for it. On the one hand, she was doing her job and that focus and dedication was a part of what he loved about her. On the other, he was her man, so shouldn’t that warrant a glance at least? The worst part was that he wasn’t even angry at her, just himself, because he should’ve never been in this position to start with. He knew going in that he missed his strike, didn’t deal a fatal blow before walking over, and he paid for his mistake. Who would’ve known the goblin could keep still and quiet even after Errol broke its shoulder?

Howie. He’d warned them a few times, and Errol still almost let himself get killed by his own pride and stupidity.

The burned pile of goblins caught by Sarah Jay’s Entangle stank of sour milk and barbeque pork, on account of all the hoggydilla corpses they’d been hauling. Fighting the urge to throw up at the sickening, yet strangely alluring stench, Errol hopped off the wagon to help haul the charred corpses, and Howie didn’t say anything to dissuade him. When they were done, he hurried them both back to the wagon and jumped into the driver’s seat. With one last look to make sure Errol and Sarah Jay were sat and waiting, Howie reached over to a gem inside and turned off the Lights as Cowie trundled away, moving quick and quiet as a mouse. “Good job tonight, the both of you,” Howie said, and Errol imagined he could see the other man’s grin even through the darkness. “A bit of a close shave towards the end, but you came through, and any fight you walk away from is a good ‘un.”

Settling into Errol’s arms, Sarah Jay let out a soft little sigh before craning her head back to give him a kiss on the cheek. Touching his temple to her head, he held her close and savoured her smell and her warmth, but she had other things on the mind. “How much you think we earned today?” She asked, her voice a hushed whisper directed at Howie. “Just a ballpark, so we get an idea.”

“Hard to say, but not much would be my best guess,” Howie replied, in the same soft tone. “Gobbo corpses don’t got much Aberrtin in them. Be lucky to get a gram for each one we render down, which these days is about thirty cents worth, so sixty-three goblins would be eighteen ninety. Almost ain’t worth the effort of cooking them, but it is what it is.” The fact that Howie could do math that quickly was always a surprise, rattling off numbers like he had it all worked out beforehand. Even more surprising was how little money goblins were worth, though it made sense considering how easy they died. A single hit centre mass on the goblin with a 22-10 was enough to cripple or kill it, and those were industry standard. Still, eighteen dollars was like two weeks worth of room and board for Errol and Sarah Jay, so it wasn’t too terrible a haul.

Howie just had higher standard is all, growing up rich and privileged like he did.

“What about Spell Cores?” Sarah Jay asked, with what others might hear as impatience, but Errol knew was desperation. She needed a lot of money and fast, and she figured following the Firstborn would be the quickest way to get rich. “Had to be at least a dozen in the group throwing Bolts at us, so that ought to be something, right?”

“Sure, but not as much as you think,” Howie replied. “Raw Bolt Cores are pretty cheap to purchase, as it takes a decent amount of work and experience to cut them down right. Then there’s stuff like size and shape to take into consideration, but even the best don’t go for too much more than a few dollars. Thing is, I doubt we’ll find even a single Spell Core, as Proggies ain’t fond of spawning goblins with ‘em. Too weak and fragile for so much investment, especially with how most gobbos are haulers and fodder. Sometimes literally, as bigger orcs and bugbears’ve been seen snackin’ on goblins when they feelin’ peckish.” Holding up a hand to forestall Sarah Jay’s question, Howie continued, “I know, you saw the Bolts, but a Spell Core ain’t the only way to cast a Spell.”

“They’re Spellslingers?” Errol asked, his voice a little louder than intended.

“That they are,” Howie replied, and Errol could hear the glee in the other man’s voice, as if to say, ‘even a goblin can cast Bolt, so you best hurry and catch up’. He didn’t though, and instead said, “Not all of them, and they ain’t born knowin’ how to sling Spells, but some develop the ability after surviving long enough. Bolt is the most common, but I seen some fling Magic Missiles, emit Caustic Sprays, throw down Grease, and even use Floating Discs. Theory is that all gobbos are thin-blooded Innates, weak casters than don’t get a lot of Spells, though some think they learn Intuitively and teach their kin. No one’s sure really. Every now and then you get a real powerful Spellslinger, like that hobgoblin illusionist I mentioned earlier. That one’s strong enough to maybe have a Spell Core granted to them by their Proggie though. More likely it grew the Core itself, all natural as it were. Happens sometimes, especially when they go from gob to hob, or some other e-volution. Either way, fact of the matter is that most scholars believe goblinoids are the base form of all Aberrations, what they’d all look like on a planet without any flora or fauna to speak of for Proggies to take inspiration from.”

