Firstborn of the Frontier

Four-hundred and eighty hours of hard labour.

A long sentence it is, and one made more complicated by the fact that I ain’t been arrested. If I had, then Sherrif Patel could’ve simply shipped me off to a penal camp to work all my hours off. That’s what I figured would happen, that I’d be thrown into a quarry, added to a road crew, or one of a dozen other penal labour programs we got going on in the area. There’s always work to be done, and more now than ever with three new settlements going up south of Redeemer’s Keep. Whether it be digging canals, logging trees, clearing land, baking bricks, or general construction, there are never enough labourers to go around, so why leave prisoners sitting in jail cells with three squares a day when we can make use of them instead, while teaching them a valuable job skill and work ethic at the same time?

That’s how I see it at least, though most old worlders seem divided on the issue. Call it barbaric, exploitive, or even modern slavery, but I don’t know about any of that. All I know is that penal camps have been around my entire life, and my daddy sent more than his fair share of prisoners to them. Also know that most are miserable as all hell, because even though the prisoners are sentenced by the Federal Government, the camps themselves are almost always company run. Not always by the same company, but company men are all cut from the same cloth. Means any corner that can be cut most likely will be, with prisoner comfort sitting high on top of the list. Safety and security is a must, since any company using prison labour will be fined a hefty sum if any prisoners are injured or killed on the job, but comfort? Who cares if prisoners sleep easy at night? Not the company, and not the general American public either, because in the eyes of your average Federal citizen, prison labour is a punishment that’s supposed to be miserable as all heck, and ain’t no way to change their minds.

Yea, Americans as a whole tend to get real excited about punishing prisoners. Never thought much about it before, but now that I’m on the other end of it, I’m finding it all real extra. Luckily, penal camps are for prisoners only, and neither the Marshal nor the Judge were willing to throw me to the proverbial wulves. Personally, I think I could’ve done it, so long as I was allowed to leave on weekends and given my own room to sleep in. Sure, I would’ve been working shoulder to shoulder with hardened criminals without my guns or my gear, but so long as they’re all clapped in anti-magic manacles and I’m not, then I got nothing to be afraid of with Bolt and Blast in my wheelhouse.

Would have to half-kill a man my first day most like, and probably a few more until all them prisoners get to see my work first hand, but eventually, they’d’ve learned not to mess with this bull. Hell, if I was allowed to bring Cowie along, I might not even have to hurt anyone. Two tonnes of Transmuting bovine flesh makes for a mighty fine deterrent, and Cowie knows good and well how to lay the smackdown on a fool without killing them outright.

As for me? I know how to show mercy. I just learned I’m better off not doing it. Folks respect Cowie when he shows them how it is, that he could’ve killed them, but didn’t. When I do the same, folks tend to get angry instead, and I can’t rightly say why. Maybe it’s my smile, or the glint in my eye. Could be my age, and how it rankles the pride for a grown man to get put in his place by a kid half his size. Might be any one of a thousand things, but what I can’t say for certain. Whatever it is, I’ve found that showing mercy tends to come back and bite me in the ass, like it did in Pleasant Dunes. I told Danny, I did things the right way, the way Uncle Teddy would’ve wanted it handled, but the problem is, morals and ethics don’t matter when you working with scum like Wayne and Ronald Jackson. Uncle Teddy don’t see it that way, but I don’t got his skills, stature, or backing, so he don’t understand what it’s like for me out there.

No matter how you slice it, I keep going over everything that happened and wishing I’d’ve shot Wayne in his stupid smug face while he was reading me the transcript of my recorded conversation with Noora. Would’ve put us all in a bad place for the ensuing firefight, but Ron and his people were all in the bunker below, so we would’ve had plenty of time to get out of dodge, with me in one piece no less. Brings up an unpleasant hypothetical though, one that’s been on my mind these last few weeks. If I could go back and do it all over again, would I exchange the lives of a few Rangers and boots for my right hand back? A big part of me hates to even consider it, thinks it a monstrous trade I could never make, but then there are those quiet moments when I’m reminded of what I’ve lost and I think about what I wouldn’t do to have it all back again.

Not just my hand, but my life and reputation too. Sure, killing Wayne in cold blood would’ve been bad, but then the world would’ve known him for the traitor he was once Vanguard National opened up on the Ranger camp. Course, the worst-case scenario would’ve been if I’d’ve killed Wayne, then Vanguard National did nothing. Wouldn’t put it past Ron to order his hitters to stand down if I wasn’t conducive to a talk, then quietly leak the recording and have me crucified in the court of public opinion before sentencing in an actual Federal court. While the American Justice System don’t look favourably on crucifixions, I could’ve counted myself lucky to end up in a penal camp rather than swinging from the gallows next to the courthouse.

