The rain lashed down, a cold, relentless curtain. Despite the icy grip on her skin, a furnace raged inside Rosa Delgado. Her nerves sang a frantic opera, a counterpoint to the drumming on the cobblestones. Running across the slick stones was a gamble, but caution was a luxury she couldn't afford. When she recognized the inferno devouring the building, a primal urge propelled her forward. The Alguacila Office, her second home, was bathed in an eerie, orange glow, locked in a desperate struggle with the deluge. The air crackled with the scent of rain and burning wood, a suffocating shroud.
Ignoring the lingering echoes of gunfire, she yanked a bandana across her face and plunged through the open doorway. A lone figure stood silhouetted against the inferno, their features obscured by the flames. All Rosa saw were eyes, burning crimson embers that held her transfixed. Reaching for her pistol, the figure raised a skeletal hand, its bony fingers wrapped around a still-beating heart. The breath caught in her throat as a gaping wound mirrored itself on her own chest, a crimson stain blooming on her soaked clothes.
Gasping, Rosa bolted upright, the pistol heavy in her clammy hand. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead, the sensation eerily similar to the dream's icy rain. The world was a canvas of washed-out gray. Was this another nightmare's cruel grasp? A flicker of movement snagged her attention. A dark shape loomed over her, arms outstretched in a menacing embrace.
Instinct warred with reason. Without hesitation, she squeezed the trigger. The gunshot echoed in the damp air, punctuated by startled shouts.
"You were supposed to take all her damn guns!" a voice bellowed.
The fog in her brain began to clear. She scrambled back, scrambling for purchase on the rocky plateau. Two feet wasn't much, but it offered some semblance of cover, at least until now. With a surge of adrenaline, she rolled, hoping to find a ledge, some way to escape the attacker. Instead, she collided with a solid mass, arms wrapping around her like a python's coils. Gritting her teeth, she plunged her knife into the assailant's thigh, the blade twisting with a sickening crunch. A high-pitched shriek tore from the attacker, a grotesque counterpoint to his burly frame. Seizing the opportunity, she scrambled past him, the plateau dropping away beneath her.
Two more shots and the big man before her slumped to the ground.
They are shooting their own?
She ducked behind the hulking shape, using him for cover. Her fingers reached for his holster and the weapon secured there. It felt odd in her hand, its weight strange. The smooth sides of her familiar black powder pistol were replaced with an alien-looking cylinder. She had no time to examine it. It would fire, or it wouldn’t.
Just then, a fusillade of shots erupted, followed by a frustrated yell. "Hold your fire, you idiots!"
"Screw you, Moreno! She shot Bobby!" another voice snarled, gravelly with rage.
"Yeah, because you told him to cut her throat in her sleep! And then you, Cruz, went and blasted Seth!" Moreno retorted.
"She moved too fast, and it was Jose who started shooting!" a third voice chimed in.
"Well, maybe I wasn't wrong about the rock! No rock is worth two dead men!" Moreno roared.
As they argued, Rosa catalogued the chaos. Three men, perhaps two guns, at least four shots fired. That wasn't counting her own arsenal, including her long gun. Their bickering wouldn't last forever, and this precarious perch behind a dead body offered scant protection. They'd either rush her or use her own long gun to create a rather substantial ventilation hole. Her only hope was to assert authority, hoping it might disrupt their murderous intent.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" Rosa boomed. "The name's Alguacila Delgado. I suggest you all think very carefully about your next move. My deputies will have heard that gunfire. I haven't seen your faces, only the names you've been flinging around. So, you have a few choices: stay put and get yourselves shot if you're unlucky, or run before they get here. The choice is simple, wouldn't you say?"
"There's no Alguacila named Delgado in Lugo," one of them, Jose apparently, sneered.
"Did I say I was from Lugo, pendejo?" Rosa shot back, her voice laced with steel. "I am an Alguacila of the Imperium, and that should be enough to know you've well and truly screwed yourselves!"
