Inkslayer

Chapter 2: Oil or Ink

Nox left the Bounty Booth, without a poster, but with a mission. He didn't know what the Inkslayer looked like. No one did. Some said he didn't exist, but Nox knew better than that. Others said he wore a mask. A growing number said it might be the Coilhunter, dealing out a darker kind of justice. As if he needed another mask—or another name.

He strolled over to the monowheel parked nearby. The seat was on the engine, and the engine sat inside a large outer wheel, plated with landship treads to keep it steady on the desert sands. It was his design, frequently modified to give it an edge. In the Wild North, where everything and everyone was out to get you, those little modifications counted the most.

He halted, staring down at the little mechanical duck that stood guard beside the vehicle. It was a survivor from his days as a toymaker in Loggersridge, but few wanted to play with it now. It almost had as much of a reputation as he had, so he was confident in leaving his prized monowheel under its beady gaze. Some called it Mr. Quacky, while others just called it Duck. Most of the time folk just screamed.

But this time, the duck didn't seem happy. It looked around, then back to the Coilhunter. Apart from its quack, which you didn't want to hear, it had no real way of communicating. It did its job, and that was that.

But something was amiss.

Nox already had his hand at his hip, ready to draw. He scoured the area, drilling through sand dunes with his eyes. He looked for shifting dust, for falling scree, for the sound of engines or the sight of gunmen. The area was clear.

Then, as Nox took another step closer to his monowheel, his eagle eyes snatched a spot of oil on the side of the engine. At least, it looked like oil. But it might've also been ink.

Nox sighed.

"You have me on edge," he told the duck, who stared back blankly.

He turned around and peered out into the vast expanse. Somewhere out there the Inkslayer was at work, handing in another letter, scribbling out another name.

"You have me on edge," he said to the phantom figure in his head. You see, he didn't mind a man with a gun. He knew how to handle that. But this was different. Someone else had put on a mask. Someone else was hiding in the ink of shadows. No wonder some folk thought it was Nox.

There was the faint thrum of engines far off, the subtle hint of industry, which blew like dust into even this most barren part of the world. Nox hadn't just spent time as a toymaker. His work as a mechanic helped him identify the type of engine, and the type of vehicle. It was a hyper-hog, the favoured mount of a biker gang.

As the bikes came into view on the horizon—a whole black wave of them—Nox knew instantly which gang they were: the Oxen clan. That meant speed and a lot of unfriendly faces. He hadn't exactly impressed them the last time they met. That was because, with his trusty monowheel, he was the one who'd won the race.

The Coilhunter glanced back at the speck of black on the engine of his vehicle. He was wearing gloves and a mask, so maybe he could risk it. Chances were it was just a drop of oil. But Nox wasn't a betting man, and there was a good reason for it: you didn't bet against the Wild North. That land had the deck stacked against you. Normally he would've thought of every card being red, but now he couldn't help but think that maybe they were all black.