- TMK -

Katakos rode from the mountains under a speckled sky. Thick pine, nettle, and rock gave way to the paintbrush yellows of the Lokrhadan. The tundra was a silent plain sliced by meltwater streams stretching beyond the horizon. There were no buzzing insects nor croaking frogs in the expanse. If there was any clamor on the Lokrhadan, it came from herds of mammoth and woolly rhino that took days to pass. But such flocks were rare this time of year, the great herds pushing north against the creeping snowmelt. What now remained was only wind, clouds, and the quiet.

           

That quiet was half the reason Katakos stayed.

           

Here, at the end of the world, was a vestige of the wild that came before civilization. Mainly because civilization had all but been destroyed in the violence that brought Katakos here in the first place. What remained were half-empty frontier towns filled with veterans like him. Men who came to settle the carcass of a land that never wanted them.

           

Nuvukak was no different.

           

The town sat beside one of the Skagarak river’s forks. It was just a few dozen buildings of stained timber and sheet metal holding the cold at bay. A number of them were abandoned and rotting regardless, a testament to brave colonists who came and failed to farm the permafrost. More surprising were the farmhouses with smoke still rising from tin chimneys.

           

Life was more than bitter in this land.

           

When Katakos entered the general store, he got another taste of that bitterness.

           

“I can give you a thousand cauldrons for the pelts and eight hundred eighty for the antlers,” the monocled storekeeper said, looking over a hide flattened against the counter.

           

Katakos scowled. “You mean fifteen hundred fifty-five. The price for a pelt is one fifty-five.”

           

“The price was one hundred fifty-five. Two days ago. When the last skyskiff to Lyth left with all the summer pelts. Won’t be back till the storms pass. Which means it’ll be at least four months before I can sell these. Meanwhile, I’ll have to pay for the tanning and storage. You’re lucky I’m even giving you that. But considering there’s no mold and they’ve been dried pretty well…” the storekeeper said, running his hand over the skin side of the pelt. “If you wanted a better price, you shouldn’t have spent so long fucking around in the mountains.”

           

“Nine fifty for the antlers,” Katakos bargained.

           

“Nine,” the storekeeper folded his arms. A whiff of the frontiersman stench hiding in his overalls wafted to Katakos.

           

“Oats.”

           

“Huh?” asked the storekeeper.

           

“Nine and a bag of oats. My baliyon is hungry.”

           

The storekeeper let out a chortle. “Nine and a bag of oats. Together with the hides is nineteen hundred.”

           

Katakos sighed. “Yeah.”

           

The storekeeper stretched his hand out. “Deal.”

           

Katakos gave the storekeeper an acidic stare. “Just–give me the coin.”

           

“Fair enough.”

           

A pouch of coins and a burlap sack of oats hit the counter. Katakos opened the pouch, running his fingers over gold, silver, and brass coins. Content he was not being cheated, Katakos nabbed the bag of oats and turned for the door.

           

“Kat,” the storekeeper stopped him.

           

Katakos paused at the door.

           

“Buyer from the continent’s been asking about silverhorns. Willing to pay a hundred thousand for just one. Don’t suppose…”

           

“Devfon, if I bagged one, what in the fuck makes you think I’d come to you?” Katakos let the door slam on his exit.

           

Slick dirt flattened against his boot while Katakos untied Gondir from the hitching post. The baliyon snorted in approval as his reins fell to the side.

           

“Don’t get too excited. Just going across the street,” Katakos reminded the creature. He slung the sack of oats by Gondir’s saddle and led the baliyon with loose reins. Katakos knew there was no reason to guide the creature with the makeshift leash. There were only a handful of people in the street, all of whom were hunters or ranchers. They had no fear of Gondir, not like the denizens of Port Lyth. Or worse, continentals. People who needed cobblestone or concrete to survive. And if not that, tire tracks would do.

           

The fact the only prints in the mud were made by boots or beasts meant the quiet of the north was unassailable. At least, until the Empire Katakos had fought for grew restless again.  

           

“Alright,” Katakos said as he tied Gondir to a hitching post outside the tavern. “Make yourself busy.”

           

Gondir responded with a toothy yawn and curled up into a horse-sized ball. Inside, Katakos was greeted by a saloon piano played far too slowly for anyone to care. The tavern was surprisingly full, with a detachment of the Imperial platoon enjoying leisure time in the smoky heat. Katakos ignored them and made for the over-lacquered bar.

           

“What’ll it be, Kat?” a barkeep with a bushy, chest-length beard asked.

           

“Arrcosi Sun,” Katakos responded.

           

“Don’t got any river varnish.”

           

“Ice brandy, then.”

           

“Nope.”

           

Katakos rolled his eyes. “Osric, the fuck do you have?”

           

“Eight kinds of ale, bitterbeer, and firegrain,” Osric replied, “No ice brandy till next batch out of Hordvik.”