"Fuck you and the Imperium!" Jose bellowed.
A blur of movement. Now or never. She yanked back the hammer, the pistol a heavy weight in her hand, and whipped it sideways. The world dissolved into a smear of motion as she aimed at the largest figure and fired. The weapon bucked in her grip.
Her assailant froze, a man who, under different circumstances, might have been considered handsome. Instead, his face contorted in a mask of shock and fury as a crimson bloom spread from the center of his forehead. He attempted to raise his arm and aim his weapon, but could not. The barrel pointed uselessly at the dirt. In a scene both surreal and terrifying, he squeezed the trigger repeatedly, the pistol spitting flame and lead until it finally sputtered silent. Two more shots echoed in the stillness before he crumpled forward, landing face-first in the dust.
Another two shots echoed, punctuated by a voice that sent a jolt through her. "Prometo ayudar donde me necesiten," it called out. The words were an oath, a badge of honor she hadn't heard spoken in years, the Alguacila's pledge: "I vow to help wherever needed."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't bandit scum, not entirely. She lowered her own pistol, the world settling back into a semblance of normalcy. "Porque soy Verdad y Justicia," she called back, reciting the responding half of the oath: "For I am Truth and Justice."
A figure emerged from the smoke and rain, hands raised in surrender. He wore the dusty leathers of a traveler, his face etched with a mixture of relief and weariness. "I'm sorry, Alguacila Delgado," he said, his voice gruff. "My name's Diego Verdera, Deputy to Marcus Sanchez, the Alguacila of Lugo. I've been undercover these past few months, tracking down an arms supplier."
Pushing herself to her feet, Rosa holstered her pistol and surveyed the scene. The dead bandits lay sprawled like discarded puppets. "These men don't look like high-class dealers," she remarked, the strange gun heavy in her hand as she approached Verdera.
He grimaced. "They were buyers, Alguacila. And that gun you hold is a nasty wrinkle in this whole mess. They call them revolvers, because that chamber spins and it holds five bullets, each shot clicking it into place for the next."
Rosa examined the weapon, its alien design a stark contrast to her own familiar sidearm. An insignia marked the handle: The Mechanist Guild. Of course, she thought, a new way to spill blood. "So who are the sellers?" she pressed.
A flicker of hesitation crossed Verdera's face. She reached up, pulling down the collar of her shirt to reveal the Alguacila's tattoo etched on her skin. "Who are the sellers?" she repeated, her voice steely.
He met her gaze, then spoke. "The Lovers Cartel. We believe they've got someone skimming crates meant for the capital."
The Lovers Cartel. A southern blight, their tendrils usually kept far from these northern lands. They dabbled in gun running occasionally, but their usual fare was murder, kidnapping, protection rackets, the dregs of the criminal underbelly. There was another faction with a tighter grip on the gun trade...
"Sombra usually has their ear to the ground on that front," she said. "Why the Lovers?"
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
"Our usual supplier is tied to them. Either they're trying to muscle in on Sombra's territory, or something bigger is brewing. Either way," he sighed, casting a glance at her, "I've got a lot more work cut out for me." He paused, then added, "If you don't mind me asking, Alguacila, what brings you out here?"
She slumped against the rocky ledge, weariness clinging to her like a damp shroud. "Family business," she muttered, a wan smile playing on her lips. "My brother's wife just had their first in Canales. Auntie Rosa couldn't miss the celebration, you know?" A hollow lie, even to her own ears. Verdera wouldn't need to see any fabricated leave requests.
He shook his head, his gaze lingering on her grime-streaked face. "No offense intended, Alguacila, but you look like you wrestled a particularly grumpy badger and lost."
She chuckled, the sound dry and humorless. "Something like that. This whole trip's been a cascade of misfortune. Took the ferry across the Wolfram, had an accident. Lost my coin purse, the baby gifts, most of my decent clothes. Four days of misery, and then this…" Rosa gestured at the dead bandit sprawled near the fire pit.
