New Storm Rising

20. The Monstrous Horde

I don't know what sort of horrifying spectacle I was expecting when stepping out of the tunnel of the mine. But out of all things, it most certainly wasn't this.

"Moooo!"

Please tell me I'm dreaming.

"Mooo?"

I wasn't talking to you, Bessy!

Arms folded, I glared down at the cow that was standing in front of me, inspecting me with crossed eyes, as if not quite sure yet if I were a tasty piece of grass or not.

I wasn't the only one who was not amused.

"What," Mr Rikkard Ambrose demanded, icy gaze sweeping over the surroundings, "is going on here?"

"That's what we'd like to know, Sir."

I glanced over towards where the voice was coming from. A number of dark-cloaked figures that I recognized instantly as Ambrosian minions were hunkered down behind some crates stacked beside the shed that hid the mine entrance. Their eyes were narrowed, rifles aimed straight at the horde of approaching enemies.

Which was a herd of cows.

A bloody freaking herd of cows! With glossy fur. And big, soulful eyes. And cute sticky-out ears. What in the name of St. Perpetua...!

It was then that I spotted the riders behind the herd, towering above the cattle on the back of their horses. Every single one had revolvers strapped to their sides, and whips hanging from their saddles. And there, right at the front, was Sheriff William Gallagher.

"You." Eyes narrowing infinitesimally, Mr Rikkard Ambrose stepped towards the sheriff. "What are you doing here?"

"Official business." With an all too smug expression on his face, Gallagher held a sheet of paper in the air. With its cursive writing and stamps, it looked far too official for my liking.

"You there." Jerking his head at one of his men, Mr Ambrose gestured. The meaning was clear. Leaping to his feet, the man pushed his way through the cows, not flinching once in the face of sharp horns or thudding hoofs. It didn't take long for him to retrieve the paper and return. He tried to hand it to his boss, but Mr Rikkard Ambrose wasn't taking his eyes off of the sheriff. He waved his hand.

"Read it."

"Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir!" Clearing his throat, the man began reading. "To the citizens of the municipality of Tomb Gloom,

It is hereby declared that, for the betterment of the economic situation of the area, and the further connection of the east and west coast of our beloved country, a new cattle track is to be established through our hometown—a true cause for celebration! Those few unfortunates whose lands lie in the path of the track will, of course, be somewhat inconvenienced, but this is a small price to pay for progress and the further development of our country.

Santiago Velazquez

Mayor of Tomb Gloom."

As the man ceased speaking and lowered the paper, icy silence descended over the place. And it didn't take a genius to realize from whom it was emanating. Mr Rikkard Ambrose was oozing frostiness like a leaking reservoir full of ice water.

"So...may I enquire who those 'unfortunates' shall be? May I enquire who will have his lands trampled beneath the hooves of your beasts?"

Gallagher smirked. "Who do ya think?"

"I see." A pause. "And if things stand in the way of your..." He cast a glance askance at the herd of bovines everywhere around him. "...little pets?"