The Hunter trudged ploddingly down the town's main thoroughfare, setting his course to nowhere in particular. He lifted up his legs in a jerking motion as he walked, making a kind of wet, popping sound as each step required him to free his foot from the soft earth that the rainfall had quickly turned into a sticky muck. Almost all of the buildings around were dark, on the first floors at least, with the occasional yellow-orange glow of candles or oil lamps dotting a few second-story windows that were no-doubt living quarters of some kind. The Hunter thought for a moment that under ideal circumstances, he would find easy prey if he would but climb up and through one of those windows. It would be easy prey indeed. They would likely be asleep, after all.
But these were not ideal circumstances, and the Hunter could feel the ache in his throat and mouth that seemed to radiate almost throughout his entire body, making him feel heavier with every step.
No. There would be no rooftop hunts through darkened apartments for him tonight. The Hunter felt a tinge of embarrassment at this realization. "Some apex predator he was", but as quickly as it came, he shook his head rapidly as if to send such thoughts away.
About a hundred-or-so yards toward the end of the street, he spied the only building in sight to show any signs of activity, a saloon by the look of the place. "Good enough", the Hunter thought to himself. He'd have himself a drink to dull his senses at the very least. Alcohol would have to do, not a real drink; not the kind of drink he needed. At this the Hunter laughed quietly to himself, knowing that the kind of drink he was seeking
likely wasn't something they kept behind the bar, even on the top shelf.
The Hunter clomped his way up the shallow wooden steps that creaked and moaned having swelled from the rain. He removed his hat and knocked a fair bit of water off of the brim as he breezed casually through the double wing doors. The air was thick with smoke that hung low in the humid air and turned the yellowish light from the oil lamps a kind of urine green. In his former life, the Hunter would have noticed the odor of stale tobacco that formed a sour mix with the smells of dirt and sweat that hung in the place. He would have heard the low, drunken voices and the honky-tonk ringing of the instrument in the corner that barely passed for a piano. The would-be artist seated at it was clunking out some melody or another that the Hunter either didn't recognize or didn't care to.
But this was not his former life. Now all that the Hunter could hear was the steady droning of a dozen or so beats, all keeping different time. All he could smell was that familiar and rapturous scent with a sweetness like sugar and a sour tinge like polished copper. He stood stock-still just past the doors as they rocked gently back and forth behind him, entranced for a moment by the smell. In this prologue to ecstasy, the Hunter absent-mindedly let the tip of his tongue run its way across the upper row of teeth behind his closed lips, stopping once, then again on the two elegantly extended canines that were his weapons of choice.
So caught up was he in the sensory overload of the place, that it took the Hunter longer than it should have to notice that almost every eye in the place had now turned his direction. In realizing this, a sudden jolt of panic shot through his spine. He shifted his stance uncomfortably and glanced around for someone not giving him that look of half-fear, half-disdain that he thought he should have, by now, grown accustomed to.
Only the Dealer. The Dealer, far across the smoke-filled room at his empty, emerald-topped card table seemed not to acknowledge the Hunter's presence. The Dealer, with his faded blue pinstripe shirt, his tattered grey vest and his red neckerchief tied tightly above the collar, never looked up as he continued to flip cards in strange configurations onto the green tabletop.
"It's just as well," the Hunter mused to himself. The uncomfortable weight of attention he was getting and the newly quickened cravings had now squashed his desire for whiskey anyway. Perhaps a hand or two at the table would serve as a suitable distraction. Besides, no one seemed to be patronizing the Dealer's table, and the Hunter figured that perhaps he would draw less attention if he positioned himself next to the only other person in the saloon that was being given a wide berth.
Summoning all his willpower, he crossed through the haze of smoke, past the dancing girls in their frilly silk dresses and the drunks and drifters pouring out their sorrows to them in vain hope for some company on this stormy night. As another crack of thunder peeled across the sky outside, the noise of the saloon ended its momentary decrescendo brought on by the entrance of the pale, well-dressed stranger, and returned to its previous dull roar.
The Hunter kept his gaze fixed on the Dealer as he approached the table, muddy boots prints fading in intensity with each new one he left. As he walked forward, he felt himself relax, if only a bit. Likely the corn-fed yokels in this backwater Tejaz freehold, hadn't the faintest inkling of what the Hunter actually was. No. No, all the sidelong glances and the stunned silence that greeted him upon crossing the saloon threshold had been nothing more than so much gaping at a tall, lanky stranger in fine clothes. Then again, there was also the pair of masterfully-crafted and engraved shooting irons that hung lazily in black leather holsters about his hips.