“No wonder they ain’t worth shit,” Sarah Jay grumbled, quietly and under her breath, but Howie still heard it.

“Indeed, but don’t look down on them, else you get a scare like Errol did tonight,” he said, all too happy to poke fun and have a topic to expound on. Errol swallowed his anger and didn’t let it show, but Sarah Jay caught on all the same, stroking his chest to soothe him as Howie continued, “They baseline Abby for a reason, as gobbo are cheap and easy for Proggies to produce in big numbers. Imagine if we had to fight all them gobbo without an Entangle Spell holding a good three-quarters of them in place. Sixty-three shots minimum to take them all out. Sure, it’s safe enough from the wagon, but we’d have to keep running while making all sorts of noise, and if the fight goes long enough, we chance running into some other danger. Would’ve gone entirely different, and doubly so if they’d gotten the jump on us, which happens more often than not, as most folks don’t got the Firstborn running point.” Giving himself a moment to bask in his own glory, Howie waited a beat before adding, “That said, the scariest thing about gobbos ain’t their strength or Spellslinging abilities. Don’t get me wrong, they punch above their weight, and orcs and bugbears are scary strong for their size. When the Aether concentration rises, proggies will also start spawning ogres, trolls, and even giants later on down the line, but pound for pound, a Feral Abby will always outmuscle them, the same way Cowie here is physically stronger than any human could ever hope to match, even one in his same weight class.”

Turning around to look at them, Howie asked, “Either of you care to hazard a guess why goblinoids ought to be feared? Figure you’ve both seen enough by now to have an inkling at least.” Neither Errol nor Sarah Jay had an answer, so after a few seconds, Howie said, “Think back to what you saw tonight. No rush.”

Was Sarah Jay who came up with the answer first, though she didn’t sound too convinced. “It have something to do with their little sleds?” she asked, and Errol almost smacked himself in the head for not seeing it sooner.

“Got it in one,” Howie replied. “See, goblins are the smallest and weakest of the bunch, but we call the whole group of them goblinoids instead of orcoids or whatever for good reason. Without goblins, the rest of their ilk would be nothing more than shooting practice, and slow-moving targets at that. Feral Abby, ones modelled after local wildlife, they stronger, more agile, and got that animal cunning, but goblins have near human intelligence to make up for all their failings. They clever little craftsman, and while ropes and sleds don’t seem like much, they’re quick learners who’ll improve real fast as they kill and plunder human settlements. They’ll even take people alive and put them to work so’s they can learn from ‘em. That’s why gobbos are the backbone of their particular brand of Abby, as they’re a right frightening bunch with the potential to almost match us in technological advancement.”

“Match us?” Errol asked, unable to hide his doubt. “You serious?”

“As the grave.” There was no glee in Howie’s voice this time around, his tone grim and dark as could be. “Old world underestimated them, and lost the whole island continent of Australia to gobbos. Let the fight drag on too long, and them gobbos developed their own industry to start pumping out guns, tanks, planes, and all sorts of nasty weapons of war. Mostly from factories they seized, but they clever enough to make use of their spoils, which left the old world no choice but to glass the whole island, and even that didn’t clear out all the Proggies. Here on the Frontier, they ain’t that far along, but I’ve heard rumours of gobbo fungus farms up in them mountains, which ought to concern us all. Means they’ll have a steady supply of biomass for their Proggies, who’ll in turn pump out more gobbos, orcs, and bugbears faster than their ilk which favour Ferals or otherwise. Sure they’ll die in droves to massed Aetherarms, but if they got numbers enough, they can overrun whole fortified towns and come out on top thanks to how cheap and efficient they are to produce, and that’s before they get their hands on any Aetherarms.”