So yea. Maybe this was the best I could’ve hoped for once things progressed that far, but ain’t no way to ever know. No use crying over spilt milk though, so I suppose I ought to be thankful I’m alive and breathing, albeit short a hand and in possession of a tattered reputation. Still a free man though, which is good, because while I’m pretty sure I could cut it in prison, that don’t mean I’m eager to book a ten-week stay at the Iron Bar Inn. What it does mean is that I can’t just work off all my hours right quick. Instead, I gotta sit around and wait for an opportunity to come up, or more specifically, for a prospective employer to put in a work request with the Sherrif’s office for extra hands. Usually it’s for smaller projects in dire need of ‘unskilled’ labour, meaning the work is measured in days, rather than weeks. Pulling stumps for a homestead, tilling soil for a private farm, raising a barn or church for a rural community, that sort of thing.

So even though I got the drive and desire to work off my hours ASAP, I can’t throw myself into work whenever I please. Ain’t just a matter of waiting for the employers either, because it’s early spring and there’s plenty of work to be done. There’s a whole slew of red tape to go through first though, bureaucratic nonsense so the Feds can say they done their due diligence when something goes wrong and fob the blame off onto someone else. Got a whole host of rules and regulations to comply with when it comes to working with, and it’s only after them employers get their stamp of approval that the Sherrif’s office puts up the work order, and from there it’s a first come, first serve basis. Luckily for me, Sherrif Patel has been coming by at least twice a week to make sure I don’t got no restricted Spells prepared. Has been dropping in at all hours of the day and even once in the dead of night, no doubt to keep me on my toes, but I’ve been on my best behaviour since coming back to town, and even handed over every single copy of every single restricted Spell I own here in New Hope.

Ain’t much of a problem really. I can write out the Fireball Spell Formula by memory after solving it so many times, and I do so for practice at least once every few days to make sure I don’t forget. If I ever do, I got copies of my mama’s notes and my daddy’s Spellbook stored at their place in the badlands, which I can get to even without any Big Spells. Would much rather have them should I find myself in a pinch, but I made the trip twice solo before I could sling Fireballs, and I can do so again if I have to.

Either way, I’m looking forward to getting all my hours done, which is why I asked the Sherrif about work every chance I got. At first, all he had to offer were minor day jobs, some of which took longer to get to than the hours they was offering, so when a chance to clear a full fifty-hours off my card came up, I jumped at it without thinking twice. A week-long job only five hours ride out from New Hope, with travel and accommodations included, I’d be a fool for not taking the job. The extra cherry on top of the shake? This employer already got paperwork in the pipeline for other jobs coming up. Means that if I make a good impression, I could let them know I got more hours to make up and ask to get hired on for whatever else they need doing.

Complicated is what that is. I just want to finish my hours as soon as possible, but who would’ve thought finding work ain’t easy?

That’s why I show up bright and early to the job, a good half-hour before we’re supposed to head out, with my bags packed and Cowie at my side, because he’d never let me leave town on my lonesome. Don’t rightly know how he figured out I’d be gone for more than a few days, because I certainly didn’t tell him, but he was sitting pretty outside my door this morning, all ready and raring to go. Seeing how this ain’t a proper penal camp, I figure there shouldn’t be a problem bringing him along, and if there is, then I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. Not like I expect them to house and feed him either, as Cowie sleeps wherever I do and can eat almost anything round these parts. Got a nose on him he does, one he uses to find all the choicest veg wherever he may be. It’s so effective I suspect he might even have a Divination Spell or three to help him along, but being an Innate and an animal both means he got a way with magic that we don’t wholly comprehend.

Take the Spell he uses to shrink down for example. Minify, a Second Order Transmutation Spell that does exactly what it says on the tin, except Cowie does even more. If I were to use it, I’d look exactly the same as I do now, only around half my size and 1/8th my weight, but Cowie don’t shrink down like that. He goes from bull to calf in more than size, but appearance too, with his proportions shifting to match a baby bull rather than staying the same as he should. His muscles don’t just shrink down, they completely transform, going from a stocky, thick necked bull with a back broad enough to seat two side-by-side, to a sleeker, leaner, more delicate build as he turns into a calf. His facial features are rounder and softer, his head shape less clearly defined, and his white coat turns fine and soft as opposed to the thicker, coarser growth he sports in his adult form. Can even change his voice when he wants to, from a deep, resonant bellow to a soft, high-pitched cry, all of which ain’t possible if he’s using the Minify Spell as stock.

