The Shackled Man

Morgan Quaid

Description

He wakes to a strange new world, transported at the moment of death by some unseen agency. The gunslinger, touched by the gods and doomed for the part he must play in their games, is caught up in the throes of a failed rebellion. Captured and imprisoned for 40 years, he emerges from his prison cell a new-made man; a creature of shadow and strife, driven by the whispers of dark forces, still wearing the shackles at his wrists—a potent reminder of his incarceration.

Sujets

• Short Stories
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Markosia Enterprises Ltd
• Date de parution: 07 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781915387677
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

SHACKLED MAN
A RUST CHRONICLES NOVEL
MORGAN QUAID

Shackled Man: A Rust Chronicles Novel TM & © 2022 Luke Gartner-Brereton & Markosia Enterprises, Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction of any part of this work by any means without the written permission of the publisher is expressly forbidden. All names, characters and events in this publication are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Published by Markosia Enterprises, PO BOX 3477, Barnet, Hertfordshire, EN5 9HN.
FIRST PRINTING, September 2021.
Harry Markos, Director.
Paperback: ISBN 978-1-915387-66-0
eBook: ISBN 978-1-915387-67-7
Edited by: Tori Ladd
Book design by: Ian Sharman
Cover art by: Moises May
www.markosia.com
First Edition
1. The Red City
The brute bears down upon me, one eye a battered mess still spewing blood while the other narrows with hateful intent. He speaks no words as he lumbers toward me, utters no curses or promises of vengeance. There is nothing between us but hatred and a few feet of uneven ground, slick with blood and the writhing forms of the dead and dying.
I kneel atop the shuddering form of his dead comrade, holding a pistol by the barrel as blood drips from the makeshift club onto the bludgeoned mess below. I bare no particular malice against the dead soldier twitching beneath me, but war makes monsters of us all, and if I have to choose death or murder, the latter will suffice.
I try to stand, but there is no strength left within me. Twelve hours of relentless warfare have drained every ounce of vitality from my flesh. My hands shake, and my vision narrows as I see the approaching soldier through a blood-soaked fog. He stumbles in his approach, slipping atop the writhing form of a dying cannoneer and falling to his knees momentarily. I feel the curious spark of survival flicker to life within. Perhaps, if I can drive myself to my feet, I might flee this crimson hell and live on? The thought is a weak, insubstantial thing. It fades to mist the moment my enemy corrects his approach. Curious, but there is something of relief in my mind as he closes the gap between us, wielding the bayonet he intends to stick me with. Some part of me welcomes the end. No more struggling to suck in air. No more pushing worn muscles past exhaustion. No more hope of flight or freedom, just the release of this brute’s savage blade. I close my eyes and wait for the sharp release but find instead a startling new sensation.
Silence, or something close to it.
With what little will remains to me, I force my eyes open. Gone are the blood-drenched hillsides of the Crooked Vale, the battered brute set to plunge his bayonet into my chest. Lands littered with fresh-made corpses have been replaced by an impossible vista. I find myself kneeling on crimson sands, surrounded by a vast desert expanse and the eerie sonnet of distant winds.
The best I can manage is a ragged laugh as I fall to the earth, my limbs shaking. It seems that I have been spared the moment of death itself and been transported to some other, afterworld. Heaven perhaps, or more likely hell. Yet I see no demons nor angels in this vast wasteland. Just a formless expanse of crimson sand.
It may be for mere moments or long hours, but I lay helpless for a time, caught in an exhausted trance. A grinding pain within my chest forces me from this altered state, and all at once the many complaints of my flesh are made known to me. A broken rib or two, gashes in my right shoulder and forearm, a battered knee, a thousand cuts and bruises, and a nasty cut somewhere on the back of my head all throb and screech at me.
I rock myself to an uncomfortable sitting position and begin to take stock of the damage. In one trembling hand I still hold a revolver, gripped by its barrel, handle dripping with the blood of the man whose life I have so recently stolen. Out of habit, I check the weapon but find its components damaged beyond reasonable repair. I let the makeshift club fall to the sand and fumble about my waists with numb fingers.
It takes far too long to locate my own pistols, but I manage to recover first one and then the other from the holsters at my hips. Still kneeling in the dust, I reload the weapons from the few shells that still line my belt and let my dumbfounded fingers do their familiar work. The first weapon is holstered by a combination of dumb luck and the dead weight of my right arm. The second proves more difficult to holster. Half a dozen unsuccessful attempts to slide the weapon into place leaves my arm burning with a sharp pain and brings forth an unexpected chuckle. I sit for a time, focusing on the dull rasping of my breath, then make the attempt once more. Using my other hand to guide the barrel into place, I succeed and find myself somewhat pleased with the meagre endeavour.