Of course. Of course the rabble in the saloon had been a little awestruck at the sight of him when he'd first entered. In all his finery, his jet-black coat, heavy boots and twin six-guns, the Hunter had the bearing of a dangerous man. They were right to fear him. Even if their ignorance as to what kind of being had just stepped through their door was obvious, they probably thought something like him couldn't cross the threshold without an invitation or some such nonsense, he was a very dangerous man indeed.
With that thought having renewed his confidence, the Hunter's gait shifted from a trudge to a stride as he closed the last bit of distance between himself and the card table. He even allowed himself the faintest of grins, though without baring his teeth of course, and gently patted the gun on his left hip the way one shows appreciation for a loyal hunting dog.
Finally, having reached the table and taking a moment to survey its green carpeted surface, the Hunter addressed the Dealer, who had still not bothered with so much as a raise of the head or a "howdy" or even a glance.
"What's the game?" The Hunter asked, trying to split the distance somewhere between friendly and disaffected. Though, between that chorus of pounding beats in his ears, and the overpowering scent that seemed as if it would turn his vision red, the words came out a little too quickly and may have sounded a bit stiff.
The Dealer said nothing at first, just continued flipping his cards, one after another onto the table in different configurations, gazing at them for a moment then gathering them back into the deck before shuffling and dealing again. After a long, and to the Hunter's uneasy estimation, uncomfortable silence, the Dealer finally spoke. "No games here, stranger. Cry your pardon if that's a disappointment."
The Hunter furrowed his brow. On the contrary, the man across the card table seemed to be playing games with him already and the Hunter wasn't sure he liked it. He eased back his stance and hooked his thumbs around the black leather of his gun belt, framing the silver buckle with the engraved skull that hung at its center. Just who did this booze-den cull think he was smarting at? The Hunter gave the question another pass, putting a bit more gravel in his delivery in hopes of giving this pup an idea. "Then what the hell ya doin'? Them's cards ain't they?" The Hunter motioned at the Dealer's setup, "And this here's a card table ain't it?"
The Dealer never ceased the rhythm of shuffle, flip, gather, shuffle, flip, gather. Now that he was closer, the Hunter could see that the man was gently rocking in the wooden chair, ever-so-slightly. One shortened leg of the chair signified nothing more than shoddy craftsmanship to most, but the rhythm of the thunk which that leg made with each knock against the wooden floor of the saloon served as just one more dizzying beat added to the rhythmic roll of thuds and thumps that still echoed in the Hunter's ears.
"These cards, stranger, are as much for reading as they are for playing," said the Dealer. His accent, which the Hunter had only guessed at when first he heard it, was now unmistakeable. The drawn and softened vowels, the easy, almost sing-song cadence, the round and open "R" sounds at the end of certain words that turned "cards" into "cahds" and "stranger" into "strain-jah", this smart-ass Dealer was a long way from his home back-east. Doubtless he was just another Arcanaanite black-sheep from old money what had pissed off his "fathah" and was sent West. This slick cully was no threat, the Hunter thought to himself, and struck a self-satisfied grin. As he did so, the fact that the Dealer was now staring straight up at him from across the table almost escaped the Hunter's notice.
"I could see what the cards have to say about you, if it please you," the Dealer said, his even tone not wavering.
The Hunter smiled. Very well. He'd play this well-born pup's game, if only to get his mind on something that wasn't the sound or the constant smell reminding him of how badly he needed that drink. Without letting his smile drop, the Hunter slid casually into the other wooden chair positioned opposites the Dealer's place at the table. "Yar. Thankee, Sai," the Hunter said, the predatory air in his voice still present, "I'd hear what your cards have to say."
The Dealer smiled faintly as he gathered up his cards, shuffled, and cut the deck into three even stacks. There was the thunk of the leg of the chair against the floor as he leaned forward, then motioned the Hunter to choose.
The Hunter extended a long, pale index finger to the stack furthest to the right and tapped them gently. His finger bore an ornate ring of polished gold, set with a large ruby that glinted in the greenish and smokey lamplight.