Errol swallowed hard and heard Sarah Jay do the same as Howie fell silent to let them drink it all in. Hordes of gun totting goblins, now there was a thought that would keep him up at night. Or at least he thought it would, as the next thing he knew, Sarah Jay was patting him awake in the warm glow of the morning sun outside of the Ranger outpost. The day passed same as yesterday, in two separate five-hour shifts, with Howie resting first, then Errol and Sarah Jay. As night fell, Howie brought them out into the desert once again, but this time, they didn’t find a fight. Instead, he brought them to a peak and had them lay in the sand to watch as a proper goblin warband made its way across the desert dunes, at least three hundred strong and eager as could be. There were no ropes and sleds this time. Instead, they carried spears, shields, clubs, and other improvised weapons as they scurried south across the sands, with a handful of larger, more muscular orcs scattered amongst them. The bigger, uglier Abby were bedecked in primitive armour, leather and bone crudely fixed together with twine. Not the prettiest or most effective stuff, but it’d do the trick and might even stop a Bolt or two before falling apart, so Errol found himself a new appreciation for Howie’s scouting skills.

And in doing so, felt his own self-worth dwindle even further.

“Someone’s in for a rough night,” Howie whispered, once they were back safely within the confines of the wagon. “I’mma call it in and hopefully get warning out to whoever that warband is looking to hit. No towers out here though, so range is limited and chances slim.”

The radio turned out to be hidden in the roof of the wagon, behind a panel by the driver’s seat. After repeating his message three times into the boxy little mic, the only response Howie got from the radio was crackling static, but he wasn’t willing to follow the warband to see where they were headed. Instead, he turned them right around and headed back to the outpost. After a short break for breakfast, he then declared they were going back to Meadowbrook. On a whim, Errol opted to ride big Bruno instead of lazing in the wagon, which stank of dead Abby and wasn’t all that comfortable to begin with. Sarah Jay joined him on the open road with Fifi, and together, they led the way back to town. Felt good to have the wind on his face and the sun shining overhead, but after a few hours of quiet riding, his eyes felt heavy and mind fuzzy.

So when the bramble elk burst out of the forest growth, his first thought was how delicious a nice, juicy venison steak would taste. His Whumper was in his hands before the elk’s hooves hit the street, the dial already set to its narrowest spread, since he liked how the weapon handled at longer ranges, even without the compressor. The elk didn’t miss a beat as it skipped out across the highway, passing directly in front of Errol as he took it down with a hip-fire shot. A good hit to the chest from twenty, maybe twenty-five-meters, and he whooped in joy at the thought of cooking it up, so eager to get at it that his boots hit the ground before the echo of his Blastgun’s deafening whump had even faded away.

“Weapons ready,” Howie snapped, and something in his voice made Errol stop in his tracks, an anger and urgency that was so unlike his usual cheery self. Weapons ready, that meant have them drawn but not aimed. Why though? “Follow my lead.”

“That’s our quarry!” Bellowing out of the underbrush with a belly full of fire, a stranger rode out onto the Highway atop a dun mare. A wrinkled, rugged black man with eyes wild and fierce, the stranger carried a crude hunting rifle in hand with the barrel resting against his shoulder, its dark metal bearing a rusted sheen and a distinct lack of polish on its wooden stock. A ruddy Lakota rode in behind him, all painted up for the hunt and carrying a similar shoddy rifle. Nowhere near as nice as what Howie provided, but more in line with what Errol was used to seeing outside of the military. Top-quality Aetherarms were difficult to acquire for most, as not everyone had a direct connection to the Rangers or Armand Kalthoff. Though the two strangers slowed their horses to a walk when they saw Howie standing ready with rifle in hand, they made no effort to lower their guns from their shoulders and showed no signs of stopping as they made their way over towards them. The black man was all hopping mad as he bellowed, “Chased it through the brush for a good –”

A sharp crack of thunder made Errol jump in place, and scared the strangers’ horses too. Big Bruno shifted in surprise, but he was well-trained and stuck close to Errol’s side, bumping his ribs against him to make sure he was there. A world of difference from these strangers’ horses, both of which reared back on their hind legs as their riders struggled to get them under control. Neither one was an experienced horseman, that much was plain to see, both tugging and heeling their beasts and confusing them even more.