Not to mention how he loses far more than half his size and 7/8ths of his weight, or how he can sleep while shrunk down even though the Spell requires Concentration to maintain. Yea, for all the talk of my talents in Spellslinging, I ain’t ever felt all that talented growing up. Chrissy and Tina always kept me humble, but Cowie is on a whole nother level, even if he ain’t capable of slinging Third Order Spells just yet. A good thing too. Folks who know what he can do already step carefully around him, and I’d hate to see what they’d do if they knew he could cast one of them restricted Third Order Spells too. Only one on the list from the School of Transmutation is Erupting Earth, the same Spell Marcus used on our way up to Pleasant Dunes, and it’s a real doozy it is. He stretched the Spell from a six-metre radius to fifteen using Metamagics and familiarity, killing hundreds of Abby in a single go. Was a damn impressive sight no matter which way you cut it, one that’s difficult to explain, because even if I tell you the area of the Spell goes from 113 square metres at base, same as the Fireball I lobbed at Ron’s boys, to a whopping 706 square metres with Marcus’ full-sized Erupting Earth, the words just don’t do it justice.

…Now that I think about it, I can sorta sympathize with some of Sherrif Patel’s worries. Fireball is fearsome enough at base values, so how scary will it be after I’ve got a few weeks, months, or years of practice and familiarity under my belt? Still think it’s silly to worry more about my Spells than my guns, but it is what it is, I suppose. It’s ingrained in the mindset of all Americans, a love for Aetherarms and a mistrust of Magi, unless said Magi are serving in some form of government office. Hearkens all the way back to before there was a United Federation of American States, and them states were all just a bunch of colonies belonging to Great Britain, France, España, and all them other European nations secretly led by Immortal Monarchs at the time. The way I hear it, George Washington was none too pleased about taxation without representation in the Americas, but his good friend Ben Franklin kept warning him to tread lightly. See, back in his youth when he was an up-and-coming Magus, Ben had been a big champion of civil rights. A very outspoken and influential one, so much so that when he became a Grandmagus, he was visited by the British Immortal Monarch himself. Old King William the Conqueror as it were, a King who never really passed his throne on, only let his descendants keep it warm for him while he did whatever it is Immortal Monarchs do to pass the years by.

A right mean son of a gun according to the history books, and the visit spooked Ben something fierce, so he quit championing the downtrodden and behaved for a good long time until making friends with George Washington. Eventually, Ben got so worried about what his friend might do, he came clean about the Immortal Monarchs and shared everything he knew. Rather than being dissuaded, old George redoubled his efforts to secure independence from the British, and sought out other powerful Archmagi to help him do it. This led to the Revolutionary War, one they won when the Founding Fathers ambushed William the Conqueror after he arrived to set the colonies straight. While the others kept Bloody Bill busy, Archmagus Benjamin Franklin conjured up a thunderstorm of epic proportions that zapped the Immortal Monarch multiple times and sent him running back to Britain to lick his wounds. Having injured him gravely in the battle, the Founding Fathers then let word of the Immortal Monarch’s injuries leak out to his peers in France and España, who responded by giving Bill a real hard time and waging all out war for the next few years. Thus the balance of power was broken in Europe, and while the Immortal Monarchs were all distracted with their own borders and revolutions, old George formed the United States of America alongside the other Founding Fathers.

A country which went on to fracture in the 1860s shortly after President Lincoln was assassinated in the wake of a brief and bloody civil war, and his successor refused to uphold agreements with the Native American Alliance whose aid played a major role in winning the war so quickly. Several northern states seceded alongside their Native American allies and went on to found the Métis Nation to the north, while the remaining states reformed into the United Federation of American States, though I never really saw much of a point in the name change. At the same time though, the Brits and the French both quietly overthrew their own Immortal Monarchs, which led the others to sit up and take notice. Even then, the Immortal Monarchs remained something of an open secret, in that those who knew, knew, and those who didn’t laughed at the thought of Immortal Spellslingers ruling them from the shadows. Kept right on laughing until World War One, when them Monarchs saw firsthand the power of industry and gave up on maintaining their veil of secrecy, because they might well have lost their nations if they didn’t.

Yea, the First World War was a bloody one, when the Immortal Monarchs ravaged whole battlefields by themselves and spilled blood like wine without so much as a second thought. Wasn’t no real winners there, not among the people, because even though the Allies emerged victorious, without an Immortal Monarch to lead them no less, the butcher’s bill was a hefty one indeed. Led to plenty of bad sentiments directed at the Immortal Monarchs, so much so that the moment World War Two was launched, the newspapers were calling it the War of the Immortals. Wasn’t our war, was theirs, but was common people who did the dying all the same. Turned it into us against them, and even after the last Immortal Monarch was bombed and dead, the mistrust of powerful Spellslingers never really went away.