           

Katakos laid three brass cauldrons on the bar. “Three firegrain shots.”

         

Osric scooped up the coins and filled a series of glasses with clear liquid. “Enjoy.”

           

Katakos tossed his head back while the burning liquid drizzled down his throat.

           

“Careful now. Highest proof stuff we’ve got there. Will put you on your ass in a hurry,” Osric warned him.

           

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Katakos said after guzzling the last two shots. “Ale.”

           

Osric nodded, exchanging a pint of foam for another brass coin. “Just keep my place clean.”

           

Katakos griped a reply, flipping his barstool to the tired piano player in the corner. The musician’s magenta skin and white mane surprised him. Aivorn were as rare as silverhorns in these parts. More black-haired Humans from the Empire arrived from the southern ports every day. Aivorn though, they weren’t made for the cold. Not with pointed ears that could break off in the sub-zero chill. Truth be told, Katakos wasn’t made for this climate either. The Salujan desert was a far cry from the tundra. True, it was just as cold at times. Snow fell on the winter dunes in Saluja. But snow and sand was a different beast from snow and even more snow.

           

“Never seen one before?” a feminine voice axed his train of thought. “An Aivorn, I mean.”

           

Katakos turned, a black-haired woman with a bigger pint of ale than his sat to the right. “Seen plenty. Just not north of Lyth.”

           

“Could say the same about you,” the woman countered, “Brown skin, brown eyes, and with fuck off and die plastered to your face. You’re far away from Saluja, my friend.”

           

Katakos sipped his ale, examining the woman. Pretty was not the word he would use to describe her. Her nose was too long and her lips inflated. To top it off, her left canine ended in a slightly bizarre snaggle tooth.

           

But she was striking.

           

Her eyes were amber-green in the lamplight, her skin, smooth and pale. She had the angled jaw and sallow cheeks of most Saironians.

           

And it suited her remarkably. 

           

Katakos stretched his hand out. “Katakos.”

“Adela.” She shook his hand. “What brought you to this iced-over cesspool of a continent, Katakos?”

           

“Not that interesting of a story.”

           

“Well, you’re an Imperial veteran. Can tell that much from that rifle you got slung over your baliyon. You’re paying Osric with brass which means you’ve been trading with Defon. Colossal prick loves handing out small coins before parting with gold or silver. And you’re covered in a mountain of woolly rhino hide. So–deserted to become a fur chaser?”

           

“Discharged,” Katakos corrected her. “There are no deserters in the Third Legion.”

           

Adela raised an eyebrow. “Number three boy, eh? Hear they tried to settle the lot of you here. The whole swords to ploughshares sort of deal.”

           

“Tried. Not many accepted.”

           

“Can’t imagine why,” the sarcasm layered her voice. “Why did you accept?”

           

“I didn’t.” Katakos shook his head. “But you did.”

           

“Now we’re both wrong.”

           

“Are we?”

           

“Wrong as a red sky,” Adela said, taking a sip of ale. “My husband accepted. Seventh Legion. Didn’t take up farming though. Not like in Easthand anyway. The man knew there was no point using a hoe to hack permafrost. Tied us up in greathorn ranching. Smartest thing he ever did.”

           

“Dead?”

           

“And then some.”

           

“Sorry.”

           

“No, you’re not, just polite. You’ve been around long enough to know dying is the way of life out here. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve helped plenty of people live that life already.”

           

“And then some,” Katakos said, taking a sip from his own pint.

           

“Aren’t you a cheeky one.” Adela chuckled. “That’s why you didn’t follow the legion home? War guilt or other such nonsense? Maybe off to find redemption by getting eaten by a sabre bear?”

           

“Said it yourself. Dying is a way of life out here. People I’ve killed are in the ground, I’m above it,” Katakos said matter-of-factly. “Besides, who would want to spend a week fucking around in the mountains just to turn into bear shit? If I wanted to off myself, I’d walk outside, put a revolver to my head and let my baliyon go nuts.”

           

Adela clapped her hand to her pint and laughed. “Well said. Or maybe I’ve had too much of this swill piss.”

           

She tipped back the pint and drained what was left of the ale.

           

“Never happened to me. Honestly probably the only thing keeping me from actually putting a gun in my mouth.” Katakos swirled the ale in the mug. “That, and a hot bath...”

           

Adela slammed the mug against the bar. “Let’s make a deal then.”

           

“Oh?”

           

“Let me hop on your baliyon for a ride to my ranch and I’ll trade you a hot bath. I’ll even throw in a bite to eat.”

           

Katakos raised an eyebrow. “Why not just walk?”

           

“I did. Not looking forward to hiking back in the dusk.” Adela stood in front of him, hands on her hips. “What do you care anyways? From the cake of pine needles and mud on your face, I’d say a two-mile canter is the least of your worries.”

           

Katakos shed his own chuckle and downed the last of his pint. “Well, let’s get on with it then.”