None of which bothered Howie in the least. “Our kill, our quarry,” he said, the barrel of his unsilenced 3-Line still smoking and pointed towards the sky as he rechambered and round while kneeling in the driver’s carriage, and Errol blinked as he saw how deep the front of the wagon really was. Only Howie’s head and shoulders were peeking over the front lip, and he could easily hunker down behind the metal plating if need be. Seemed a bit excessive, all this caution, even firing off a warning shot before so much as hearing them out. The first step towards establishing reasonable grounds for justified self defence, something Howie had gone in depth about back in New Hope, but the details escaped Errol for the moment. “You head back the way you came now,” Howie said, never once taking his eyes off the strangers. “Come any closer, and I’ll shoot you both dead. You’ve been warned.”

The verbal warning was step two, though Errol thought Howie was overdoing it and scaring the daylights out of these two poor hunters. “Woah now boy,” the black stranger said, still turning circles atop his nervous horse maybe fifteen meters away, his fierce gaze now showing a friendly, if nervous smile, one that showed several missing and rotten teeth. “C’mon. No need to get so hostile. Let’s talk about this. Like men. I admit, I came in hot, and that’s on me, but we got families to feed.”

“And they’ll starve if you come any closer.”

Cold as ice, Howie was, his words delivered without even a hint of compassion as he fixed the stranger with his unblinking eyes. Was as if he wasn’t seeing a living, breathing man, but a target to hit. The stranger saw it too, saw the promise of death in the Firstborn’s eyes and quailed before him, but he didn’t turn around and leave. The reason was obvious; because he was desperate. His filthy linen shirt, crudely stitched hide jacket, dingy straw hat and ragged, worn jeans all said as much, and the big toe poking out of the hole in his boot just hammered the point home. This man lived a hard and destitute life, and while the elk represented a most welcome hot meal to Errol, Sarah Jay, and Howie, it might well mean the difference between life and death for this stranger and his friend, as well as their families back home.

“Why don’t we split the elk?” Errol said, and his heart warmed to see the man’s weathered face break out into a bright smile. His Lakota friend didn’t seem any less nervous for it though, his eyes darting back into the forest as if ready to hightail it out of there, and Errol couldn’t really blame him, not with Howie all gung-ho to kill them both.

“My man!” The stranger said, still struggling to get his skittish horse to obey as it took an anxious step forward, then two back in spite of the rider’s commands. “Thank you, brother. God Bless.”

“He don’t speak for us,” Howie said, his tone even frostier as he worked the bolt-action on his 3-Line with a hair-raising clack-click, and Errol shuddered to hear it. Gone was the friendly and easy-going young man, and in his place was a cruel and callous killer, a man itching to turn his guns on the poor souls before him. “Won’t be splitting no elk, though I got plenty bullets to spare. You don’t want none, then best you leave right quick.”

“Howie,” Errol began, but the Firstborn was having none of it, his murderous gaze fixed on the strangers and lip curled in a ferocious snarl.

“Shut the fuck up Errol.” Despite being the first-time hearing Howie be rude, much less outright swear, his anger mixed with steel and demand. “Our kill,” he said once more, speaking to the strangers. “Our quarry. Only mark on that beast is from our gun, which makes it ours and ours alone. Full stop. No split, no room for negotiation. Under the Accords, we have the right to stand our ground and claim our bounty uncontested. Your armed presence here constitutes an actionable threat of aggression, one which gives us the right to legally defend ourselves with lethal force if necessary, a right I will exercise if you do not leave.”

“We don’t need much,” the man began, his desperate gaze boring a hole through Errol’s soul as his horse took another step closer, but his Lakota friend was fixed in place, brow covered in sweat and rifle clutched in both hands like a defensive shield while his horse refused to budge. “Not even half. A haunch, that’s all.”

This was too much. “Hey,” Errol began.