And let me tell you this: there ain’t no nation who embody that mistrust more than the United Federation of American States. Yes sir-ree. In the eyes of most Americans, a Grandmagus is nothing more than a terrorist waiting for their moment to strike, unless they got themselves a badge to prove they on the up and up. Coming to the Frontier didn’t change their minds none, at least not as a whole, which might well be why there ain’t as many American Magi as there ought to be. Hell, there are whole communities who eschew the use of magic completely. Some are American, like the Amish and Mennonites, but the whole world got their own varieties, like some Orthodox Jewish communities and a whole laundry list of minor African and Asian groups to boot.

Can’t even imagine it, a life without magic. There are so many Cantrips prevalent in everyday life, like Protection from Insects to keep me from getting eaten alive, or Umbrella so I don’t burn up after fifteen minutes in direct light. Most gals and plenty of nancy-prance men like to throw on Make Up before going out, and I’d hate to live in a world without Deodourant. Then there’s all the time saved using magic to do in minutes what would otherwise take hours, like using Shape Water to pull the moisture out of a side of meat and turn it into deliciously tender jerky, or Mending to patch my jacket every time some fool puts a hole through it. Taking a step back, even if most folks use little to no magic in their everyday lives, they still reap the benefits of magic along the way. The street lamps, factory machines, running water and more, all of it is made possible by Aetheric dynamos, which is technology built off the back of magic in the end, technology them religions eschew because of the Magic inherent within them.

Crazy is what that is, denying so many tangible benefits all because your religion says so. Forget magic, there are religions out there that don’t let you eat pork, and even that’s too much for me to stomach. Ain’t no way I’ll willingly commit to a lifetime without bacon, ham, pork chops, cottage rolls, and all the other different delicious parts that come off a hoggidilla, not even if it ends up costing me my place in the afterlife. I’ll say my prayers and go to church, but an eternity without bacon cannot, by definition, be paradise, and you can’t tell me different.

Luckily for me, the nondescript white man sitting in the waiting area with a big, four-horse wagon don’t look like he belong to any one of them groups, just your average, everyday settler who makes his life out on the Frontier. Got that wild, untamed look about him, what with his skin bronzed from spending his days out in the sun and his shaggy hair and unkempt beard recently shorn in rough fashion. Got a brown homespun tunic without any sleeves and loose, matching pants that have been Mended more times than I can count, and a beige cloak over his shoulders of all things, even though there ain’t a raincloud to be seen in the sky.

That ain’t what gives him the wildness though, because even though his grungy apparel and scruffy appearance is a little out of place here in New Hope, it wouldn’t warrant a second glance outside them gates. No, when I say he’s wild and untamed, I’m talking about his eyes, how they dart directly to meet mine the moment I make my approach and take the full measure of what he sees. It’s in his posture too, standing straight without leaning on nothing, all alert with arms at his sides and tension enough in his shoulders to show he’s ready to throw down on a dime even though he ain’t got no big iron on his hip. Wary and guarded, without being aggressive or confrontational, this here is how all them settlers should be, a man ready to face whatever may come. Thing is, them townies have gotten so used to easy living they all act like they still on the old world with all them laws and government organizations to protect them. Sure, that stuff exists in some form or another here on the Frontier, but at the end of the day, all a man really has to rely on out here is himself.

Resisting the urge to put my palms forward and arms out to the sides as I make my approach, I give him my best smile and say, “Howdy sir.” Ain’t no harm in being respectful, seeing how he gonna be my bossman for the next week. “Name’s Howie Zhu. You Carter Willis? That’s the man I’m supposed to meet here for pickup to the job site.”

“That’s me.” Man speaks slowly and carefully as he shakes my hand, like every word is precious as Aether and not to be wasted lightly. Looks over the pack I got over my shoulder, with some clothes and food for the week, as well as the saddlebags slung around Cowie which got even more food because I had to make good on my promise with Aunty Ray. Can see the gears turning in Carter’s head as his eyes go to my hip, where I got the Rattlesnake sitting front and centre over my left hip, then drifting over to the small of my back like he can see right through my duster and body to spot the twin Doorknockers I got stashed there. “Didn’t know convicts were allowed to carry while working off criminal charges.”

“Technically ain’t a convict,” I say, keeping my smile bright and tone cheery. “Never been charged with a crime, much less convicted in Federal court. I’m here to work off hours given to me by the Rangers. Conduct unbecoming of a soldier.” No need to spook the man with specifics, as I’m just here to work my hours and get gone. “Gun stays holstered unless I spot a threat,” I add, and to be safe, I even clarify, “Bandits, beasts, or Abby, and nothin’ else.”

