“Gwil, eh? Short for Gwilliam? Reckon it’d be less stupid if your mama just called you William, but who am I to say?” The sheriff tipped his cap. “Theodore Jackson.” He pointed to his big silver belt buckle. “Humble sheriff of Chateau Podexia.”

“Not for long,” Gwil said.

Jackson laughed. “You’re something. You don’t even know your Invoke, do ya?”

Gwil smiled. Everyone always going on about that damn thing. “What makes you say that?”

“Heh. Well, for one, you ain’t used it yet, and I coulda killed you if I wanted to, so.”

“I won’t die so easily.”

Jackson shrugged. “Nirva speaks. Yours is infantile.”

“Maybe I’m pretending,” Gwil said.

“You don’t strike me as the cunning type.” The sheriff sat down cross-legged on the dusty ground and gestured for Gwil to do the same.

He remained standing.

“Kaia, Kaia, Kaia,” Jackson said. “Money, money, money. Makes the World go round. I like you, kid. Comin’ out here to fight me, you cut right to the chase. No bullshit.

“Grew up poorer than dirt, I bet? Fightin’ for scraps. Hungry for riches. And you aimed for the top right off the bat. That’s proper ambition. You’re someone I’d take under my wing.”

Gwil laughed. “Are you serious?”

“I ain’t get to where I am by letting petty little things like broken noses get in the way of a mutually beneficial arrangement. You want money and power? Work for me.”

Gwil said nothing.

“Hey, it’s a generous offer. Better than you deserve, considering the alternative is death. Maybe I’ve gotten soft. But your goose is cooked. That little uprising you orchestrated is torched and toothless. Over before it began. They ain’t comin’ to help. My Kaia is nice and safe.”

Gwil tilted his head. “You sure?”

“I don’t play maybes when the stakes are in the billions.” Jackson grinned. “We’ve dealt with this shit once before, ‘bout a decade back. It’s a delicate situation. But I’ve got a trump card. See, they can’t do any real damage without blowing themselves to bits. So all I gotta do is wait. If I send my troops in there, everyone’d get all desperate. They might resort to something drastic, like blowin’ up all the Kaia. We can’t have that.

“So, I’ll give it a few days. Let it simmer. It's a siege. Let ‘em get hungry and tired. Wear their edge down. And then, there won’t hardly be a fight. Might even get to keep most of my slaves. I’ll execute a few for good measure, but.”

“You talk a lot,” Gwil said. “And you’re wrong. I don’t care about money or Kaia. I wanna get those people outta the mines and kill you.”

Jackson’s men laughed. But the sheriff grumbled as he got to his feet. “Is that it? You one of those Vermin blowhards or something?” He shook his head and lowered the brim of his hat.

“You’re right. I was wastin’ my time talking. You idealist types don’t change your minds. I guess it’s to the death, then.”

The sun hung high overhead, beating down on the land. Swirls of dust twisted through the air. The Nirva voices were as one with the wind.

“You’re an asshole,” Gwil said. Nirva stole through his legs, and he flung himself at the sheriff. A net shimmered into existence.

Gwil had aimed low. He dove under the net, sliding on his shoulder. Within reach of the sheriff, he flipped himself around and slammed the bottom of his boot into Jackson’s shin.

It felt like he’d kicked an iron bar. The sheriff didn’t even flinch. But Gwil felt the bones in his foot crunch apart, and the impact shocked through his leg, jostling the socket in his hip.

Of its own volition, Nirva flooded Gwil’s leg.

Jackson stood over him with his hand out. Ropes fell from his palm to snake around Gwil’s wrists and torso. He rose off the ground.

Jackson spat. “It’s just fuckin’ sad, honestly. Desperation only goes so far, kid. Did you really think you had something on me? Cause you broke a few of my ropes? I was a hundred meters away, and I had other shit on my mind. Now, it’s just you and me, and you got nothin’.”

The ropes disappeared. Gwil fell to the ground, caught himself in a crouch. He stood and shook out his leg.

“I’ll let you die on your feet,” Jackson said.

“You’re so cool, boss!” called Toothpick from the side.