The dealer placed the chosen pile on top of the other two then gently pushed the full deck across the table toward the Hunter, "Shuffle them to your heart's content, if it please you," said the Dealer, "Contemplate a question in your mind, and hand the deck to me whenever you feel led."
The Hunter had to almost stifle a scoff at the gravitas with which the Dealer spoke about something so simple as shuffling the fifty-two, but he did as instructed nonetheless. Handing back the deck he was at once struck by the sight of the young Dealer's hands. They had stuck out to him before but in the speed of all that shuffling and flipping the Hunter had failed to notice that what he thought had been simple bandages were actually strips of cloth festooned in crimson runes. Exactly what the runic script said, the Hunter could not guess, just some pompous, Arkcanaanite, magical drivel about "guns" and "father's faces" like as not.
The Hunter watched those hands closely as they deftly gave the deck one final shuffle and cut before flipping the first card, face-up, onto the table. There was that thunk sound from the chair again as the Dealer leaned forward to examine the Jack of Hearts that now stood out, by its lonesome against the green field before the two men.
"This, my friend, is you." The Dealer began, indicating the card. "The Jack of Hearts," as the young man spoke, his descriptions of the cards and their meanings were uttered in a syncopated stream of abbreviated thoughts. The matter-of-fact manner in which the Dealer "read" was punctuated by the repetition of the thunk sound as he rocked back and forth in his uneven chair. "The cards show me a knight astride a pale horse. He bears an empty cup, or an empty heart that he seeks to fill." The Dealer cast an uncomfortably knowing glance at his querent. "This Jack here is always looking over his shoulder. Two faces, each eye pointed in opposite directions looking for trouble, or perhaps he is a hunter. A hunter of that which resides in the heart, and seeks after his next quarry."
The Hunter felt himself shift uneasily in his seat. The description was accurate, so it was, but he knew how this game was played. The Dealer could say whatever he wanted to make the cards mean whatever he wanted. The boy was trig, to be sure, but it was just a lucky guess and nothing more.
Another flip of the cards and the Hunter watched the Three of Spades come to rest, perpendicular on top of the Jack. "And this," the Dealer said, "is what crosses your path. The cards speak of a heart, pierced through with three swords. Their edges are keen and their strike is true. The swords pierce through the deception and lies, so they do. Perhaps our friend the two-faced Jack is in some danger of being found out." It wasn't a question. As before, the Dealer spoke of the cards as simple statements of fact. The Hunter began to feel a lump form in his throat as the reading continued.
The cards flipped again. This time the Dealer laid the Ten of Clubs next to the previous two cards, on his right and the Hunter's left. "What lies behind you. Your immediate past. I see a man weighed down by a heavy burden, a weight of which he desperately wishes to be rid of, but cannot. He trudges wearily, and there's nary a kindred soul around to ease his struggle." The Dealer motioned back to the Jack at the center of the table, "Mayhap, if he could only fill that empty cup of his, for it's thirsty work, I ken. Are you thirsty, Stranger?" The Dealer's voice had taken on a tinge that the the Hunter almost perceived as mockery. Although it was difficult enough to concentrate on what this Arkcanannite cull was prattling-on about with that damnable beating at the Hunter's eardrums and the smell! That smell had grown stronger yet! The Hunter never turned to look around, but if he had, he'd have seen that the saloon's patrons had, to a head, all stopped what they were doing and were drawing ever closer to the card table, straining their necks to get a look at the reading.
Another thunk from the Dealer's chair, this time it was accompanied by a sharp, moaning, creak as his weight strained on the uneven leg. The Dealer clucked his tongue in a show of dismay, "I don't mind saying, stranger. Three cards in and we're already sitting on black thirteen. Not the luckiest of spreads I've ever turned." The Hunter's breath was beginning to grow shallow as the lump in his throat grew larger. How was he doing this!? He was just some well-born kid, out here on the edge of the Badlands, cut off from daddy's money. Yet he seemed to know! How!? "Just turn the cards!" The Hunter hissed. Ye gods! He needed that drink.
"Very well, stranger," the Dealer continued as another thunk sounded against the floor. The sound of warping wood was longer this time as he rocked back, then forward in the chair again, "What everyone wants to know. At last we get to the fun part. What lies before you."