“Ain’t nothing here for you except death,” Howie declared, speaking right over him without taking his eyes off the strangers. “You been warned, so I’m done talking. I’mma count to three. If y’all ain’t gone by the time I’m done, then I will open fire. Three.”

Cringing at the sound of Howie’s voice, the man laid his rifle down on his lap and urged his horse closer a few steps more. “Please, brother,” he pleaded, eyes darting over at the Firstborn before going back to Errol. “Look! I’m putting my gun down. See? Please, talk to this crazy Qink. Don’t let him do this.” Pointing back at his friend while holding his other hand to his chest, his expression took on a bitter and broken look. “That’s Adie, and I’m Caleb. We ain’t asking for much, just something to bring home so our kids can eat.”

“Two.”

“We got two little ones each,” Caleb continued, a man at the end of his rope, terrified of moving closer but unwilling to leave. “And they hungry, starving. Please, help a brother out!”

“One.”

Unable to tear his eyes away from the desperate man’s gaze, Errol said, “Howie –”

His words froze in his throat as he watched Caleb’s chest explode. There was no other word to describe it as a hole opened up in a spray of blood and bone. The force threw him from his horse back onto the road with a wet thump and crack. Adie was hit at almost the exact same time to similar results, Howie’s Rattlesnake spitting death so quick that neither man had time to even scream. A sharp Tsst-Tsst, two short hisses, and two men were dead. No, not just dead, but murdered, killed in cold blood by Howie sitting pretty in his armoured wagon without so much as blinking an eye. This was the true face of the Firstborn, who he really was underneath all the smiles, jokes, and long lectures, a ruthless killer without a conscience.

The horses screamed and galloped off, but Errol couldn’t tear his eyes away from Caleb and Adie. Their bodies just laid there on the cobblestone, all contorted and lifeless, their limbs and spines bent at unnatural angles and their life’s blood pouring out in spurts, but they were dead the moment they were shot. As for Howie, he spoke again, calm and cool as can be, his voice cold and steady as it boomed through the air. “Leave now, and live. Stay, and die. Choice is yours.”

Only then did Errol find the strength to look away from death, and he turned to find its advocate staring out into the woods. There was something happening, something Errol couldn’t parse together as he studied the Firstborn’s gaze, for he found it terrible to behold. Those hard, brown eyes spewed more anger and hatred in stoic silence than anything Richard had said to Errol in these past two months, except Howie’s contempt was unfocused and undirected, a general malevolence which oozed out as he watched and waited.

But for what? Who was he talking to? Errol and Sarah Jay? He keen on killing them too? To keep them quiet?

“Errol!” Howie’s eyes snapped to Errol’s, and he quailed before the Firstborn’s silent promise of death or worse. Why wasn’t his voice booming anymore? “Get into cover!”

A crack rang out, followed by a snap, then Errol’s Blastgun went off in his hands with another deafening whump. The first sound made him look, the second, flinch, then he jumped out of his skin as the Whumper almost flew out of his trembling hands. “Die you bastards!” Someone shouted, then the world spun about as Errol hit the dirt. The amber-hued sky stretched out before his eyes, only to be overshadowed by Cowie’s furious, storm-cloud gaze boring deep into his soul. Only for a moment though, as the world turned dark and a giant weight settled upon his chest, pinning him in place and his gun against the ground while deafening gunshots rang out amidst heated shouts, panicked whinnies, and dying screams.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him as he tried to struggle free amidst the screams and gunfire. There was no escape, no room to wiggle much less breathe, and he thought this would be his end. Then the shooting stopped and the world fell silent without warning, so silent the first thought to pierce through the haze was to question if he’d died, and whether if not Saint Peter would find Errol’s name in the good book. Then he wondered why Heaven would stink of blood and cattle, and he realized he wasn’t dead just yet. Would be soon if Cowie didn’t move, but the stubborn bull refused to budge no matter how much Errol struggled or squirmed. Seconds passed, then minutes as his chest grew tight and head light, unable to breathe beneath Cowie’s ponderous mass.