Gwil thought to try something other than running straight at his enemy. Bare foot scraping against the stone, he dug in to hold his ground and wait for Jackson to make a move.

What a stupid idea. When was standing around ever worth a damn? Ropes spawned from the ground like nightmarish weeds, groping for his ankles.

Gwil kicked through them, dashing to the side as the sprouting field gave chase. He pivoted, trying to double back, but one caught his wrist and dragged him to the ground.

He tumbled as the ropes began flinging him around, tossing him about like a dog playing with a dead bird.

This was bad. They weren’t even fighting; he was just being toyed with. He needed to get to the wall. If he could at least get the others out.

But he didn’t get a chance to escape from the wringer. The ropes caught him and lashed him to the ground. A carpet of ropes grew over his body, covering him in a cocoon and pinning him down with such force that it was hard to breathe, let alone move.

The sheriff moseyed on over and sat down on top of Gwil’s chest.

“William, William, William,” he said, shaking his head. “I bet a buncha money don’t sound so bad now, does it? Too bad—offer’s off the table.” He squirted some spit out through his teeth. “I thought you were a little bit special, but you just keep doin’ the same sorry shit over and over. Runnin’ at me like a mindless idiot. Folk like you were born to be slaves.”

Pop. Pop.

Gwil didn’t know how, but he was free. Sitting on top of the ropes.

Jackson grunted as his ass fell the short distance to the ground.

A tiny moment of confusion. Gwil captured it. He threw his hands around Jackson’s throat and started squeezing.

There was some resistance at first. The man’s neck felt as sturdy as a log. But Gwil pumped all his Nirva into his hands and broke through the defense. His fingers crushed soft flesh.

The sheriff punched Gwil in the stomach. His fist landed like a brick and stole Gwil’s wind.

He went down on one knee but held fast to Jackson’s throat. As ropes coiled around Gwil’s arms, he threw all his weight into the sheriff, knocking them over.

Gwil stayed on top, one knee pressing down on Jackson’s chest, the other pinning his right arm.

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The man’s face turned purple, splotchy and cracked with broken blood vessels. He gurgled on his drool, sputtering, spraying Gwil with spittle. Tears pooled around bulging, manic eyes.

Something hard smashed into the side of Gwil’s head. The sound of his skull cracking was terribly loud. And then again. The same sound, but with a squelch added.

He started shaking, lost control of his arms. Hands went limp. “No,” he rasped.

Through collapsing vision, Gwil saw the sheriff scurry away, clutching at his throat. He heard him hacking and puking.

Gwil… uh… he couldn’t move so good. The World rocked back and forth. Caris had a rocking chair. His face was all wet. And it was so hot. Damned sunshine. And oh boy, did his head hurt. Pretty sleepy, too…

“Take me back, boss. Please.”

Gwil blinked at the sound of the sniveling voice. Had he been napping at a time like this? He lay in the same position, so it didn’t seem like much time had passed. But everything was blurry, and the sun was too bright.

“Take you back?” The sheriff’s voice. He started laughing, gruff and menacing. It went on for a long time, and none of the others laughed with him.

All Gwil’s Nirva clustered in the side of his head, burning like a hot iron. His body was all twisted up. He tried moving and flopped himself flat onto his stomach. He brought a hand to his wound. Warm and wet and squishy and rough—bits of gravel were embedded in his flesh. But he didn’t feel any bones.

“Sure, I’ll take ya back,” Jackson said, no longer laughing. “I’d love to take ya back. Why wouldn’t I take ya back? Well, lemme ask ya something.”

“Anything boss,” the first voice whimpered. Gwil recognized it as one of those guards from Buzzard’s lab.

“Did you think I didn’t see it when that kid untied you from my ropes?”

“I didn’t ask him to do that!”

“I know you didn’t.” A sound like a cracking whip, and then a cry of pain. “So lemme get this straight. That kid helped you, his enemy, for no good reason. And you saw fit to smash him in the head with a rock while the two of us were having an honorable duel? Well, I’ll be damned! Who wouldn’t want a guy like you by their side?”

“I did it cause I’m loyal to you, boss,” the guard pleaded.

