Blood For Wages

23: The Thing About Droughts

Daybreak came, as it always did. As unique in a host of small ways as it always was. Night's shrouds were lifted one after another and, in measured stages, the shapes and shades of everyday things were restored to them, the world remade in its usual arrangement that was so marvellously unremarkable.

Although she'd said she would, Fia paid it no heed.

The two women looked down at Torsten Gunn's body. Despite the red holes that were stitched across his leather breastplate and the drying blood running across his cheek to his ear, he looked serene. Far younger than he had appeared in life, somehow.

"It wasn't right for him to be taken like that," Fia said, her voice very tight in her chest. She was surprised at how the man's death had affected her. Surprised at how quickly she had surrendered her feelings to an outlaw who had been touted by many as the single biggest scourge of Fallaros' roads.

"That's fuckin' life for you," said Boni Woe. Her eyes were hard and bloodshot. She passed Fia a flask and Fia took it. "That's fuckin' death for you."

"Life ain't fair."

"You don't think? I've always thought it's as fair as it can be. We all get that nine month shuffle in our mama's bellies, and then we get the deal. All of us take a flop, endure the turn, and then cross the river. Shit, a lot of us go bust, that's for certain, but there are some that might get a full house." She gave Fia a dry look. "Hell, even a couple that manage a royal flush. Lot of folk are ready to blame life come the end of the game, when really it's just the way they've played their fuckin' hand. Pass me back that fuckin' lotion, will you? Might be there's a time for sobriety, but this ain't it."

"What would he have wanted you to do with him?" Fia asked, gritting her teeth against the harsh bite of the red-eye and passing it back.

Boni's face twisted up. She drew in a sharp breath and opened her mouth. Then she paused. Slowly, she let the breath out again. For the space of a couple of heartbeats, Boniface Woe shrank and withdrew and looked like the girl she might've been had the world been less cruel.

"He's wanderin' someplace else now," she said, her pale green eyes fixed on Gunn. "So let his body wander one last time down here. Give him to the river."

* * *

There was no stately, slow ride down the river out of Redstone for Torsten Gunn. No hands folded over his chest, clutching his sword while the current bore him away to the sea. No final, tearful farewell as one of the most infamous outlaws of modern times was whisked away in a boat laden with all those things he most prized.

"There's not even a fucking boat," Fia said, as Breck, Boni, Rule and Winnie carried Gunn on an old door, down to a part of the river bank that allowed them to get closest to the frothing, raging torrent.

"What good's a fuckin' boat gonna do him?" Hunter asked. She had a bandage around her head, another around her right arm and, all in all, looked like a woman who'd just tightrope walked over the mouth of the pit and still couldn't believe she'd managed not to fall.

"I don't know," Fia said. "I just thought... For ceremony's sake or––"

Hunter shook her head and spat. "Be a waste of a fuckin' boat," she said. "Look at that river. It'd chew up a rowboat like you or I'd chumble a biscuit."

Fia glanced over at Gil. The remaining Allaway twin was staring, surly-faced, into the churning, grinding foam. Fia didn't have to think too hard about what was on his mind. Fergus stood next to him, his big florid face all twisted about with grief, his eyes red-rimmed as he tugged distractedly at his bushy beard.

"Ceremonies," Hunter went on. "'Bout the only people they benefit are the local innkeepers."

There was a fair crowd gathered to watch Torsten Gunn take his final journey, though there weren't any tears that Fia could see. He'd been famous for his cold-blooded mercilessness and unhesitating violence as much as anything. Renown for his viciousness in dealing with the soldiers of any tribeland that strayed across his path. For stealing the riches or goods of those that considered themselves the rulers of their respective lands.