The card turned. The chair let out another thunk. The eyes of every dancing girl and ranch hand in the whole of the smoke-filled room widened as the Ten of Spades came to rest at the rightmost end of the spread. The Hunter felt every muscle in his body tighten, another black thirteen, before him and behind him. This was no gambler's trick. The Hunter had shuffled the deck himself, hadn't he? Yet there it lay. With his lip near trembling, the very dangerous man asked the Dealer, "And...w...what's this mean?"
The young man in the red neckerchief stroke his chin with a single, rune-covered hand. "I cry your pardon, stranger," he said. "But I don't think you're going to like it." There was a surprise in the Dealer's voice that indicated he might be just as shocked as his querent was about to be. "The cards have shown me a corpse, pierced all through with swords. A ten. A black ten. A card representing finality. An ending," the Dealer's voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke the final word, "Oblivion."
The storm outside seemed to punctuate the sound of that word with a resounding BOOM that rattled the bottles above the bar and rattled the Hunter's bones. His mouth twisted into a snarl as he glared across the table at the Dealer who rocked his chair again with that creaking thunk and continued in the voice of a man who has just won a high-stakes pot with a pair of twos, "Don't look at me so, stranger. The cards do the talking. I just tell you what it is they want to say."
The Hunter had heard enough. Pushing back violently from the table he skinned his revolver and leveled it at the young man across the table. If it weren't for the pounding in his head he might have heard the audible gasp from the onlookers as he did so. His grip was unsure. The machinery of the gun clinked gently as he failed to steady it. All the while the Dealer looked back at him with eyes possessing of a coldness that the Hunter felt he only truly saw for the first time in that moment.
"Now," the Hunter swallowed hard against the quivering lump in his throat, "Hear me cully. Ya better. I don't know who the hell you are, and ya mocked my question once before, so I'll ask it once again." He thumbed back the hammer as a round clicked into the ready. "Just what kind of sick game are you playing at?"
The hands of the Dealer moved not an inch, only drummed their fingers rhythmically on the green carpet of the tabletop. To his growing horror, the Hunter realized the boy was drumming his fingers in time with, no. No it couldn't be. He was drumming his fingers in time the beat, his beat, the beat the Hunter could hear echoing across the card table. No. Not a beat. A pulse. The Dealer was drumming his fingers in time with his own pulse! He knew! By all the gods! This thrice-damned, well-born, punk knew!
"I hear you," intoned the Dealer in that same, easygoing tone as once again there arose the creaking sound and the thunk of the chair, even louder this time. "I hear you very well, but as I said before, Lazarus, Son of Laban: I didn't come here to play games."
Those who stood watched could scarce tell which was louder, the crash of the thunder that seemed to pick that very moment to rock the timbers of the saloon, or the crack of the revolver as Lazarus, Son of Laban squeezed the trigger and sent a fountain of blood arcing onto the table, painting the white cards and the green field in trails of a warm, sticky red. The force from a shot at such close range sent the Dealer flying backwards against the wall as his weight came down on the uneven chair and at last it fell to pieces from the strain of the young man's constant rocking. At least there would be no more sound of thunk in the saloon tonight.
In a near frenzy, Lazarus whirled to face the crowd, his gun still drawn. When his eyes met the looks of horror on the faces all around him, he lightened a bit, settled back and holstered his gun. A sardonic grin crossed his face as he began to slowly stride through the now-parted crowd like a hailed conqueror. He certainly felt the part. It was a good feeling, almost enough to dampen the desire for that drink. He threw a look over his shoulder at the already-drying splash of sticky redness on the card table and shrugged. Too cold. It had to come from a live vessel or not at all, he thought. What a waste. Still, it was a good feeling. It was a good feeling that lasted about forty-five seconds.
No sooner had the Hunter reached the door to the saloon when he heard the voice behind him. The voice that spoke of Oblivion, that voice that should have spoken no more, was speaking his name again.
"Oh Lazarus," it said, "I don't think we had quite finished."
The Hunter spun on his heels. The Dealer hadn't moved from the spot where he'd collapsed onto his chair which now law broken and covered in blood. He simply stood there, straightening his vest and tie like a gentleman who's chief concern is only that he appear presentable. Lazarus's eyes widened in their sockets as he could now see, through the sizable hole burned into the young man's shirt near the shoulder, the wound began to close. Oily shadows seemed to flutter inside the burned and pulpy flesh and a moment later, the wound was gone.
Lazarus locked eyes with the Dealer. His head cocked slowly to one side in a gesture of sheer curiosity, for he realized now the flash he had seen in this cull's eyes. A flash of White, though only a spark and the boy may not even be aware of it. It was there.