“Die like a fuckin’ dog,” Jackson said.

Gwil bolted upright at the awful gagging sounds. His head was still swimming, but gently treading water rather than drowning and flailing.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Jackson said. “I’m makin’ it nice and slow, so he has time to think about what he did.”

Gwil watched the guard choke to death. The man’s hands pawed uselessly at the ropes coiled around his neck. His legs spasmed.

Gwil hadn’t noticed what an awful way to die that would be while he choked Jackson.

The sheriff’s officers stood in a row, arms crossed, stoic as statues, all identical with their sunglasses and their tank tops and their buzzcuts.

When the dying man went still, Gwil made himself stand. As he got up, he spotted the other two guards that had followed him this way. Small in the distance, they were halfway to the town, running like hell.

The sheriff either didn’t notice or didn’t care. His eyes drilled into Gwil.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Tough to find men of integrity these days.” The sheriff scooped a fresh wad of chew from his pouch and packed it into his lip. “I bet you’re damned curious if you would’ve had me. I know I am. We’ll never know, thanks to this piece of shit.” He kicked the man’s corpse. “That must’ve hurt, havin’ your one chance slip through your fingers. But sometimes that’s just the way she goes.”

Gwil wiped off his face and ran his hand through his hair, breaking apart caked up blood. “I’ll just do it again.”

The sheriff grinned. “Ready?”

Gwil sent a few pulses of Nirva into his head and then gave it a shake. Pretty stable. “Yeah.”

“A bleedin’ brain ain’t no excuse,” the sheriff said. “You heal up pretty quick, though. You’re lucky—not everyone’s got it like that.”

Gwil lowered his head and charged. He heard the man scoff as he conjured a bundle of ropes.

This time Gwil did not try to dodge. Instead, he caught what ropes he could, Nirva surging through his fingers to quell their lashing. He kept sprinting and crashed straight into Jackson, whereupon he slammed his knee into the man’s groin.

Untangling himself from the writhing bundle, Gwil ran. One bare foot slapping against the rock, he made straight for the wall. It was too sheer to climb, but maybe there was a way through the gate.

Chancing a glance over his shoulder, Gwil nearly stumbled upon seeing that Jackson was not pursuing. He was just pointing at Gwil and ranting at his officers.

The Podexians atop the wall had spotted him. One of the mounted ballistae swiveled around. With a sharp twang, the projectile fired.

Gwil saw how its speed made the air ripple, but to his eye, it moved as slowly as a butterfly. He veered to the side as the javelin impaled the ground a few paces away.

Gwil made it to the foot of the wall and then turned to run alongside it. The gate was not too far.

And he was zooming. Feet skimming over the ground, it felt like he could’ve run on water. His Nirva felt bound to his heavy breaths, pumping perfectly with the motions of his sprint, bouncing from leg to leg, arm to arm.

The roaring scream of Jackson’s chopper crashed through Gwil’s trance. Looking to the side, Gwil saw the sheriff racing toward him, trailed by billowing black smog.

Gwil grinned. He couldn’t beat that bike to the gate. But maybe he could smash it up.

He faced forward and kept sprinting, feigning that he intended to run for it.

The wailing engine grew louder. Gwil could feel the chugging reverberations in his bones. The sheriff was coming at him from behind, at an off angle. One more second.

Gwil broke off from the wall, pivoting around as he slid to a halt. And then he flooded his legs with Nirva and launched himself.

The engine went silent, and then came a squeal. Jackson swung the back wheel out. At the same time, he conjured a web of ropes. Some wrapped around his body, lifting him off the seat, carrying him away.

The rest wrapped around the bike, using its momentum to whip it through the air.

Gwil smashed into the metal monstrosity. The arm that he’d raised against the crash snapped like a twig. A spike-ended handlebar speared him through the stomach, and a foot pedal ripped out a chunk of his thigh.

Blood gurgled from his mouth as he lay on the ground, mangled, pinned beneath the hulking bike.

“Fuckin’ disgraceful,” Jackson said, appearing above Gwil. “Getting between a man and his chopper. You’re the lowest of the low. And a fucking coward to boot. Running from a duel. After I showed you such respect.” He spat on Gwil’s face.

