-----The Gunslinger-----
âThe first round has officially begun.â
As the fighting began to break out, Clint was glad he had chosen to remain hidden a distance from the podium. While he hadnât predicted that the Tournament Commission would pull something of this level, his sense of danger had never let him down before.
He spent a moment studying those who had chosen not to immediately flee the podium and stay and fight. They were idiots, in his opinion, but an idiot with a weapon in his hand can sometimes be even more dangerous than a clever one. Only one fighter in the crowd stood out to him as noteworthy â a wild looking man with long, braided hair and wearing an open-chested fur coat. He was wielding a gnarled wooden staff, which probably wouldnât have been impressive in anyone elseâs hands, but in his was something fierce. Holding it at its center, he struck both ends as if they were two separate weapons, using them to disarm, trip, or otherwise disable his opponents. And once rendered defenseless, he mercilessly struck them across their head. In the short time Clint was watching, the wild man knocked out â or possibly killed, it was hard to tell from this distance â two foes, and forced another two to retreat from him.
Thatâs one fellow that Clint would have to keep an eye out for. He briefly considered trying to take a shot at him from here, while he had the advantage of surprise, so he wouldnât risk encountering him later in a less advantageous situation. But he discarded that idea quickly. Drawing that much attention to himself this early was a likely way to wind up with a bullet in his own head.
Though there was one competitor somewhere around here that he wouldnât mind taking that risk for. It was time to go for a little walk and see if he could locate him.
He moved along the edges of the tournament grounds, keeping himself close to wall, careful not to expose himself to fighters moving along the pier. A short walk later, he spotted another one of the podiums. He took a spot behind a nearby building where he could get a closer look.
Heâd expected he would see more fighting going on here, but what he saw was kind of strange. Weapons were scattered all about: swords on the roof of a nearby shack, a staff and a mace embedded into the side of one of the towers, a spear balanced precariously on top of a post. The fighters that were still around were busy climbing to retrieve what were presumably their weapons.
Clint watched the scene with great curiosity. He wondered what could have happened here to cause this mess. Something he would hopefully avoid.
He was getting ready to move on when something came crashing down onto the pier. A large man had plummeted from the sky â a giant with a head of hair like a lionâs mane.
The Whitestone convict. Clintâs primary target.
âAh! Heâs not here either!â yelled the convict, his voice booming and harsh. âThat man who looked at me with such righteous hatred! Where is he!?â
His dramatic appearance and shouting obviously drew the attention of the other fighters. Three of them who had recovered their weapons started to circle the convict: an older man with a longsword, a woman in a helmet wielding a spear, and a shirtless man holding a metal staff. Clint crept out slightly from him hiding spot and hovered his hand over his holster.
âGah! I bet he already fled across the water! After all that big talking! He doesnât even come find me to back up his words!â The convict only then seemed to recognize the fighters surrounding him. âHah! Maybe there is at least a little fun to have here. I doubt itâll be as fulfilling, but itâs been far too long since Iâve killed anyone. You all will do as an appetizer.â
Clint focused, blocking out all other distractions. It would be tough to get a clear shot while the convict was fighting, but such a conflict might also leave an opening. Heâd watch the battle play out and take the shot the moment an opportunity presented itself.
The older swordsman and the woman with the spear both attacked the convict head-on, striking towards his chest with an overhead slash and a forward thrust respectively. The spear the was caught in the convictâs right hand, but the sword slash was left unguarded. It cut across his chest, slashing though his ragged excuse for a shirt. But the convict didnât so much as flinch from being cut.
He pulled the spear forward, tearing it out of the womanâs hands, and then, while holding it by its point, he swung it like a bat. The shaft of the spear hit the side of the womanâs head, and her helmet crunched. It was dented so much that her whole head started to look concave. Her body wavered on its feet for a moment before dropping to the ground.
The shirtless man appeared behind the convict and struck him in the back of the head with his metal staff. Again, the convict didnât seem at all bothered by the attack. Instead, he reached behind himself and grabbed the shirtless man, his meaty palm wrapping completely around the manâs face. He flipped the man over his shoulder and slammed his face into the ground.
