Page 29 of Tusks & Saddles

Chapter Two

Beatrix

T here was no avoiding it, Beatrix Eaves was absolutely going to shoot someone.

To be more precise, she was going to shoot Gimdor Hammerhead.

Specifically in the face at point blank range.

Whether or not the dwarven man survived was entirely up to him.

Irongarde was full of healers—and by healers, she meant people who knew how to stop a wound from becoming infected.

With the growing district of worship, all it took was a bit of coin, some precious materials, and Gimdor would be good as new.

However, Beatrix was petty enough that she would make the bastard pay for his own mending, too.

Beatrix was ordinarily quite reasonable.

As a child, her father would frequently compliment her calm demeanor and levelheaded thinking.

It wasn’t an easy feat given how strict her father’s schedule was and how busy her home had been.

Not to mention the complexity of her upbringing and growing family dynamic.

Rationality, however, could quickly be thrown out the window under exactly two circumstances.

One, any manner of creature hellbent on eating either Beatrix, her client, or any other denizen in the world of Ordia.

And two, any denizen who failed to provide Beatrix with dire, need-to-know information about any job she took.

Both cases usually found either a beast or an individual facing the barrel of her firearm.

And both ended one way, she thought.

Beatrix sighed. Beneath the black veil of her wide brimmed hat, she was starting to get warm.

Black wasn’t ideal for the blistering heat, but the material could hide the dirt and bloodstains.

Her dress was made of fine material, dark but breathable with short, frilly sleeves.

Fitted black leather gloves covered most of her exposed arms, stopping barely an inch from her dress sleeves.

The skirts were heavy, but layered in way that didn’t inhibit her movement.

Sturdy, fitted boots lay beneath the hemline of her dress.

The only part of her outfit Beatrix could have gone without was the damn corset.

Some habits were hard to break, but she had at least done the sensible thing with it.

Finding a blacksmith that specialized in armor corsetry—well, that had been a challenge.

Luckily, Beatrix had coin to spare, and the custom armor had been made with little fuss.

The belt around her waist was a thick leather that matched her gloves, custom made to carry Bad Company at her hip.

Explaining the shape for the custom leather holster had been a little challenging.

Firearms were still a fairly new invention.

The technology—no one could trace it back to the original creator.

Rumors around the weapon linked to many famous tinkerers, but none claimed the invention as their own.

Like many weapons, it had been the product of a war on the continent of Kerth.

Brilliant tinkerers had come together to aide the Tharverus Empire in their war with the now dissolved Kingdom of Bezlaun .

A handful of firearms had crossed many seas, arriving on new continents.

Tinkerers from around the world had quickly gotten their hands on them.

A few lost their lives to dismantling the weapons, but a select few had learned to reverse engineer them.

The cost of materials alone meant that most firearms were display models.

Pretty trinkets hidden behind thick glass in the homes of nobility.

Then there were people like Beatrix. Those who had purchased firearms with the sole purpose of using them.

And gods knew, Beatrix used hers well. Over the last ten years she had sharpened her shooting skills to the point that she could take someone out of a fight before they could unsheathe their sword.

Her ability to quickly draw and fire had saved many denizens—including herself—more times than she could count.

Which is why Gimdor will be getting a shot in the face, Beatrix thought with some irritation.

One of the bigger drawbacks to firearms was the fact that despite the best minds, the weapon was notorious for misfiring.

Even with the aide of arcanists and basic spellcrafting from tinkerers, there was always a chance of failure.

Between the cost of coin, the misfire, and just the likelihood of the weapon blowing a damn arm off, it wasn’t a weapon worth investing in.

Unless you were Beatrix Eaves.

She pressed her spine against the plush chair of the luxury cabin.

Mercenary work had done wonders for Beatrix’s independence.

Affording her the cost of the finery of the cabin she occupied.

The wide birth between passengers was significantly wider, thanks to the upgraded ticket she had bought back in Parandor Stronghold.

Large windows had heavy drapes, paintings, and mood lighting within the interior of the cabin.

Nobles, scholars, and the self righteous were all pampered.

Ordinarily, Beatrix would have been content with riding via the usual train ticket, but after her last assignment, she was entitled to a little rest.

Beatrix’s mind circled back to how many shots she could reasonable fire to get Gimdor as close to death without actually dying.

She was doing a spot of math in her head when she heard the sound of the little trolley coming down the aisle.

Solid golden-white eyes caught a glimpse of the familiar plump, teal-faced goblin woman dressed in simple robes.

Faroline was middle aged with near-black hair styled in an artful bob.

Large, pointed ears jutted out between the strands of hair, adorned with delicate silver hoops.

A wide grin revealed sharp, jagged teeth, but her expression was warm and friendly.

Faroline had been nothing but the picture of Vyrthsalin hospitality since the day Beatrix had met her.

And quite frankly, out of the two train attendants, Faroline was much better at her job than her prissy elven counterpart.

“What’ll you be having today, ma’am?” the woman asked with a familiar drawl to her speech. The accent was common west of Gloomsdale.