Freedom came without warning, the darkness and pressure replaced by warm sunlight and Howie’s cold expression as he yanked the Whumper out of Errol’s weak and senseless hands. Took the Squire too, right off of his belt, without ever breaking eye contact. Howie’s dark scowl held the quiet potential for so much more as he tucked the pistol into his belt. A stormy look mirrored in Cowie’s irate grimace, his black ears flicking about as he huffed and growled in threat, but Howie was silent as the grave, not even out of breath as he checked Errol for injuries without so much as a word.

Unable to take it anymore, Errol met Howie’s eyes and stammered, “Y-you killed th-them.” Even to his panicked mind, he sounded scared senseless, and the accusation made Howie go scary still. “Murdered them.” Was he going to murder Errol and Sarah Jay too, for having seen it?

“Damned fool.” Howie’s expression turned even darker as he spat out the curse, followed by, “Get up.” The last was said as he hauled Errol up none too gently by the collar. Howie was furious, and he wanted Errol on his feet for whatever came next. “Come here.”

Unable to resist, Errol stumbled forward a few steps, only to freeze as he spotted Caleb and Adie lying dead only a few meters away. A third man was dead too, his chest caved in and corpse lying out of the forest but not quite on the Highway, while his dead horse sat between Caleb and Errol. No, not the stranger’s dying horse, but Errol’s, as big Bruno had taken a hit somewhere, his blood pooling beneath him as his body shuddered and kicked in weak and feeble struggle to deny death. Had Errol’s misfire hit him? No, couldn’t be, there was a gouge in the road, proof positive that he’d shot straight down.

“Let’s have us a look-see,” Howie said, followed by the sharp, piercing hiss of his Rattlesnake as he casually shot Bruno dead in passing. Didn’t even pause to look the poor beast in the eyes as they walked by, no dignity or grace about it. Inwardly, Errol was screaming in abject terror, but he couldn’t muster the air for so much as a peep as Howie marched him to stand over Caleb and Adie, their bodies laid out on the highway and their chests broken apart by the shots that killed them. The former still had that look of desperation in his eyes, while the latter no longer seemed as nervous, his expression almost peaceful in death, but not quite. These weren’t the first dead bodies Errol had ever seen, but they were by far the freshest, as he’d never seen a man die right in front of him. Their blood had yet to stop pooling, the fluid darker and thicker than he’d expected, and he watched their corpses twitch in a twisted mockery of life, a sight that would stick to him for the rest of his days as he gazed upon what the Firstborn had wrought.

“See here?” Releasing the grip on Errol’s collar to grab him by the back of the neck, Howie pushed his head forward so he was bent over and staring down at the corpses. “You see that?” A second hand took him by the chin and forced his head away from the bodies to something laying on the ground beside them. “Open your eyes and look, Errol!” A dark metal pistol lay there in a pool of Caleb’s blood, a crude thing that wasn’t much more than a pistol grip with a tube attached to it. “That there is a pistol. One your new friend there was fixing to kill you with, while you all but invited him to come right on over and shoot you.”

When did Caleb have time to draw it? He’d just put his rifle down, then pointed back at Adie. Or was he pointing? “I don’t understand.” The words sounded like they’d come from Errol’s mouth, and they had, but it felt like someone else was speaking for him as he looked Caleb in his dead, empty eyes. “He said he was hard-up for food.”

“People lie Errol,” Howie hissed, his words dripping with scorn and rage. “Especially outlaws looking to distract you from his three friends lurking about in the trees. Told you, didn’t I? Said it plain and clear.” Howie’s voice slowly raised in pitch until he was all but shouting. “This here is No Man’s Land, so if you see something suspicious, it’s probably an ambush! That’s what I said, but I guess it went in one ear and out the other, didn’t it? Same as what I said not two minutes ago, before all this shit kicked off. I said to follow my lead, and what did you do? You went your own way, didn’t you? Told you to shut your mouth, but you kept right on talking, thinking you know better. Well you don’t Errol, because you don’t know shit! Five dead and poor Bruno too, all because you wanted to play good Samaritan. Was my finger that pulled the trigger, but you the one that killed these men, because they’d have all walked away if you’d just. Fucking. Listened!”

Letting go of his collar, Howie left Errol kneeling on the highway, searching for answers in a dead man’s eyes and finding nothing except guilt and shame.