Chapter 2: -2- “A Helping Hand”

It was simply supposed to be one more job for the rogue. She needed to eat and was running out of money. The listing said it would pay well, so she took it on. But of course, the carriage just had to be robbed, with those useless bastards from Bulwark Company fleeing or dying at the hands of their attackers. She could’ve just left, and it wasn’t her stuff to protect outside of contractual obligation.

Yet she knew, more than anyone really, that there was no honor among thieves. Sure she could walk away, but possibly more people would end up robbed or hurt by this lot. In one way or another, she would feel responsible. So she drew her pistol and sword, taking the fight to the bastards and leading them into the forest. 

Exhaustion was setting in, her energy slowly draining as the fight dragged on. Strands of her black hair fell below her, but she didn’t bother brushing them aside. Instead, pulling back the hammer of her pistol, she shoots one of the bandits who attempt to sneak up on her, his footsteps having cracked a branch. Then, dropping the now empty gun, she pulls another one from her long jacket. 

“Why even bother fighting?! You’re just a Merc; it isn’t your goods!” The leader, a man with a mohawk, metal armor, and a greatsword on his back, yells out. He was content to stand with crossed arms, watching his men whittle her down. After all, she only had so many loaded pistols and a finite amount of energy. 

It didn’t matter how much they barked at her. There was only one way out now that she drew blood from them. She had long since made her piece; if she dies here, so be it. Raising her pistol and bloodied sword, she motions for them to come to her. 

“So be it…kill her.” The leader points to her, his men moving. Some had firearms, and the others melee weapons. A little over half a dozen bandits are left standing since she killed about five. Luck was running out for the former criminal, though.

At least, she thought. 

Behind her, the bushes rustle, and footsteps stomp through the foliage. Next to her, four undead wielding strange guns and wearing foreign uniforms came at the ready. Following them, a human man wearing a similar uniform and an even bigger gun came out. All of them raised their weapons, pointing them at the bandits. 

“What the hell?” She wonders under her breath as the man addresses the bandits. 

“This ends here now, gentlemen. Even if you have the numbers, we have the guns! Leave now, or my friends here will open fire!” He barks with confidence. But live in the gutters as long as she has, and you can feel people's underlying anxiety when they don’t believe in themselves. 

“A necromancer out here? Our scuffle isn’t with you, friend; get out of here and leave that woman to us.” The leader reaches behind for the hilt of his great sword, warning him. The necromancer raises his gun to the sky and fires a single shot. 

“Last chance! Leave now and live another day, or your corpses will serve me next!” He shouts out. The idea that a necromancer will desecrate their bodies seems to rattle some of the bandits. 

Sighing, the leader pinches the bridge of his nose, “Alright, alright. We’re leaving.” 

“Thank you…” She hears the necromancer whisper. She watches the bandits all turn to leave, but her eyes linger on their chief. Then she sees the telltale signs of him reaching for a hidden pistol! 

She pushes the necromancer down, a shot ringing out and cutting past the sleeve of her coat. Then, raising her gun, she ignites the powder and sends a bullet tumbling through the air and into the leader's throat. The undead also opened fire, unloading their weapons into the bandits before any of them could react. Some did still try to flee, while others tried to shoot back. But the ruthless efficiency of the skeletons wasn’t to be underestimated. 

The smoke slowly clears while the woman pants softly from exerting her body. The blood of the bandits seeps into the forest as their corpses now litter the ground. The only sounds left were her ragged breath and the clattering of empty shell casings as the undead reloaded.

“Um…miss?” Looking down, she didn’t realize she was still on top of the necromancer. Getting off of him, she sat on her bottom against the ground. “Are you alright? You’re not seriously hurt, are you?” 

She doesn’t immediately answer him, looking down at her last pistol. Quietly, she went to reload, pulling out a new ball and powder flask. The skeletons take up a defensive square around the pair as the necromancer sits across from her.

Once her pistol was loaded, Damaris would ask him, “What kind of necromancer goes around saving people?” 

“I…wish I could answer that. But, let’s just say I am not among the stigma regarding people like me,” he answers her, setting his rifle down with the barrel pointed away from them. 

“Mmm. Your uniform and guns, they’re different too. Not to mention you look far too young to be a user of dark magic.” She notes, giving him a questioning look.

“Uh…thanks, I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. It was…oddly wholesome as it was sickening how innocent this necromancer was. The rogue had always heard stories of those who commanded the dead. They were terrible and evil people with black souls who cared for no one but themselves in their pursuit of dark immortality. 

A gurgling noise drew their attention, the two looking over among the bandits. Standing up, she walks over to the fallen leader, watching as he is miraculously still alive. Albeit, he was gurgling on his blood from the hole in his throat. Drawing her sword, she stabs him once in his neck, slicing sideways to cut it open. Blood splashes onto the ground as his body goes limp. Pulling her blade free, she glanced over to see the necromancer grimacing. 

Reaching down, she tears off a piece of his shirt to clean her blade, “You got a name, mage?” 

“Oh, uh…yeah. Deacon. Deacon Gheist.” He answers her, laughing nervously. More strands of hair fall in her eyes, and she finally brushes them aside. “Can I ask yours?”

