Moonsteel: Chapter One - The Bone Handed Revolver
For Jol, the underworld had always been a vague threat. A leftover from childhood, the hand of discipline raised by his father when obedience failed. He saw now, in the split prairie and chasm of molten liquid that spurted from it, that very hand, reaching, questing with molten fingers for purchase on the solid firmament of the living.
The night lit to a brightness that rivaled day, sketched quickly in the limited palette of consuming fire. Short grasses fringing the wound caught and flared, sending black curls of smoke that fought to reclaim the darkness.
He had felt no earthquake, but Jol could think of nothing else capable of fistulating the earth and thrusting its roiling innards topside. His mount, Misty, pawed at the ground nervously. What had seemed a fire of unwise size barely hidden by the small hills as they approached pulled them up short when they crested the small uprising that encircled the dell below. Jol sat transfixed, the heat palpable on his face, as the leaves on the only trees within a day's ride began to curl below. They caught fire, which spread quickly along the branches until the trunks erupted like giant candles.
The blaze would be contained to the depression. It was a shame he hadn't come across this area before the fire, as there was a spring at its center, making it the most verdant area he had seen since leaving the river. The destruction was devastatingly beautiful, but he couldn't stay; there were four more hours of travel before dawn. He pressed his spurs into Misty, about to round back out into the flats, but caught sight of movement in the bottom of the dell. There were two people near the spring; with the fire they wouldn't last long.
Jol's reflexive thought was to help. It was what his father would do, without question. Jol's considered thought filled him with shame. Even on a horse, he would likely die trying to rescue them. Already steam was rising from the spring. Misty sensed his struggle, as she often did, and offered her advice. She dipped her head, snorting, and took two steps back.
His shame dissipated slightly when he realized he had miscalculated. The figures by the spring weren't frantic. They weren't trying to escape. If anything, it looked like they were squaring off for a duel.
One was dressed in a flowing white qalat robe, but it had been heavily adorned. This man was circling the spring, and Jol was transfixed by his long sleeves that were themselves burning. What had at first appeared to be an ornate embroidered turtle on each arm was in fact made of flame, and moving slowly up his arms, licking at the sleeves but leaving them unscathed.
The man opposite, if the oily blackness was in fact that, completely occluded the flames and the man in white as it moved, but reflected nothing itself. The depth of the darkness, the absolute void was so total, that Jol wrapped his arms around Misty's neck to counteract the wave of vertigo that swept over him.
As the back of the man in white came into view, the two turtles made of flame nestled around each other, forming a symmetric sigil that blazed on the robe, flickering across the pure silver hair sticking straight as straw from beneath his wide brimmed hat.
The two circled the spring, remaining opposite each other the entire time, moving slowly. The man in white's hand hovered over a holster attached to his braided belt; the silver revolver within reflected and distorted the blaze around them. The black void remained a shapeless oval, approximating the size of the flaming man in white that opposed it.
For two full revolutions they walked a circle opposing each other. The inferno roared, boiling the sap in the trees, which popped like gunfire.
Then there was motion. So quick that it took until long after the action had finished for Jol to piece together what had transpired. The black form struck out at the man in white, a lance extruding from and deforming its shape. The man in white sidestepped, his torso moving with rapid grace to the side as the black lance found only air and returned to its caster like the tongue of lizard snapping back after missing a fly. The white hat, head, and legs, caught up with the torso after it had dodged; an elastic form snapping back together.
The silver holster was empty, a hand made entirely of bone clutched the revolver, passing it under the other skeletal hand that worked the hammer faster than was humanly possible. Jol counted six flashes and then the thunderous echoes rolled up the shallow hill. Misty shook at her bridle and danced in place, but held firm. She was accustomed to gunfire.
The black form shattered into large fragments, like a window dropped from its frame. A single broken piece lashed out at the man in white, as a drunkard on his way to the floor swinging with the shattered top of a bottle. A seventh and final kick of the pistol blasted the void into particles that sprayed across the man in white's chest, who toppled forward into the spring.
Immediately the fire extinguished, sucked back into the molten fissure like a bellows in reverse. The ground collapsed onto itself, burying the hot wound and leaving only disturbed earth easily mistaken for a freshly dug grave. The trees and ground hissed a deep blackness that reclaimed the night. Misty gave a whinny, as if in response to an unheard call, which stood Jol's hair on end.
He needed to get away. As far and as fast as he could. Deciding on exactly what he had just witnessed could wait for the daylight, when he and Misty would be safely resting from the sun. He spurred Misty and rounded toward the flats. She did a complete circle and began down the hill toward the spring.
"No. Woah. No." Jol pulled hard on the reins. With a single whip of her neck, Misty tore them free from his hands to dangle at her sides, as she trotted gently into the dell. Jol considered jumping, but it was too dark now to make out the area below. She had never been disobedient. More like a puppy than a horse, he had heard numerous times. But now his docile mount was going to get him killed. She descended easily, while Jol gripped his rifle until his fingers were white, but in the end found no use for it.
The area surrounding the spring was charred and ash covered, befallen of a terrible, but undisturbed snow. Jol's small candle cast a flickering light, yet there was no sign of either combatant, only Misty's hoof-prints. And then a faint glint in the bubbles of the small spring caught his eye. It was the silver revolver.
Jol fetched it from the water, shaking the seven-chambered weapon as dry as he could make it. It was colder than the water, so much so that he checked for ice along the barrel, but there was nothing. The silver was beautiful even in the dark, as if it had been cast from moonlight. For a reason he could not fathom, Jol's hand began to shake. He knew at an unconscious level that it would stop if he gripped the weapon properly. So he wrapped his hand tightly around the grip. In that moment, Jol knew he would never wield another gun. He would never need to.
He brought the candle close and nearly extinguished the flame in fright. The hand gripping the revolver---his hand---was entirely bone, completely devoid of flesh. He wiggled his fingers, and the skeletal digits responded.
Part of him wanted to throw the gun back into the water, but another clawed his insides at the very thought. He closed his eyes and squeezed the handle as hard as he could, wondering whether his hand would wither into dust. It didn't.
The simple thought of letting the gun out of his hand brought him to near panic, but he managed to carefully slip it under his belt and let go, just to see if he could; immediately his hand returned to its human form. He pulled the gun out again, filled with relief as his hand embraced it and marveling at the wielding skeleton.
The chamber held seven rounds, a metal composite and gauge he was unfamiliar with. It was too dark to sight anything in. Jol aimed where the moon should have been and pulled the trigger. The dell reverberated with a roar that came from the earth itself.