Carter nods slowly, still studying me real close, but he don’t say much of anything else for a good, long minute. “Fine,” he eventually says with a nod. “Settle in and wait for the rest. I’ll go over the rules once everyone’s here.”

Rather than make my way over to his wagon to stand in the shade, I post up along the side of the road in plain sight and spend some time playing with Cowie while we wait. He ain’t changed one bit after our ordeal in Pleasant Dunes, because even though he knows I lost a hand, he don’t think much of it. I’m still alive and capable of giving him scritches, so what there to be sad about? Was downright furious when I came back bloodied and bruised though, ready to go a full tear through the town to find whodunnit, but he calmed down soon enough when he realized I wasn’t out for blood no more. Day by day, that’s how Cowie sees things, so even though I was hurt a few weeks ago, I’m better today, which makes it a good day to be alive.

There are times when I envy animals for their simple mindsets. Like the flock of kiccaws that done followed us home. Ain’t none of them sad about leaving the desert behind, or excited about their new life here in New Hope. So long as they got a warm home and food to eat, they’re happy, and everything is just gravy. Me, I can’t just enjoy their cute antics or lovely calls. I gotta think about building them doors into the barn, or little swings on the fences so they can perch and look darling without having to worry too much about marties.

Doesn’t take long for the rest of the work party to arrive, eleven more miscreants who’ll be toiling at my side for the next five days. One is even a familiar face, angry, ruddy Olav, the town drunk and tobacco aficionado, though we ain’t familiar enough for anything more than a passing nod in greeting. Sherrif Patel shows up too, with his shirt half buttoned and hairy chest bared, alongside two of his deputies, Deputy Walt and Deputy Juan, whose full names I never learned. They give me a good look, with the latter going so far as to glare, but I don’t pay them any mind. I just stifle a sigh as the Sherrif brings out his testing kit without so much as a how you do. After a dip in some disinfectant, the Sheriff hands me a needle which I promptly stick into my thumbpad. Soon as I got a drop of blood to give, I smear it on the Sherrif’s proffered glass pane, which then gets fed into a mechanical doodad that looks like a book with only two, thick metal pages. A Silent Image projection displays the results on the right ‘page’ of the doodad, but not in so many words or numbers. Instead, it outputs a bunch of scribbled lines, ones that got no real meaning to them that we can discern, but each one is a unique identifier for all the Spell Structures I got.

There’s a whole textbook that covers how the Blood Divination Spell works, one I’ve read cover to cover more times than I care to admit. The base Spell itself will only glow different colours to depict the primary School of Magic amongst all of the target’s prepared Spells. That’s all we can see with the human eye at least, but the Spell tells you so much more, information every Abby is born knowing how to read. We humans though, we mostly rely on tech to parse through the subtle nuances, which means Sherrif Patel has to look at what results his doodad is showing, and compare that to a notebook which got every pattern for every restricted Spell and make sure I don’t got any prepared.

Which I don’t, but I do have more than fifty Cantrip Spell Structures embedded in mind, meaning it takes a good amount of time to go through it all. Didn’t think he’d want to test me here this morning, seeing how he only just tested me last night after the barbeque, but I suppose he wanted to be doubly sure I didn’t sneak anything in on my way out of town. Least it means his inspection is quick, because all he has to do is compare and contrast with last night’s results and make sure nothing changed. Nothing has, and soon as he’s confirmed it, he gives his deputies a nod and walks off without a word. Rude is what that is, but he never was one for social niceties, so I don’t hold it against him.

“Okay then,” Carter says, watching the Sheriff go and no doubt full of questions regarding our exchange, but he don’t ask a single question, just makes good on his promise to go over the rules and explain what work he’s got for us before setting out. Long story short, he got a village of twenty houses situated about a quarter kilometre away from shore, and he needs us to dig him a trench five feet deep and lay pipe to the lake so his people don’t gotta make the long trek for water every day. Seems like a light workload for twelve people over the course of a week, until I realize that he expects us to dig it all out using shovels and pickaxes.

So when it comes time for questions, I ask, “You mind if I use magic to dig?” Holding up my right stump with a wry smile, I add, “Believe you me, it’s faster than the alternative.”

Carter don’t so much as bat an eye when he sees my stump, just shakes his head and says, “So long as you can keep up. If you can’t, then you won’t get your hours, simple as that. Fair?”

“Fair,” I say. I can move a cubic foot of loose dirt every second using Mould Earth, so long as I don’t gotta move it far or fast, and while that volume drops significantly the harder packed the dirt is, I’m confident I’m still faster than any man with a shovel.