The swordsman, realizing just how outmatched he was, turned and sprinted away. He was pretty fast, and it looked for a moment like he was going to get away. But the convict chucked the limp body of the shirtless man in his direction, launching it like a throwing spear. The body took the swordsmanâs feet out from under him and caused him to stumble.
The convict pounced, clearing the distance between him and the swordsman in a single mighty leap. He spun through the air she he got close, and used his momentum to lash out with a flying kick. The kick struck the swordsman square in the back, and caused his body to bend backwards like a piece of bread folded over a sandwich. The continued force sent his folded body flying forward until it crumpled against a post.
As this fight â if the slaughter in front of him could even be considered a fight â played out, Clint waited patiently. Just like in a quickdraw duel, getting the drop on someone with a shot from a long range required being absolutely sure you had your angles straight. Because if you missed that shot, now youâve given away your location and are vulnerable to attacks coming back your way. And based on the speed and brutality that the convict had displayed, that could end very poorly for Clint.
So he ignored the first impulse to draw, and then the second. And finally, the moment came. After the giantâs kick impacted the late swordsmanâs back, he lingered there in the air for the second it took for his feet to come back to the ground. Clint could tell exactly where he would land, exactly where his head would be at that moment, and exactly what angle he needed to fire at to make that shot.
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Clint drew his revolver and fired. The shot rang out across the pier.
The convict finished touching down for his jump. And then just stood there. Clint wondered if he had somehow missed a shot for the first time in recent memory.
Then the convict reached up to his forehead, and pulled something that had gotten lodged there. Clintâs bullet, he realized. A small trickle of blood ran down from where the bullet had impacted.
Well, that really puts a damper on my strategy, doesnât it? Clint thought. He imagined Percy would get a good laugh at learning how his âshoot âem in the headâ tactic had failed right out of the gate.
The convict looked around, and Clint ducked back behind the building. He wasnât sure what the plan was now. There were still five shots in his revolver, but if they each did as little damage as the first, it might as well be empty.
He reached into the pocket where he had stored the bundle of blasting sticks. Maybe they would have a better effect. If he could find a way to detonate the convict without also blowing himself up.
âHello?â the convict called out. âAnyone there?â
It might have been considered yellow, but Clint wasnât about to respond to that.
The convict yelled out in frustration. âNothing? Gah! All so disappointing! I was promised the strongest fighters on the entire continent would be here! But so far, the deadliest thing has been my boredom!â
There was some kind of blast further down the pier that caught the convictâs attention. Drawn to the violence like a moth to the flame, he took another mighty leap, this time far into the air, and disappeared from sight.
Clint removed his hat and wiped his brow. Not quite how he was imagining things to play out. He wasnât fixing to give up, and he still had no intention of letting Whitestone continue its treatment of his people. But he needed some time to think. Heâd need to come up with a new tactic for when bullets didnât work.
Or, perhaps, figure out what secret Whitestoneâs champion possessed that made his bullets ineffective.
First, he had to make sure he stayed in the competition. That meant finding a way out to the island.
He decided to go back in the opposite direction that the convict had gone . No use risking running into him again before Clint was ready.
Some time passed, and Clint was sensing that there was less fighting going on nearby. He looked out to the sea and saw several ships were already making the journey across to the island. There was a growing worry that he had already missed his chance, and that by playing it safe and keeping to the outskirts of the pier he had missed the boats.
Then he spotted two figures messing with the wood of the pier. They opened a secret trap door and disappeared inside before shutting the door behind them.
Hidden areas under the pier sounded like the kind of place you might find a boat. At the very least, it warranted investigating. Clint rushed over, keeping his head on a swivel as he did to look out for any possible ambushes. It took him a moment, but he was able to locate the trap door. He popped it open, revealing a hidden ladder. So down he went.
He climbed down into a dimly lit underground dock. Not a big area. Ceiling was barely higher than his head, and the only feature was the platform at which a small boat was moored. Three people were already seated on the boat, and another man â dressed in the coat of the tournament commission â was at the helm. The civilian captain, Clint figured.
Another man, a stout fellow, was standing with one foot on the boat and one foot still on the platform. He was struggling with a big pack, trying to cram it in the back of the boat behind the seat.
âIâm telling you, that thing isnât going to fit,â the captain said.
