Blazing Centaurs, page 1
Blazing Centaurs
(Kalazad – Book 3)
By K.L. Mitchell
©2022 K.L. Mitchell
ISBN: (book) 9781954213777
ISBN (epub): 9781954213784
This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Desert Palm Press
1961 Main St, Suite 220
Watsonville, CA 95076
Editor: CK King
Cover Design: Rachel George
About Blazing Centaurs
Wandering adventurer Revka and her centaur girlfriend Iyarra head west in search of easy work and cheap drinks, and instead find action, adventure, and excitement at every turn. Again.
At the very edge of the frontier, the two adventurers find themselves in the little centaur town of Red Valley, last stop of the long wagon trains out west, but the town—and the mountains it borders—guards a secret ancient and terrible, which naturally some bunch of cloaked-and-hooded goons are doing their best to unearth. So the two find themselves caught on both sides of a shadow war between two secret societies, all the while dealing with bandits, stampedes, labor disputes, and the ever-present Code of the West.
Will Revka and Iyarra manage to save the day? Will the secret buried deep in the heart of the mountain be revealed? Will the last western town be turned into a tatty suburb? And what of the mysterious goddess maneuvering events behind the scenes?
Join Revka and Iyarra in their third adventure in the land of Kalazad, where the west isn’t just wild, it’s downright unhinged.
Blazing Centaurs
About Blazing Centaurs
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
About K.L. Mitchell
Dedication
Dedicated with gratitude to Mel Brooks.
Please don't sue.
Chapter One
PAINT THE SKY IN purple and gold, streak in red from the setting sun. Mesas burn crimson in the dying light, old and stoic in the desert wastes. Closer now, and see. On the very edge of the largest mesa, there is light. A campfire flickers, a lone trail of smoke winding its way unhurriedly to the stars. Occasionally, the figure tending the fire leans forward and adds more fuel.
Ah, yes. Him.
A long, lean, hairy thing, like a stretched-out coyote, sits cross-legged in front of the fire. He is curiously attired in a rough black vest and tattered dungarees. A beadwork necklace hangs loosely around his neck. A black-felt top hat, now gray with age, allows his ears to extend through two worn slits cut for the purpose. He holds himself with an insouciant air, leaning back against a handy rock when he’s not tending to the fire.
Closer, now. His eyes are bright yellow and they shine in the waning light but there’s something else, too. Something…not wrong, just…off. Something about the way the reflected light of the fire dances in his pupils. Maybe they’re off by a second or so; maybe they are showing other fires.
He takes a pipe out of an old leather bag and, with some ceremony, tamps in a little tobacco. A burning twig from the fire, and the pipe is alight. The smoke, when it comes, coils purple and blue into the air. It snakes over to the smoke from the campfire and starts to wind its way around, riding upward.
The creature sits back and watches the smoke drift. From time to time, he takes a long, slow draw on the pipe and blows out another stream of smoke. Sunset fades to twilight then, just as the last sliver of light stands poised to dip below the horizon, there is a change in the air. The smoke bends in a way that has nothing to do with the wind. For a moment, the coyote creature leans forward and studies strange figures that have appeared in the smoke.
After a few moments, he sighs. He douses the pipe and puts it away with care. The fire is put out, the old leather sack slung over his shoulder, and he walks off into the darkness.
Behind him, the last wisp of smoke from the campfire pirouettes, catches the wind, and rides west into the last of the light.
* * * * *
Morning, and the sun is burning away the chill of the desert night as the wagon train snakes its way along the trail. The greenery of the prairie has long since given way to the isolated scrub of the desert. The sun beats down hard on five wagons, all loaded with mail and merchandise, each one pulled by a brace of centaurs. A few hired hands ride alongside, keeping an eye out for danger.
At the head of the train, the trail boss strolls along at an unconcerned pace. Look at him, take him in. If this world ever invented movies, he’d be the undisputed king of westerns. From the waist up, observe a handsome, chisel-jawed cowboy. His red, double-breasted shirt is spotless. A kerchief and a white, ten-gallon hat complete the look. Below, he’s a nearly perfect white stallion, lean and graceful and built for speed. And as he strolls along, he strums a guitar and sings:
Ever since I was a foal,
knee-high to a gopher hole,
I been plowin’ up’n down this dusty trail.
I got no way of knowin’
Just where I think I’m goin’
But as long as I head west, I cannot fail.
I left my darlin’ Stacie
way back east in St. Gracie,
and I told her, baby darlin’ don’t you cry.
I was gone about a week,
when she married my friend Zeke,
and I never got a chance to kiss the bride.
Oh, yo-de-le-hee-hee,
Yo-de-le-hee-hee,
Yo-de-lo-de-lo-de-le-de-lo-de-le.
Yo-de-le-hee-hee,
Yo-de-le-hee-hee,
Yo-de-lo-de-lo-de-le-de-lo-de-le.