There’s a few more questions before we set out, mostly about accommodations, because even though everyone here is working off hours of hard labour, they’re all small potates in the criminal world. Drunk and disorderly usually nets you twenty hours, and brawling anywhere from twenty to forty. Minor theft depends on the value of what’s stolen, and usually tops out at a hundred hours, because anything more gets you real time in a penal camp. Public indecency, petty fraud, vandalism, and minor drug offenses, those are likely the crimes these men are here to work off, meaning that even though they ain’t exactly respectable sorts, they’re still citizens in relatively good standing, so they won’t stand for being rode hard and put away wet. Carter answers their questions with curt and direct statements that leave little to nothing to hide, marking him as a straight shooter who won’t bend over backwards to please us, but won’t do us wrong neither. He needs workers, and we’re the cheapest option, so as long as we get the job done, then won’t be any problems from either side.

Good. Beats working for another company man, someone who sees others as a stepping stone on their path to wealth and riches.

Ain’t long before we set out, with the ruby red sun still rising over the horizon, and as I jog alongside the wagon with Cowie, I give myself a moment to take it all in. The crisp air with its earthy scents, the singing birds and chirping chitter rats, the endless forest of pastel white trees and the shining sapphire waters of Last Chance Lake. Sure, it ain’t a real trip out into the wild Frontier, only a jaunt through the woods to a more secluded lakeside spot, and yea, I ain’t all by my lonesome, saddled with eleven offenders, two deputies, and a boss at my side, but it’s better than being stuck at home with nothing to do but watch the world pass me by. Tina’ll be heading off to Basic in a little bit, where she’ll continue training to become one of the best of the best, a delver in the making just like her daddy and mine. Errol will be there too, back on the path he diverged from with extra care and attention given to him due to the wealth of untapped potential he got. As for Sarah Jay, she never should’ve left, and seeing how I loaned her my share of the nine grand we got from selling the Mage Armour Spell Core interest free, she can fully focus on her training and career now that she don’t gotta worry about money no more.

There’s also Kacey, Michael, Antoni, and all the rest will keep doing what they do. They the ones who gonna tame these wild lands, the first generation of Frontier Rangers and the trailblazers who’ll set a high bar for any and all who follow.

Hell, even Danny is making progress these days, learning new things and taking commissions from customers before completing them to his best ability, which is a high standard to be sure and getting higher with each passing day. He’ll take the money he got from selling his flashbang production process and put it into new tools to help him do what he does with more speed and precision, or books to read and study from cover to cover until he’s ferreted out all the secrets contained within. Man ain’t a Magus, or even much of a Spellslinger if I’m being honest, but he got no quit in him. I bet if he signs on for the next round of Basic, he’ll come out as one of the top boots, if not the very best after a bit of a rough start.

Then there’s me. Sitting around convalescing with Chrissy beside me, playing with wallies, kiccaws, and marties all the livelong day. Break for lunch, and a short nap after, then maybe take a stroll down the main thoroughfare for an ice cream after dinner if I’m feeling so inclined. Got no worries about money in the short term, because my Proggie check cleared and it made the Mage Armour Spell Core look like small potates, so I got that going for me too. That’s been life these past few weeks, and pleasant as it is, I can’t help but feel like every day I sit idle is two days I’ve fallen behind, because not only do I gotta make up for the days I miss, the time spent catching up has gotta be accounted for too.

Four-hundred and eighty hours. Get those done, then I’ll be back in full form with time a plenty to focus on what to do next, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make progress while I’m here. The Longstrider Spell lets me keep pace with Carter’s four-horse wagon well enough. Ain’t the Highway we on, but rather a well-worn dirt path that takes us north east around the lake while Mount Rime looms to the North. Means, among other things, Carter can’t push his horses all that hard lest he bounce one of his passengers out the back. The five-hour trip is probably closer to fifteen klicks from New Hope rather than the thirty I figured it for, which I could cover on horseback in maybe half the time. Course, running even one klick is too much in my current condition, so it ain’t long before I gotta call it quits and climb up onto Cowie’s broad back for a rest. He don’t much like being ridden like a horse, but he don’t make a peep of complaint when he hears me huffing and puffing for all I’m worth after what I would’ve once called a short jaunt at a brisk pace.

Don’t rightly understand how a beating can leave me feeling winded and weak more than a month after the fact, but Uncle Art assured me it’s perfectly normal. Even with Minor Regeneration, contusions can take weeks or even months to fully heal, while minor fractures need even longer. Muscle tears are the same, and if there was any nerve damage, then I might well never recover, which bodes poorly for my missing hand that still feels like it’s on fire sometimes.