âJust give me a minute, itâll fit. Just need to arrange it properly.â The stout man glanced over at Clint. âHey, man. Boatâs full. Only seats four competitors. Better luck next time.â
Clint drew his revolver and pointed it with purpose. âIâll be taking the fourth seat, then.â
The man didnât seem threatened, but Clint did note that he took his one foot off the boat. Both were now on the platform. âYou crazy? Didnât you here the rules â no fighting on the boats. You want to be disqualified.â
âDoesnât look to me like youâre on the boat yet. Unless your pack counts as yourself.â
This seemed to freeze him up. He looked back at the boat, and then down at his feet.
âTevin you idiot, get on the boat now!â one of the passengers called out to him.
The stout man made a break for it â
He didnât get to set one foot back on the boat before Clintâs revolver fired. The shot took him in the head and knocked him back, his body eventually coming to rest against the cavernâs far wall.
Least my strategy still works on some of the competitors.
Clint strode quickly over towards the boat and stepped onto it.
The passenger who had yelled out at Clintâs victim rose from his seat and raised a metal rod about the length of Clintâs arm. Sparks of electricity shot out of the top of the rod as he held it towards Clint.
âYou bastard! That was my teammate you just killed!â he shouted. âYou think Iâm just going to let you get away with that?â
Clint didnât react to the threat and calmly took a seat. âNo fighting on the boat, remember? Any issue you have with me, going to have to wait till we get to the island.â
âPlease take your seat so we can leave,â the boatâs captain said, his bland voice suggesting a lack of concern for everything that had transpired.
The passenger grunted, but lowered the rod, causing the sparks to fade. âFine. Itâll wait till we arrive. But the moment we step off the boat, Iâm going to kill you.â
âThatâs fine,â Clint replied, not bothering to make eye contact with the man.
Finally, the passenger sat back down. The captain started up the boat â a Lyris engine, it appeared â and they drifted away from the platform, out of the hidden dock, and out to sea. The boat lurched as it hit the deeper water, causing the dead manâs half-stowed pack to jump out of its place and sink into the water.
This further enraged the man with the rod, who shot a threatening glare at Clint. Clint didnât really mind it. As far as he was concerned, that fellow was the least of his problems.
Whitestoneâs convict was at the top of the list. Presuming that he actually made it across the water and didnât waste all the time until morning on his killing rampage, Clint was going to need to figure out a way to kill a man that bullets couldnât harm.
And then there were some new, more immediate concerns.
The passenger who sat directly across from Clint was rocking back and forth, clutching his stomach. The fellow looked absolutely filthy â dirty hair, stained clothes, grimy face. He looked like a man who had fallen in mud, then decided to try to wash it out with shit. And he was mumbling to himself.
âI know ⦠I know ⦠just wait a little longer ⦠I know itâs been a long time ⦠just a little longer ⦠you heard what they said ⦠we canât while weâre on the boat ⦠just a little longer â¦â
That was concerning. Clint hated the crazy ones. Most people, even the vilest ones you can think of, could be predicted to an extent to act in favor of their self-preservation and best interests. But the crazy ones, there was no telling what they might do. They might shoot themselves in the foot if they think itâll distract you long enough for them to take a shot at a you.
But it was the fourth passenger, the one sitting across the man with the rod, that concerned Clint the most. And he couldnât really explain why. Physically, he wasnât anything too impressive. Quite the opposite. The kid in the blue hooded coat looked frail, if anything, like even a strong breeze might knock him over.
Yet there was something about him that set Clint on edge. It was that same danger sense that had warned him to keep away from the podiums, that he had relied on his own life to know when there was some threat to his life that he wasnât consciously aware of. The hair on the back of his neck tingled, and he felt his fingers twitch near his revolver.
The young man with silver hair didnât notice Clintâs attention, or if he did, he didnât return it. He looked lazily out at the sea, seeming as if he could doze off at any minute.
Clint examined him for any signs of a weapon or tool that could be triggering that sense of danger, but saw nothing. Whatever it was had to be well hidden.
âYouâre dead,â the passenger with the rod decided to repeat at Clint.
He might be right. But if he was, it wouldnât be him who did the killing.