Understanding dawned on Verdera's face. "Bobby," he explained, guilt tinging his voice. "He saw the steam rising in the morning mist. A body near hot stones – classic Heinar crystal giveaway. And a single shard can fetch a hefty price on the black market."
Rosa cursed under her breath. Tucked away in her meager belongings was a shard, no bigger than a peppermint. But placed with kindling, it could generate a night's worth of warmth, a comforting, invisible glow. Perfect for a lone traveler wary of attracting attention.
"Fuck," she muttered, kicking a loose stone.
"Alguacila," Verdera interjected, his voice firm. "I never meant you harm. Snatch and grab was the plan, rough you up maybe, but never a killing. Jose, the loud one," he grimaced, "convinced him a lone traveler with a crystal wouldn't be missed."
Rosa barely heard him. Her gaze swept across the desolate landscape, searching for a sign of Hil's dawn breaking through the oppressive gray. The chill seeping into her bones mirrored the bleakness of the scene.
Her eyes fell on the strange pistol in her hand. "So, what's the plan, Deputy?" she asked, her voice rough. "Your little bandit charade must be over now, wouldn't you say?"
Verdera smirked, a flicker of his undercover persona returning. "Not entirely. We were meant to be heading into Lugo for supplies anyway. Though," he added, a hint of appeal in his voice, "I could use a favor from an Alguacila. You wouldn't happen to have binders on you?"
Recognition dawned on Rosa. Even after months in disguise, Verdera still needed to maintain his outlaw facade. She smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Go round up the horses, Deputy. Lugo's only five miles from here, shouldn't take more than an hour."
As she sorted through her remaining belongings, Rosa paused. Curiosity gnawed at her.
"Speaking of bounties, Verdera, were any of these fine gentlemen wanted men?"
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She sank into the scalding water, a hiss escaping her lips as the heat chased away the chill that had clung to her bones for days. The suds, a heady mix of lavender and chamomile, enveloped her, a cocoon of fragrant luxury. It felt like an eternity since she'd last experienced the simple pleasure of a proper bath, her usual ablutions a hurried affair in icy rivers or lukewarm well water.
As the tension leached from her muscles, a stolen moment of peace descended. For months, it had felt like the world was conspiring against her, a relentless dance with misfortune. But maybe, just maybe, Carlos would understand this one indulgence. He knew the toll her job took, the invisible scars etched onto her soul alongside the physical ones.
Lost in the warmth, her mind drifted to the afternoon's interview with the Alguacilo of Lugo. Marcus Sanchez, with his kind eyes and stooped posture, reminded her of a well-worn grandfather clock, ticking faithfully. He'd listened to her tale with the same attentiveness, a stark contrast to the usual bureaucratic shuffle she encountered.
Typically, bringing in a handful of dead bandits wouldn't garner her much praise. It was her job, after all. But "leave" had a funny way of blurring the lines. Stir that in with her trumped-up sob story and the Alguacilo's unexpected windfall of information from Deputy Verdera, and she'd practically become a folk hero in Sanchez's eyes.
She wasn't one to exploit kindness, but neither was she a fool. She'd done the work, risked her neck, and deserved some recompense. Verdera might have taken out one, and a bandit's trigger-happy finger had dispatched another, but at least two bore the distinct mark of Rosa Delgado. Jobs were jobs, and her coin purse had been threadbare.
The luxurious room with its private bath had been an extravagant splurge, but three of the deceased boasted bounties large enough to justify it. It meant a night in comfort, clean clothes, and the small pleasure of letting someone else deal with the grime-caked remnants of her journey. Frankly, the idea of washing her own undergarments was enough to make her consider setting them alight. A hefty tip for the laundry maid was a silent promise she made to herself.
Another soak later, Rosa reluctantly hauled herself out of the tub, her skin prune-like from the extended bath. She toweled off briskly, the steam swirling around her like a phantom. The room boasted a small dresser and a vanity, which she approached with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. The mirror reflected back a woman she barely recognized. Her eyes, usually a vibrant hazel, were clouded by fatigue, the dark circles beneath them a testament to sleepless nights and relentless worry.