All of which I put out of mind before I spiral down into a pit of concern and anxiety about how I might never be whole again. Can’t give up hope, not with so many people who believe in me, trust me to make it out of this and come back stronger for it. Gotta make use of every moment I can to not just recover, but put myself back out front again, so I go back to the basics and get my Mage Hands doing Cat’s Cradle while I practice my Divination Cantrips. Rangefinder to read distances, Appraisal to check the materials used in my clothes, bags, and whatever else I got squirreled away, Compass to fix true North in mind, and Detect Heartbeat to see if there are any animals hiding about. All basic Divination Cantrips I would’ve said I know like the back of my hand if you’d’ve asked me two months ago, but my first and maybe only delve showed me just how wrong I was. Had to work too hard to parse what Detect Aberration was giving me, slowing me down and taking a toll on my mental endurance which led to losing Concentration more often than I should’ve. This in turn forced me to cast the Spell more often than necessary, which led to me having next to nothing left in the tank when Wayne came calling to pay his debt. If I had more Spells to sling, then I might not’ve held back for so long, been more confident about my chances in taking Vanguard National head on. Things might’ve gone different if I projected that confidence, given Ron pause enough to make him think twice about pushing me so far, and maybe I’d’ve been more receptive to a more reasonable amount debt.

If, might’ve, and maybe. Words I’ve been haunted by these last few weeks. If only I’d prepped Lance instead of Spiritual Weapon, then I might’ve killed the Abby and maybe Marcus would still be alive. If only I’d thought to check the Proggie as they approached, I might’ve had time to shout a warning, then maybe Marcus would still be alive. If only I’d’ve kept my mouth shut in the first place, then Marcus might’ve stayed in Meadowbrook instead of tagging along with Wayne to Pleasant Dunes, and maybe he’d still be alive. Cruel, cruel words they are, capable of dredging up hope for a future which has already passed me by, because the dice done been rolled and there ain’t no changing the past.

Seems slinging Spells ain’t enough to keep my mind off of regret, or maybe the Spells I’m slinging are too simple. Much as I hate wasting First Order Spells while outside of town, especially lessened as I am, I throw caution to the wind and cast a Detect Aberration Spell, then start counting the minutes until it’s time to hold Concentration again. Would’ve been better off using an actual Concentration Spell, but I don’t much like those since my chosen profession will typically need to keep their Concentration free for whatever Detection or Divination Spell fits the situation. Sure, Spells like Entangling Growth, Fog Cloud, Expeditious Retreat, and Shield are all top tier picks that require Concentration from the get go, but the way I see it, the they’re all situational Spells which are only of use when the time for Detection Spells is over and done with, so my efforts are better spent elsewhere. Course, big Alfred and his big blue tower Shield make for a compelling argument against me, but I gotta stick to my guns and go with what I decided long ago. There’s a fine line between staying versatile and becoming a jack of all trades who’s a master of none. Ain’t nothing wrong with learning a bit about a lot of Spells, but end of the day, I gotta pick a selection to focus on, because you can only sling so many in a day.

While I sit atop of Cowie and practice holding Concentration, my mind drifts and my ears hone in on what little bits of conversation I catch on the wind. The other eleven workers are all getting chummy in the back of the wagon, which is unavoidable considering the tight fit. That’s why I didn’t climb in to join them, because the whole reason I love the open road is the fact that it’s open. While Dante’s Inferno lists out nine circles of Hell, it’s missing a tenth wherein those consigned within are subjugated to an endless array of two-minute conversations with strangers you don’t really want to get to know.

How’s the weather, where do you work, what your drink of choice, and by the by, you tried this new food craze? It’s all the same, boring conversation, one I’ve heard thousands of times before, but I ain’t got anywhere else to be or anything else to do, so I keep on carrying on. Soon enough, they run out of safe and boring topics to cover, so they move on to shared circumstances and someone asks the question on everyone’s mind. “What are you here for?”

Almost every answer is related to drinking, and not a single one was charged with anything worse than brawling. Means no one was really hurt in the fight, else they’d’ve been booked for assault, a charge I’ve come damn close to catching more times than I care to admit. Once they’ve all made the rounds, their voices drop and I don’t hear any more of their conversation, which is curious to be sure. Trying not to be too obvious about it, I slip off of Cowie’s back and get to jogging again, which gives me a good reason to fall back a bit and look into the wagon without anyone growing suspicious. Sure enough, they all working real hard not to look my way, aside from the odd furtive glance to check if I’m watching. Seems someone in the group knows why I’m here, or at least the broad strokes and shared it with the group, so now they’re all wondering if the rumours are true.