A couple of wagons back, one of the centaurs nudges another. “Uhm, Mr. Sam,” she whispers, “pardon me for asking, but does he always go on like this?”
The second centaur takes off his hat and mops his sunbaked brow. “Purty much.” Sam is an older fellow, nut brown with a drooping, silver mustache. His mane is braided up tight to keep it out of the way. Besides the wagon harness, he wears a sweat-soaked bandanna and a dingy, old blue shirt.
The first centaur wrinkles her nose in disbelief. She’s a Percheron, chestnut brown with long, black hair going down her back. “Really? Because we’ve only been on the trail since sunrise, and… Well, I’m sure this is probably traditional and everything, and I don’t want to step on anybody’s hooves, but…”
One of the human escorts sidles up to them. “I think I can speak plainer than Iyarra here. How come nobody’s ever yanked that guitar out of his hands and smashed it against the nearest rock?”
“Well, I’ll tell ya, Miss Revka. I been ridin’ this trail back an’ forth for nigh on twenty year, an’ under all manner a trail bosses. Ol’ Dusty Steele up there is the best boss I ever hauled a wagon under. He’s brave. He knows every inch o’ trail from here to The Rift, knows everybody, done everything, and ain’t never lost a wagon yet.”
The woman lets out a low whistle. “That good, huh?”
The old wagoner turns his head maintaining a steady gaze. “Good enough to put up with five solid days worth a yodeling.”
The women exchange glances. “Okay,” Revka allows. “That’s pretty impressive, actually.”
The old stallion nods. “Eeyup.”
Up ahead, the trail boss keeps strumming and singing:
Well, the desert ain’t no fun,
with the sand and heat and sun.
It ain’t no place for the delicate or weak.
For the trail is long and wide,
and there’s nowhere you can hide.
There’s no priv’cy when you gotta take a leak.
Oh, yo-de-le-hee-hee…
And on they went.
* * * * *
It was about the middle of the afternoon, with the sun beginning its long trek down to its home behind the distant mountains when all hell broke loose. They were traveling through a small canyon as they entered the more mountainous territory that led to their destination. Rocky slopes loomed over them on each side, leaving a fairly narrow path for the convoy to work itself through. The old-timers, who had been this way before, seemed keyed up, nerves on edge. The chatter abated, and even the trail boss had knocked off the singing. He slung his guitar over his back and fell silent, only essaying the occasional sotto voce, “Hum.”
Revka maneuvered herself next to Sam, who had unslung a rather large crossbow and kept swiveling his head back and forth. “Something up?” she asked.
The old centaur nodded. “McBee’s Canyon,” he said. His voice was low; something about the place discouraged making too much noise. “Shaves a week off the trip, but it’s got its own disadvantages, ya might say.”
Revka looked up at the rocky slopes. It didn’t take a genius to work out what he meant. “Ambush?” she whispered.
Sam nodded. “Yep. It don’t happen too often—maybe one time in ten—but when it does, it can git real bad, real quick.” He pointed up ahead. “We’ve got about half a mile. Ain’t no distance at all, really, but if they come down, we’re more or less trapped.
“Now, sometimes they don’t judge their moment right, or you can see ’em in advance. Which case, you can make a dash for it. The exit’s too wide to block, so they gotta catch you in the pinch, if you see what I mean. They can only come down the slopes so fast, y’see. If we get lucky, we can leave ’em behind purty easy, but as I say, it don’t happen too often. Probably we’ll be all right.”
On a mesa, not too far away, the coyote sighed and shook its head sadly. With a long draw of its pipe, it leaned in to watch.
A primal roar echoed across the canyon. The loud nasal bellow sounded like a cross between a charging bull and a wolf, and promised the worst aspects of both. Up ahead, along both ridges of stone, groups of shapes appeared and began to charge their way down the slope.
“Son of a deuce!” Sam groaned.
Revka cursed. “We won’t get past ’em from here, I suppose?”
The old centaur shook his head. “Not a chance. They got the jump on us.”
“I don’t suppose we could turn around?”
“Have a look.”
Revka turned. Sure enough, another smaller band was coming down the slopes behind them. “Well, Krep.”
Sam nodded. “Purty much.” He unbuckled the harness, stepping out of it. “They’ll come at us fore an’ aft,” he said. “Turn the wagons to the side, and we’ll have a bit of cover.” Around them, the other wagoners were already detaching from their harnesses and moving the wagons into place. Up ahead, Steele carefully unslung his guitar and set it against a nearby rock.
Revka, Iyarra, and Sam managed to get the wagon into position with the others into a rough barricade, three in front and two in back. Revka readied her crossbow, but Sam laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t waste your time with that,” he said. “Those little jobs won’t make much more than a scratch on these fellers.” He hoisted down another crossbow from the wagon, a big two-hander, complete with a set of big, nasty-looking bolts. “Try this.”