This punk had the stink of the White about him, true as true. Through his predator's gaze the Hunter had seen it, seen it very well. Lazarus knew he was going to enjoy this next part.
Though there lay more than fifty feet between the Hunter and his new quarry, the fluttering, black shape of Lazarus closed that distance in a fraction of a second. No more hiding. No more games. No heroic rematch. This had to end now. The Dealer knew what he was so what did it matter that all the rest saw him now? He wanted them to know, know and fear.
In an instant, the Hunter had pounced upon his prey with a bestial hiss, closing thin, pale fingers around the Dealer's throat. So close he was now. At last he would have that drink tonight after all. The pulse drummed its sweet rhythm in his ears and that scent like sugar and polished copper was intoxicating.
And yet, the Hunter caught himself in his own victor's revelry. This wouldn't do. After all, this Arkcanaanite pup had run his mouth off at him more than Lazarus could bear. No. It may have been poor form to play with one's food but the Hunter would have the last word. His mouth, now open and poised above his quarry's neck, slowly shut and moved in close to the young man's ear.
"Betcha didn't see it ending this way. Did ya cully? No, I think not. It's a shame. Bet you were hot shit back where ya come from. Musta seemed like heaven, but out here in the Badlands. Out here's where it gets real. Out here you're in hell boy, and tonight you done fucked with the Devil himself."
The Hunter felt the throat beneath his fingers expand and contract. The stupid son of a bitch was still struggling to breathe. No. Not breath, words. The boy was trying to speak, still trying to shoot off his damn-fool mouth even in his final moments.
"You..." The hoarse, breathless words came, "you aren't....the...devil."
The Hunter almost rocked back with laughter. The kid had balls, sure enough. He decided to play along, if only to get one more good laugh out of this blood-sack before he reached the clearing. "Oh no!? And tell me, I beg. What am I, boy?"
Lazarus dipped his head low so as to better hear the Dealer's last guttural sputterings before those smart-ass eyes closed for good.
"You're......just.....practice."
It happened in an instant. Those hands. Those rune-covered hands that so deftly had shuffled and cut and flipped the cards, had reached down and snatched up the now-broken leg from the wreckage of the chair. Those same hands now plunged that wooden leg, splintered sharply at one end as it had snapped, into the left side of the predator's chest. The black shape let out a sharp intake of breath, more like a howl than a gasp as his arms flew out stiffly in front of him, clawing at the air as he stumbled back. Tripping and tumbling around, his entire body burning as if being pierced by countless swords, the Hunter swung his crazed, wild-eyed stare around the room. He almost looked as if he were trying to beg from help from someone, anyone, but nary a kindred soul around to ease his struggle as Lazarus, Son of Laban reached the end of his path.
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The Dealer slowly got to his feet and looked around at the scene. He brushed himself off and re-knotted his neckerchief. Judging from the looks he received, half dumbfounded, half exhausted, all terrified, he surmised it might be best to quit this town and keep moving. Stepping around to the other side of the card table he bent down for only a moment to riffle through what was now only a pile of ashes and personal effects on the saloon's wooden floor.
From the pair of black trousers he produced and then quickly pocketed the billfold, along with the few scrip notes inside. He then picked up the gold ring and eyed the sizable ruby set within it. Lastly he hoisted up the gun belt and began to make his way toward the door, stopping only to take his long, leather coat from the rack along a gun belt of his own. These he donned quickly, along with his hat. The Dealer then stepped toward the bar and produced the ring which he flicked into the barkeep's hand like one flicks a copper to a street beggar.
He paused for a moment and glanced at the black leather gun belt and the revolvers inside. With a disinterested shrug he laid these on the bar, but not before removing all of the cartridges from the belt and the guns and placing them neatly in his bag.
"This ought to be enough to cover the mess," he indicated the guns and the ring, then held up the deck of cards, four of which were now stained in blood. "And a new deck of cards if it please you. I'll be holding on to these I think." The Dealer paused, tapping a single finger to his lips as if making sure he's not forgotten anything. He shifted his eyes back to meet those of the man behind the bar, “Also, I pray above all that I buy your utmost discretion. I was never here. Was I?"
The bartender offered no argument.
His debts thus settled, the young man from Arkcanaan strode out through the wing doors of the saloon and back out into the dark and the storm.