The scrubbed tan of her skin was marred by a faint pinkness, evidence of her vigorous scrubbing. But even beneath the renewed surface, the harsh mark of Hil's touch remained, a cruel reminder of her time in the sun-scorched wasteland. Desperately, she craved a different kind of rest, a deep, restorative sleep that eluded her like a wisp of smoke.
Yet, despite the exhaustion gnawing at her, a flicker of something else flickered in her eyes - hope. She was close, closer than she had been in a long time.
Peering out the window, she watched the bustling life of Lugo unfold below. Guild carriages echoed through the cobblestone streets, some heading out on unknown errands, others returning from far-flung destinations. The city thrummed with an energy that never seemed to sleep.
For a fleeting moment, Rosa considered securing passage on one of those carriages, a swift escape to some unknown horizon. But her meager winnings, a testament to the deceased bandits' bounty, wouldn't stretch far enough. Besides, leaving now would mean abandoning the whispers she'd gleaned in the previous towns. Wolfram and San Felipe, though dusty memories now, had yielded vital clues.
Turning away from the window, she pulled out a worn leather-bound notebook, the scent of ink and forgotten journeys clinging to its pages. The two men she'd put down in Puente were known to associate with Sombra operatives. More information was needed, but the name Martin Rojas, a banker of sorts in Alhambra before her quarry removed him permanently, stirred an unsettling thought. Was Rojas a hidden hand in Sombra's financial dealings?
Then there was the Wolfram massacre, a tangled web of Sombra connections. Among the dead, a key figure, a woman with a heart torn from her chest, a macabre trophy. The one thread tying them all together? Their affiliation with Sombra, in some capacity. Targeting them seemed random, spread across a vast swathe of land. Clearly, this wasn't a simple message. It was a puzzle begging to be solved.
Carlos and a few others also seemed caught in the bloody tide of Wolfram. But their connections were too tenuous to form a complete picture. The only explanation she could grasp was that they were unfortunate souls caught in the path of Tenebroso's wrath.
Another name surfaced from the dusty pages of her memory - Garcia, a young man with dark hair and haunted eyes, his arrival in San Felipe an apparent accident of sleep-riding. The local innkeeper described him as a simple traveler, his clothes a stark contrast to the black garb of a charro. His alias was as transparent as window glass - a common name meant to deflect suspicion. Regardless, Garcia claimed Canales as his destination, a large city rumored to be a haven for Sombra activities.
It was a flimsy lead at best. The skinny traveler could be a ghost chasing shadows, yet a flicker of hope ignited in her chest. Perhaps he followed the same dark trail as her. She could inquire around before leaving in the morning, but time was a precious commodity. The journey to Canales would take a week, pushing her to the limits of her endurance. Even arriving promptly, it would only grant her a week to anticipate Tenebroso's next move.
Today was her only chance for respite. The grim reality settled on her shoulders as she met her reflection in the mirror. With a heavy sigh, she turned away, the vast bed an inviting oasis of comfort. The future remained shrouded in shadows, but for now, she would savor this fleeting moment of peace.
Standing, she grabbed her one indulgence, a simple nightgown, a stark contrast to the harsh leather of her usual attire. As she slipped it on, her gaze fell on the long gun leaning against the bedside table, a grim reminder of the world she inhabited. Two revolvers nestled beneath her pillow, a cold whisper of the deadly dance she waltzed with fate.
Verdera had offered a cursory protest when she claimed the revolvers as evidence but eventually relented. If the outlaws of the South were arming themselves with these newfangled weapons, then the law needed to do the same.
Leaning over, she snuffed out the candle on the nightstand, the darkness a welcome embrace. Sleep, a fragile shield against the coming storm, claimed her, and for a stolen moment, the relentless pursuit was forgotten.