“Oh, Faroline, surprise me,” Beatrix said, her voice smoky and slow. “The corn biscuits and gravy were excellent, so I trust your tastes.”

“Alright, ma’am, why not have a bowl of sausage and beans? Sausage is made with Irongarde’s own cattle. My Levi works directly with one of the ranchers, too, so you know it’s the good stuff. There’s even some greens to keep your energy up.”

“That sounds lovely, thank you. ”

The food cart carried two large pots, both resting on some kind of iron contraption that elevated the pots above two stout candles.

Beatrix strongly suspected that the wicks were enchanted in some way as it made little sense for such tiny flames to keep so much food warm.

Faroline pulled a bowl from one of the lower shelves on the cart.

Gathering the lid from one of the pots, she scooped a generous portion of wild rice into the bowl.

She replaced the lid before doing the same with the other pot, the second contained the mixture of beans, sausage, and a hearty looking green all in a thick looking sauce.

“Here ya are, ma’am. I hope you enjoy the meal. Just holler if you need anything. Maewyrnn will be by in half an hour to collect the silver,” the woman said before pushing the hefty cart away.

Beatrix inhaled the delicious mixture of spices and felt her mouth water.

With the soup balanced carefully within the cradle of her lap, Beatrix carefully lifted the veil.

Not enough to completely reveal her face, but enough that she could feed herself without staining the thin cloth.

The air no longer muggy against her cheeks, Beatrix collected a decent spoonful.

She got no more than a taste before she heard the voice of a man far behind her.

Not just a voice, but one that sounded disgruntled.

“Now see here—”

A great commotion, the sound of silverware falling to the ground and the cry frightened people.

Beatrix sunk into her chair, dropping her bowl to the floor.

A few bits of beans and sauce spilled over the side upon landing, but she had other things on her mind.

Beatrix knew a train heist even without a perfect line of sight.

The shouting—both the passengers and bandits—was a familiar sound .

Robbing a train in broad daylight was more than a little ambitious.

It could potentially be downright foolish.

A few brilliant minds describing the bandits in detail to a talented arcane practitioner could mean a wanted poster in their future.

Irongarde was legally under the Vyrthsalias Kingdom’s rule, but the city was run by local government officials who struggled to keep up with the growing population.

To put it frankly, even if they somehow managed to pull off their heist, it would most likely result in their capture if not death. Anything was possible with the right amount of coin and a few desperate stomachs.

The first thing Beatrix needed to assess the situation. Her hand was already on the handle of her firearm, as she slowly eased toward the edge of her vacant seat. She chanced a quick glance, dropping back behind the chair as the sound of the wealthy passengers escalated in volume.

Three that I can see. One on the left passenger side, two down the aisle. No obvious signs of arcane abilities, but I can’t discount that either. Not very smart, which means they’re potentially disorganized—

“—take it! Take everything, please, just don’t hurt me!” a voice pleaded over the sound of whimpering wealth.

“Keep your trap shut and we ain’t gonna have a problem,” a deep voice rumbled in return.

The two that stood in the aisle weren’t clever enough to conceal their faces with any covering.

They were relying entirely on the short brims of their hats to obscure their features.

Both human in appearance, each brandishing short swords and disgruntled expressions.

The one with his back to the wall of the cabin on the left side must have been the brains.

Unlike the other two, he had concealed most of his face with a scarf.

Beneath the brim of a wide hat, it made it impossible to grab any details of his face.

Armed with a crossbow, the man had his weapon aimed directly at Faroline.

That settles it then.

Beatrix recalled approximately where the man with the crossbow had been.

The image burned into her mind, she pressed down into her legs and shot up as fast as she could.

Her firing arm was already raised, barrel trained on the man with the crossbow.

In a split second, his gaze found her and his own finger moved toward the trigger.

The piercing sound of Bad Company firing filled the cabin. Beatrix didn’t pause to see the bandit drop and she ignored the sound of the frightened passengers screaming. All that mattered was that Faroline was no longer staring down the length of a crossbow bolt.

Five shots left. Make them count.

Arm steady, Beatrix trained Bad Company at the nearest bandit.

He was quick, moving down the aisle in order to slash her with his short sword.

Her firing arm, on the other hand, was quicker.

Another shot rang out in the cabin, the impact of the bullet piercing the man’s upper shoulder sent the bandit back several paces.

While not completely out of the woods yet, Beatrix had still managed to disarm him.

A man in one of the passenger seats was quick enough to snatch the short sword away, shakily pressing the tip of the sword to the bandit’s neck.

Four shots left.

The remaining bandit must have realized the robbery was turning south, because he turned on his heel.

Beatrix could already tell what his escape plan entailed.

The only way off the train was to proceed forward past her and through two more cabins to reach the platform door.

The other exit—and most likely where the bandits had entered from—was through the staff cabin and into the standard cabins of the train.

Those cabins were typically overcrowded and the potential for the passengers coming to harm was a risk Beatrix wasn’t willing to make.

She aimed at the bandit, finger moving on the trigger to fire—

Nothing.

Misfire.

“Balls.”