Revka, taken somewhat by surprise at the weight of the thing, nevertheless managed to get it braced over the top of the wagon. Sam turned to Iyarra. “Got another one if you want it.”
Iyarra shook her head. “I’m more of an up-close fighter,” she said.
Sam shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. The group crouched behind the impromptu barriers, weapons at the ready. Only the trail boss stood out in the open, with no movement except for the slight twitch of his hands hovering over his holsters.
“I suppose,” said Iyarra, “that negotiation is out of the question?”
Sam shook his head. “Not a chance. They’ll try an’ drive us off so they can take what they can. They don’t got a lot of nerve. If we can put the fear in ’em, they won’t hang around.”
“Well,” said Revka, “that doesn’t sound too difficult.”
The old centaur pointed. “Guess again,” he said.
Revka peered. The bandits were closer now, almost to the bottom of the slope. They were kicking up a lot of dust as they came, but she could still see their shapes.
“Oh hell,” Revka muttered. “Cowboys.”
The bandits finished their descent, their cloven hooves hitting the dusty ground and kicking up a wall of cloud. In shape, they were very like centaurs, but stockier, with shorter legs and a lot more muscle. A brutal-looking pair of horns topped each head, and each cowboy carried a pair of handheld crossbows.
The leader, a giant, black Longhorn, charged forward. “Come on, boys,” he yelled, “last one in the fray is a steer!” The bandits cheered and mooed, waving their weapons as they came.
Behind the wagons, Revka took careful aim. Next to her, Iyarra laid out several bolts and held one at the ready. Crossbows were effective at short distances but could take several seconds to reload. One tended to be careful about picking their shot. “Wait for it,” muttered Sam. “Wait for it…now!”
A volley of crossbow bolts shot out from the wagons. Almost at the same moment, the oncoming bandits let fire. Their bolts flew toward Dusty; he paid them no mind. Somehow, each and every single bolt whizzed past him and wound up lodging itself in the side of a wagon or on the ground.
Dusty just smiled. Then, with speed that would make a rattlesnake swallow its gum, he whipped his twin crossbows out of their holsters and fired. Behind the bandit leader, two of the bandits crashed to the ground, taking down the ones immediately behind them as well. The trail boss dropped his crossbows and put his fists up in the time-honored manner of Gentlemanly Fisticuffs, whereupon the Longhorn knocked him flat as he charged past.
Meanwhile, as soon as she pulled the trigger on her own crossbow, Revka shouted “Bolt!” Iyarra reached down with one hand and yanked back the bow with little apparent effort. As soon as it latched, she dropped a bolt into place and patted Revka’s shoulder. “Clear!”
Revka let fly, aiming for the leader. The perfect shot landed dead center of his chest, right where two thick straps of leather crossed over each other. Amazing. Guy has nothing on but two belts, and I still manage to hit the most protected part. A moment later, another volley of bolts came sailing out from the other wagoners, who didn’t have a rapid-reload centaur. They didn’t fare much better.
“Bolt!” One last shot. They were close now, so she just let it fly. It hit the bandit chief in the side, lodging itself a little forward of his left hind leg. He roared, changing his direction so that he was heading right toward them. So that was nice.
The bandits closed with the convoy and the battle began in earnest. The wagons provided a useful barricade, just not a very large one. The attackers split up, charging around the wagons and flanking the defenders.
Fortunately, the group had just enough time to drop their range weapons and brace for close quarters. Revka drew her sword. Iyarra already had her daggers out. As the first few bandits came charging around the wagons, the girls and Sam braced up to face them. In the blink of an eye, four shorthorns, as mean as anyone either woman had ever seen, were on them.
Revka drew back her sword, ready to pick her spot. A big Holstein with muttonchops and black-tipped horns charged toward her. He slowed, a puzzled look on his face. To Revka’s surprise, he stopped and pointed an accusing finger at her.
“That’s a blade!” he yelled. “That human’s got a blade! What gives?”
Sam lay a restraining hand on her arm. “You may wanna put that away,” he said. “I know y’all are new out here, but in these parts, we don’t take to bladed weapons.”
“That’s right!” Another bandit nodded. “Just fisticuffs, with allowable use of blunt objects or the occasional piece of furniture.”
Revka tilted her head up at Sam. “But…but they’re outlaws.” She waved a hand at the mob of bulltaurs. “Aren’t we supposed to be fighting them off?”
“Well, sure, but there’s ways what’s acceptable and ways what ain’t.”
“Exactly!” the bandit nodded. “We may be outlaws, but we got standards! And consarn it, bladed weapons just ain’t western.”
“That’s right.” Sam took off his hat. “It’s against The Code of the West.”
Suddenly everybody, except Iyarra and Revka, bandit and wagoner alike, took off their hats. “The Code of the West,” they chorused in perfect unison, eyes reverently shut.
“Now,” said Sam. “Go ahead and put them things away and we’ll just, ah, pick up where we left off.” He looked over to the bandits. “That all right with you gents?”