I turn my head left and right to better understand my surroundings, finding that the crimson desert is not so barren as I had first thought. To one side stands a vast city, its walls at least a hundred feet high. Tall towers of midnight hue stretch out from the city’s heart—alien and somewhat out of place among the flat desert landscape. They have the eerie appearance of a gnarled hand, reaching skyward from beneath the earth.
My first attempt to stand ends in failure, my left knee buckling and sending me hard to the ground. Spitting red dust from my mouth, I roll on aching bones and gather my strength for a second attempt. My every muscle and sinew beg for rest, but I am not yet ready for death’s embrace. My sudden transportation to this strange desert landscape and its oddly placed city has stirred sufficient interest to lift me from my former malaise.
I try to stand a second time, bracing against the pain. Whether by some trick of physics or luck, I manage the feat and stand momentarily with arms outstretched in an effort to keep my balance. The world steadies around me, and I gaze out upon the distant city. Its various sounds and smells are carried away by the desert winds, so I must rely on sight alone to guide my path.
With no other clear goal in sight, I begin a shambling walk toward the red city in the distance, trying not to ruminate on just how far away the city might be. I keep my eyes locked upon the ground ahead, forcing each footfall with an effort of will. Questions float like spectres about my head, leering at me like spiteful children. Where is this place? How did I come to be here? Have I indeed passed beyond life? Am I doomed to wonder this interminable desert for eternity?
Here, as with so many other aspects of life, the stolid training of a soldier is my greatest ally. I push the questions out of my mind and drive my legs forward. I have but one purpose, one goal: to reach the red city.
***
An hour or more passes, and my body begins to remember itself. Racked with pain, my legs still do their work, carrying me across the sun-baked desert toward a city which grows more expansive and daunting with each new step. The air is thick with crimson dust. It claws at my throat and insults my eyes with infuriating force. I think not of my desperate need for water, for rest and sustenance. Instead, I force each footstep, counting the remaining shells in my belt with the fingers of my right hand—a familiar mediation designed to stave off pain and delirium.
A path of sorts emerges to my left, compacted clay cleared of rocks and other detritus. The path varies only a little from the desert to either side, yet I find myself revelling in the slight ease it presents—a little less dust, some fewer jutting stones and thus fewer jarring blows to my aching knees.
I continue on in this way for some time, drifting in and out of the moment. Thoughts of war and bloodshed drag me from the present again and again. Only the occasional buckling of a knee or jarring misstep brings me back to the here and now.
In this somewhat delirious state, I come upon a strange sight a short distance away. A figure comes into view along the roadside, perched upon a small boulder to the side of the path. The figure is shrouded in a dull brown cloak, its muted hue turned red by a thick coating of crimson dust. I judge him a man of age by his stooped shoulders and diminutive frame. He does not stir as I draw close, yet I find myself drawn to the man, as though my limbs themselves are compelled to the task.
I cease my walking and stand a few feet away from the figure, feeling my legs throb at the sudden shift in momentum. Swaying on my feet, I call out to the man, my ragged voice barely carrying above the din of the desert winds.
He moves slowly, deliberately. Thin limbs unfurl as he slips from the bolder and stands before me; an old man with weathered features clothed in his simple, threadbare robe. In my delirious state, I am unsure that I see truth and not some fevered lie. Wiping the grit from my eyes, I blink away the dust and gaze once more upon the old man.
His mouth appears to have been sewn shut, pulled tight with coarse thread which has caused the edge of his lips to pucker and redden unwholesomely. His eyes, too, have been sewn shut with a crude brutality. No surgeon or adept apothecary has plied their skill upon the old man’s person. The marred flesh looks self-inflicted.
“Be at ease Idrus Kane of the shackled hand,” the old man says in a voice too clear and rich to have come from his own mouth. “I mean you know harm, gunslinger. I wish only to speak my piece, and then you may be about your business.”
“What business is that, old man?” I ask, the words cutting their way out of my throat. “I find myself plucked from the heart of battle and deposited here in this strange wasteland. Tell me then, am I to wander the underworld for days without number?”
The old man’s face contorts in an odd fa