The sheriff picked his bike up—peeling away some parts of Gwil with it—and then walked it a few paces away.

Gwil lifted his head to look at the spaghetti-mess of his stomach. Looked like some organs were mixed in with the shredded tissue and tattered strips of cloth. Not good.

His breaths came quick and shallow, sparse. Gwil hoped his Nirva was working on his wounds, but he couldn’t feel much of anything. His intestine squirmed like a big worm. But he didn’t know if that meant it was healing, or if it always did that. He’d never seen it before.

“Your fuckin’ blood and guts are all over it!” Jackson barked. The sheriff began muttering in a sort of cooing voice as he attended to his chopper, wiping it down with a handkerchief.

Gwil’s eyes closed as he watched. And then flickered open at a weight on his chest. The sheriff’s boot. He felt his ribs crumple. He gagged on a spurt of blood that oozed up his throat.

He could feel his Nirva now. Sputtering. Petrified. Not good.

Jackson was still talking, but Gwil couldn’t make out any words. His ears felt full of fluid. He tried to get out from under the sheriff’s boot, but his head just flopped over to face the other way. His eyes saw nothing except the wall.

He clawed at the ground. The gate. If he could just get to the gate.

Jackson bent over to get in Gwil’s face. “Look at me when I’m fuckin’ talking to you.”

Gwil spat blood into the man’s face, earning himself a stomp on his minced abdomen.

“You’re dead. Was it worth it?”

“Not… yet…”

“Get over here, fellas,” Jackson called. “This should be a hoot.”

Gwil closed his eyes and tried to force his Nirva into his stomach. His innards were writhing a lot. He took it as a good sign. Everything was all sticky and hot and gross.

“You act like an animal,” Jackson said, “you get put the fuck down like an animal.”

“Everyone… goes free,” Gwil rasped. His voice was high and wheezy, like a sick kitten.

“The fuck did you say?”

“Not one death.”

Jackson turned away to look over his shoulder. “How should I do it, boys? I’m open to suggestions.”

“Tie him to your bike and drag him around!”

“Hogtie him and hang him in the throne room like a chandelier while he bleeds out.”

The gate. I can crawl away. But his eyes wouldn’t open. The darkness flared with the sun’s brightness. Maybe the bike. He’ll freak out if I knock it over.

“Good ideas, all good ideas,” Jackson said, fingering his blood-soaked mustache. “He did scuff up my chopper. That’s unforgiveable. But I can’t help respecting the kid a bit. He’s just so…” Gwil heard snapping fingers.

“Audacious,” a voice said.

“Aye. That’s it, Toothpick. Good vocabulary. I’m impressed. I didn’t even know you could read.” Jackson twisted his heel into Gwil’s stomach. The sound was nasty, but it didn’t hurt. “You’re audacious, kid. You did piss me off, but I know you were just trying to survive and thrive in our messed up World. I won’t torture you. I’ll just kill you.”

Gwil’s eyes opened. “No.”

Jackson laughed. “Die beneath my boot.” He raised his foot. The spur jangled.

Pop.

Gwil threw himself into a roll.

The boot crunched down on nothing but gravel.

“Where the fuck did you go?” Jackson said. “Ain’t no way he held onto a trick for this long. Ain’t no way.” He raised his voice. “Fan out, boys. Keep your wits about you. I dunno…”

He’d gotten away! Gwil covered his mouth to keep from laughing—the convulsions hurt his stomach. He couldn’t believe it. He was sure he was dead, but he’d scurried away and made it behind an enormous boulder. Jackson must have been a blind idiot or something.

The ground quaked, jostling Gwil’s mangled body. Less amused now, he took his hands away from his face and pressed them over his wounds to keep anything important from spilling out.

A huge dust storm had stirred up. Good. That must have been keeping him hidden from the sheriff and his prowling men.

Gwil could see them looming above, as big as giants. Or maybe he was looking at them through a telescope? Ah! He must have borrowed Buzzard’s goggles. Gwil giggled.

His eyes closed from the pain of laughing and they were way too heavy to open again.