Rumours that paint me as a sadistic pyromaniac at the very least, and an unrepentant murderer at the worst. Don’t much like it, but I can’t help but wonder if things are better this way. I tried my daddy’s way, being all calm, cool, and collected, and all it did was paint me as an easy mark to anyone willing to bend or break the law. Tried Aunty Ray’s way too, and while the friendly, cheery Firstborn bit worked for a little while, it also made some folks take me less seriously than they should’ve, most notably Ronald Jackson. He knew I was dangerous, knew it better than almost anyone else, and even then, he still underestimated me in the end. Thought he could saddle me with debt and take my hand, and I’d come crawling back to him on my one hand and two knees in hopes of gainful employment once all was said and done. Seems crazy to even think about it, but Ron was a scary smart man, so I’m guessing he only thought it was possible because he’d seen it countless times before.

Then there’s Gunin, who was terrified of me from the start. Well, not exactly terrified, but wary and respectful of my skills. Not just because he saw the mark my Fireball left out there on the sands. No, he was worried because he knew my daddy’s rep, and believed that as the Firstborn, I’d’ve learned a thing or two from him along the way. That’s where I went wrong with trying to emulate my daddy. I did everything he did the way he would’ve done it, but I was lacking the necessary reputation to back up the unspoken threats. Now though? I ain’t proud of what I done, but I done it all the same, so in the future, maybe I ought to lean into that aspect and play the part of murderous thug. The Yellow Devil as it were, a hot-tempered, trigger-happy killer who only needs a reason to shoot you dead, and not even a good one as it were.

Put a lot of effort into doing my best to avoid that sort of rep, but maybe, just maybe, that’s the sort of rep I need to make it out on the Frontier without the Rangers at my back.

Food for thought really, and I mull it over for a good, long time as we travel through the chalky white forest. So lost in my thoughts, I almost miss it when one of the thugs asks me outright, calling out from the back of the wagon. “So what you here for, kid?” Got a haughty little smile stretched across his lips as he looks me up and down, seeing the same thing Franky and Jacob saw the first time I moseyed on up to the saloon bar all those weeks ago, when they was just Jumbo and Hobb in my mind. A skinny kid in his daddy’s clothes who’ll scare all too easily, with that same disdain that I overlooked then, but ain’t so sure I should let slide now.

I remember thinking that their disdain was better than the bossman’s studied interest, because I thought it was better to be underestimated than seen as a threat. Now? Now, I’m thinking I was wrong then, and I ain’t a man to make the same mistake twice.

So I don’t answer the man’s question, just give him a look. A cold, hard look that says to mind his own business, but he don’t listen so good. “C’mon,” he says, all friendly like, as if that’s all it’ll take to convince me to open up about my crimes. “Be honest now. You set fire to a building maybe, but you didn’t kill no tens of people, much less dozens, right? Wouldn’t be here if you did. They’d’ve clapped you in chains and sent you to prison proper if you did.”

That puts a smile on my face, because it’s a reminder of how ignorant this townie really is. Thinks the whole Frontier is just like New Hope, because chances are, this trip right here is probably the farthest he’s gone from the walls since he found safety inside. That’s why he’s happy to sit in the back of a cramped wagon completely unarmed with only two deputies and a driver to protect him, because he thinks he’s safe and sound this close to town. He’s wrong, because even though I ain’t scanned no Abby just yet, I’ve clocked two packs of predators who’ve watched us roll by, neither of which were hungry enough to take on so big a prize. That’s why Carter’s wagon got four horses; not because he needs the extra muscle to pull a dozen men and their luggage, but because four horses is a whole lot of flesh to beasts more accustomed to taking down lone elk at most.

Don’t know what it is the other man sees in my smile, and I’d love to ask, because whatever it is, it gives him pause. Will have to remember this smile and take a look at myself in the mirror, a half-quirked lip with mouth closed and jaw clenched. Don’t sound all that imposing, but regardless, I fix the expression into muscle memory before answering. “I’m here,” I begin, raising my right arm to display the stump without shame, “Because some fool thought he could take my hand and live to tell the tale.”

That there is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as they say when they swear you in. Ain’t all the facts, and don’t paint me in a good light, but it does the job good and well. The other man ain’t smiling no more, ain’t even looking at me direct, just swallows and nods before turning in his seat to stare at the floor and see nothing in front of him. Ain’t a one of the other passengers looking my way either, no one besides ruddy Olav who gives me a measured look, with one eyebrow raised ever so slightly.

Not because he got his doubts about what I said. I’m thinking Olav knows me better than the rest of these townies, because he had the stones to come out and fight alongside me the last time the harpies came to town. He saw what I can do, so he knows I’m more than capable of what the rumours say. No, his raised eyebrow is there because he’s asking if I’m sure that’s how I want to play this, to embrace the mantle the public has laid upon my shoulders with only a fractions of the facts unveiled to them.

And honestly? I dunno. Only time will tell if this is a mistake, and if so, then I’ll reap what I’ve sown, but for now, I might as well see where this road takes me.