Brassworks

In the Vale of the King

"Their King is an Angel of the Abyss. His name is Abaddon, and he is the Destroyer."

Words of the Prophet

Chapter 3, Verse 11

THE dead men dug their graves with shovels and trowels and their bare hands. Under the watchful gaze of the Deputy, they resigned to their fate and went about the last task of their lives. Most of their clothing had been removed and lay in a pile off to the side. It wasn't as though they'd need it, and leathers fetched a fine price in any border town. Under the scorching sun, their backs turned red and blistered. It was a momentary discomfort, they knew. A bullet would cure their ills shortly.

"Eyes down, convict." Deputy Crow lashed out with a polished boot, catching an elderly convict between the shoulders. He grinned maliciously at his boss. Crow was gangly, all elbows and knees, but could wallop a man twice his size. Days without a shower or shave had given him a feral look.

Constable Lionel Booker watched the prisoner collapse into the shallow hole with a wet thud. Some of his men laughed—mostly forced. Normally, the Constable would mark them for an education later, but he couldn't spare the thought just now. Not here. Not while they were in the Badlands. He took a moment to stretch his tall, lean body. His uniform was stiff from dried sweat and scratched at his skin. Despite the intense heat, Booker shuddered. The shadow of an ancient monster reached out for him.

Abaddon stood only a few hundred miles away. From the base of that jagged mountain lay the Vale of the King, an endless stretch of glass and rock five hundred miles in any direction. Booker tried not to pace, but his feet wandered restlessly, his boots crunching with each step. They were too far in the desert; too close to the King. The choice had been his, but he already regretted it. He pulled off his duster and threw it onto the horse cart; it was far too hot for a coat.

"Still looking clear, boss." Lucky remained perched on top of the buggy, cradling his long gun.

Booker nodded to his number two. Constable Lucas "Lucky" Pritchard had the best eyes in the posse. Sonofabitch could hit a split-fly off a horse at two hundred paces. It was almost a waste to have dragged him into this dirty business, but Booker wasn't about to wade into hell without a few friends to watch his back. Officers Killen and Rollick rounded out the small team. It wasn't enough if things turned ugly, but any more would have attracted too much attention while leaving the city. The Governor had been explicit about drawing attention.

Not much longer. That old man need another half foot and we can put him down. The depth of the grave wasn't important. Really, they could have left the bodies to rot in the sun for all he cared. Again, it was orders. These men had crossed the Governor in one way or another, and the man was very particular about punishment. It wasn't enough to die; you had to die right.

Movement drew Booker's gaze to the East, toward Abaddon. He shivered. Even this far away, the mountain seemed larger than life. He'd been closer once, when he was young and stupid and trying to impress a lady. Never again. Was that dust? Heat waves rippled above the desert, distorting anything more than a few hundred paces away.

"We're leaving in five," Booker said to no one in particular. "Crow, take the East. I thought I saw something."

"Aye, boss." Crow rose from his seat on a nearby boulder. The other officers liked to joke that Crow was part-cat, from the graceful and predatory way he moved around. Booker once thought those jokes were funny, but then he'd seen Crow take down five men in bar fight with nothing but a metal pick. Now he never joked about the man.