A cloud of dust rose toward the heavens, envious of the serenity above. Where the clouds were a picture of bliss, the dust was forever a reminder of the harshness of the planet Takal; an arid planet of desert and stone.

  Here, only those of true grit could survive.

  The dust clouds were swept away, dissolving upon the wind. If only Gorak Six-Fingers could sweep away the memories he ran from just as easily. He winced as the echo reared like an angry beast in his mind: bursts of gunshot and subsequent explosions of blood. He urged his quadral faster, as if speed could outrun memory.

  “Yer fuckin’ basterd” Gorak half cried, half snarled. “You’ll get yers!” He veered the quadral left, off the trail and into the desert true. Gorak swung behind him, peering over the feathered tail of his quadral into the distance. He narrowed his pig-like eyes in an attempt to see better; swinar were not known for acute vision. Glimpsing no one, he heaved a sigh of relief and ran a nervous hand over his horn-crested head with three stubby fingers.

  Gorak grinned with joy as he made out a stout shack half a league away. I done it! He thought, spurring his quadral on faster still. He leapt from the saddle as soon as he reached the structure; a squat yet wide building of wood and tin. The windows were boarded over and the words ‘Breakbones Gang’ were painted poorly upon the building front.

  Two men stood guard: Lettle and Spitz—seasoned members of the gang. Native takalans, they were grey-skinned with black eyes and heavily ridged brows. Where Gorak sweated heavily under the planet’s two suns, the takalan brothers appeared unbothered.

  “Where’s the rest of the boys, Six-Fingers?” Lettle demanded.

  “Dead. Shot down in the street like varmin!” Gorak announced, unable to keep the panic from his voice. “I need ta see the boss.” Gorak didn’t wait for a reply. He raced inside, stumbling slightly as his foot caught on the threshold. He pulled his pants up roughly as they threatened to fall, lingering only to scratch a wide and leathery buttock.

  The interior of the cabin was much like the exterior; worn down and broken. Yet it bustled with life. Nearly a dozen grizzled men occupied the space. They were split between drinking heavily at the bar—a plank of wood suspended by two barrels—and several tables strewn about the room. Several bunks were haphazardly laid upon the floor, but most nights gang members just slept where they fell.

  “Boss! Bounty hunter!” Gorak called.

  Immediately the room fell silent. Heavy boots thumped on the floor and Gorak turned, his head raising to meet Breakbones’ eyes. Blood red, with no whites, he peered down from his full seven-foot height. Red markings seemed to drip from his eyes, as if he wept tears of blood. Oily black hair hung from his head, cascading down wide shoulders marked with bony-spikes that ran to his knuckles. Osteans were not a species to be trifled with.

  “That why you ride alone, little swinar?” Breakbones asked, his voice like oncoming thunder. He smelled of stale whiskey and blood.

  “Yer boss. He were in town. Seemed nice enough,” Gorak said, his eyes shifting wildly. “Bought everyone a round, played a few games er cards. Left soon afta. Didn’t ask no weird questions or nuthin’.”

  “What happened?” Breakbones asked, placing a calloused hand upon Gorak’s shoulder. Gorak shrunk under the weight of it.

  “Well, we got out on the street and start’d ta head back. Then, boom,” Gorak splayed his hands for effect. “We were bein’ pelted with gunfire. It were everywhere, dust flyin’ up. The quadrals spooked and bucked Lil’ Roy and Comet. Soon as they hit the ground, they were holy!”

  “How many?” Breakbones growled.

  “I only seen the one guy from ‘fore, set up on a roof,” Gorak said. “But he were a hell of a shot. Once the boys were bucked, bam! One shot each in the chest or ‘ead.”

  “What’d you say his name was?” Breakbones asked, a look of uncertainty upon his face.

  “He didn’t say nothin’. But he were xolus!” Gorak added hastily, seeing this displeasure upon Breakbones’ face. “Had the blue skin, the yeller eyes and the big pointy ears an’ all!”

  Breakbones seized Gorak by the scruff, wild-eyed. “Wore a blue and yellow coat, a magus-class iron on his hip?”

  “Sounds about right…” Gorak said.

  “Were you followed!” Breakbones demanded, lifting the plump swinar into the air with ease.

  “Nah, boss!” Gorak cried. “He tried takin’ me down like the others, but he missed! I ain’t seen him tailing me!”

  “He didn’t miss,” Breakbones let Gorak drop heavily to the floor. “He let you go. He wanted you to lead him here.”

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  “So what!” Gorak scrambled to his feet, indignant. “Is just one man! He weren’t half as big as you, boss!”

  “That one man,” Breakbones snarled, eyes narrowing. “Is Xaryk Foe.” Frantic whispers followed his proclamation as rumours were exchanged and warnings were given.

  Two gunshots rang out in quick succession, silencing the commotion as dual beams of light pierced the tin exterior. Blood trickled down fresh holes on either side of the door—roughly where the takalan brothers had stood vigil.

  “Well, boys,” a voice called, strong and rich with experience. In just two words, the voice seemed to promise this was just another day and that nothing the gang could do would surprise him.

  “Seems to me, you have two options. One: you surrender. Relinquish your pistols, lie prone with your hands behind your heads, and allow yourselves to be captured—nice and clean. Oh, you’ll swing for your crimes, but you’ll buy yourselves a few extra days of breathing,” he paused, letting the point linger.

  “Two: I kill every last one of you—save your boss, whom I will expedite for the bounty. He will also then swing. Either option ends the same, but I would appreciate you choosing option one—it’ll save me the hassle, and a trip to the gunsmith to refuel my magwells. The choice is yours. You have until I get bored to decide, though I must warn you: my attention span is as brief as a two-sun day is long.”

  Breakbones spat, before he pointed at Gorak and another bandit, indicating towards the holes. “Just a minute!” He shouted, to cover their advance. “There are a lot of guns in here to lay down, Mr Bounty Hunter.” Gorak stepped up to the bloody hole, peering through with beady eyes.

  Outside the door stood a dark figure, his face cast in shadow by the sun at his back. A steady hand hovered at a large revolver at his belt. Gorak looked back towards Breakbones and gestured to where the figure stood.

  “He’s in the open, boss,” Gorak whispered.

  “Idjit,” Breakbones grinned, hoisting a large slug-tier pistol and pointing it towards the spot Gorak highlighted. “Light him up, boys!” He roared, seconds before a hail of bullets turned the wall before Gorak into a constellation of holes.

  The stout swinar dived to the side to avoid the barrage, covering his head as debris rained upon him like rocks in a sandstorm. Soon, the staccato of bullet fire was replaced by impotent clicks as the bandits attempted to fire absent bullets.

  “Hold, boys!” Breakbones held up a fist. “That oughta do it,” he laughed. The gang followed suit. “Check,” he glowered down at Gorak.

  Gorak had no shortage of options to peer through as he rose to a crouch, careful not to slip on the metal casings left by slug-class guns. Surveying the landscape, Gorak groaned in dismay as he observed the figure, still standing.

  “He's still up, boss!” He yelled.

  “What?” Came Breakbones’ reply.

  Not trusting his poor eyesight, Gorak returned to the portal just in time to see the figure waver and disappear.

  “He—he’s gone!” Gorak cried, just as three metallic chimes rang out through the sorry shack—followed by an explosion of smoke that quickly filled the room.

  “What’s going—,” a sound like static and the voice went quiet. Five more eerie chimes rang out, followed by five heavy thumps. Metallic grinding and twisting filled the room as the gang scrambled to reload their guns.

  Too slow.

  Six more static chimes, six more bodies. The noise they made was not dissimilar to heavy sacks of grain thrown onto the back of a cart.

  Silence reigned for several agonising moments.

  Gorak jumped in fright as the door fell from its hinges, destroyed. Smoke wafted from the open portal.

  The smoke began to clear, revealing three figures with guns raised. Gorak had barely time to yelp as one of the figures turned inwards, felling the closest bandit to them with another burst of static.

  Breakbones spun, raising his weapon just as the figure darted forward. The shadow caught the collapsing body mid-fall, hoisting it over its shoulder. Blood burst from the cadaver as it was hurled forward, slamming into the ostean—knocking the weapon from his hand and the corpse to the floor.

  The smoke finally cleared, revealing a tall and lean figure with his arm outstretched, a long revolver in hand, aimed at his downed foe.

  He had grey-blue skin, dark blue hair, and markings that framed piercing yellow eyes. The bounty hunter wore a long blue coat with yellow trim, and a brown leather holster hung at his hip.

  “I surmise that you have decided to go with option two,” he said, grinning at the large bandit.

  Gorak fumbled for the pistol at his hip.

  “Now now, my bodacious friend,” Xaryk Foe called, not even bothering to turn his head. “Your friends have already shuffled off their mortal coil. Be a clever boy, drop your armaments and be on your way.”

  “I—I can’t!” Gorak stammered.

  “Well, no one can say I didn’t try,” the bounty hunter drawled lazily, his revolver blurring into motion.

  Gorak winced, looking down at the smoking hole in his belly. He stared up at his killer, dropping heavily to the side.

  Through blurred vision, Gorak barely registered what came next: Breakbones seized the moment. He slammed a heavy boot into the floorboards. The rotted wood splintered, the impact driving the distal plank upward, knocking the revolver mid-pivot from Xaryk’s hand.

  Breakbones charged.

  With a flick of his wrist, Foe sent a dagger spinning toward him. The Ostean barely flinched as the blade buried into his thick hide, closing the distance with a roar.

  Xaryk ducked beneath the haymaker, a golden sigil glowing on his glove as he clicked his fingers—the dagger snapped back into his grip like a faithful hound.

  Breakbones surged forward: left jab, right uppercut, sweeping backhand.

  Foe danced through it all—ducking, twisting, and carving shallow wounds: a stab to the arm, a cut across the ribs, a ricocheted toss that struck the ostean’s ridged brow.

  Xaryk leapt back, clicked his fingers, and the spinning knife snapped to his hand. He grinned as he caught it—a challenge in his eyes. Until he saw the revolver, now resting at Breakbones’ feet.

  “Well,” he drawled, “that is... less than ideal.”

  Breakbones bared his teeth, triumphant, as he bent to collect the weapon.

  “Nobody does Breakbones in, scum,” he spat, leveling the firearm toward its owner.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The revolver flashed gold for a split second before exploding with a shriek of electricity. Breakbones convulsed, screaming as smoke poured from his chest. He hit the ground with a heavy thud.

  Xaryk strolled over, calm as ever, drawing a set of manacles from his coat.

  “Leopold ‘Breakbones’ Clerence,” he said, “by all the martial authority afforded to me by the planet Takal, you are hereby under arrest. Please do not resist.”

  He grinned.

  That grin—devil-may-care, full of sin and mischief in equal measure—was the last thing Gorak Six-Fingers saw as the light faded from his beady eyes.