“Damaris. Guess I should thank you for the assistance. You and your undead.” She says, standing up and tossing away the bloody cloth. “Where are you heading?” 

“I don’t know. I’m new to these parts, so I’m just wandering around. I saw the smoke in the distance and came to check it out. Sorry about your friends, by the way.” 

Damaris chuckles dryly at the mention of said ‘friends,’ “Friends? Tch, those welps weren’t my friends. Just hired swords like I am.” 

“Hired swords, so you’re a mercenary?” He asks, crossing his arms while slinging his gun on his back. 

“Something like that. I have skills, and people pay me to use them. Most of the time, I don’t care what I do, so long as the money is good and I don’t have to kill innocent people.” Damaris turns to him, noticing that the skeletons are looting the bodies of the bandits. “Huh, guess those things have their uses don’t they?” 

Deacon looks at his squad, nodding dismissively, “Strangely enough, I didn’t order them to do so. They do it of their own accord. Not that I mind.” 

Since she was already here, she might as well grab what she could too. Kicking over the body of the bandit leader, she would cut away a coin pouch on his belt loop, stowing it in a pocket of her coat. Looking up, she could see the suns were now low, even through the clouds. 

Looking at him now, Damaris stows her weapons, “Daylight is almost gone. We should start moving, less we risk animals. All of these corpses are bound to draw something in.” 

Deacon gestures ahead, a gentle smile on his face, “Lead the way; I’m not exactly familiar with these parts.” 

Nodding, she walks toward the edge of the clearing. Behind her, Deacon and his skeletons follow behind. Once more, they assume a defensive square around Deacon, only now Damaris was also being guarded by them. 

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“Interesting tactics. Are you a strategist?” She asks him, glancing at him as they walk side by side. The gentle but chilly wind made Damaris lift her mask, covering her lower face. 

“You can say that. I’ve always been a bit of a historian, warfare being among my favorite topic within it.” He answers, the two coming onto a clear path out of the forest. The dying embers of the carriage that Damaris was in charge of were barely visible, “Looks like you’re gonna have to report your job as failed.” 

Turning away, she keeps walking, “Looks that way, but thankfully the client paid half upfront, so I didn’t lose too much.” 

“Always a silver lining.” Deacon jokes, earning a tiny chuckle from Damaris. 

“Always.” 

They continue their walk for an hour, the suns on the brink of leaving the world and plunging to darkness tonight. Then, finally, the skies began to clear, filling with a vibrant orange from the sunset. A small path branches off the main road, Damaris holding a hand out to stop Deacon. 

“Hunting cabin. Often left behind for people to rest for a night. Hopefully, it's not occupied.” She explains to him, to which he nods. Then, with a two-finger gesture, the shotgunners start first down the past while the riflemen remain on the flanks. 

“Let them cover the ground first; those shotguns will blow away any dangers.” Deacon tells her as they follow along the lead constructs. 

The path to the cabin wasn’t too long, but it was certainly deep enough to be surrounded by trees and greenery. It was a small building built with solid logs, a single door, and two windows. Good enough for a stay, just as Damaris said. A small well sits outside of it, made of cobbled stone and equipped with a rope winch bucket. 

“Not bad.” Damaris comments, the first to enter. Before Deacon goes in, he orders the skeletons to stand guard on the porch. Eerily, they all salute him, two standing on either side of the porch. 

The cabin's interior is rather bare: a simple table with two chairs, a fireplace with a cooking pot, wash basin in the corner, and an empty bed on the opposite. Damaris, meanwhile, is looking through a small sack she was carrying, pulling out various foodstuffs. 

“Mind going out and grabbing a bucket of water?” She asks Deacon without looking at him, laying out an assortment of vegetables and salted meat. 

“Sure.” Walking back out, his squad remains vigilant. But it did unnerve him a bit how they watch him even as he grabs the water and brings it back inside. Looking through the window, he sees them stare at the door for a moment before they return to their post. 

Damaris had managed to start a fire, now stoking the wood with a poker. Her jacket was now off and hanging off a chair, leaving her in a dirty white blouse with rolled-up sleeves. From where Deacon stood, he could make out the faintest scars on her wrists, but he didn’t linger too long and risked her noticing. 

“I have the water.” He tells her, holding up the bucket. She steps aside, and he pours in water until she tells him to stop. Damaris puts a few vegetables and chunks of meat into the water, creating a would-be soup. 

She pulls the chair with her jacket up next to the fire, holding her calloused hands. Then, looking at Deacon, she gestures with her chin for him to grab the other chair and pull up. Deacon obliges, but not before setting the campaign hat on the table and removing the doughboy pack. Hanging the latter off his chair, he pulls it next to the fire and sits down. The warm heat was comforting; he, too, put out a hand to feel it. 

Damaris was the first to speak, the smallest of smiles showing gratitude, “Again, thank you for your help.” 

“Don’t mention it. Parents always told me never to leave someone behind if I can change their situation,” Deacon responds. She gives him an odd look. 

“They sound like good people. Are they still alive?” She shakes her head as if brushing away some thoughts. 

“I don’t know.” He admits, holding his hands together. 

“Haven’t spoken to them in a while?” 

“Not since I came here. A long way from home.” 

Her eyes look him over, making him shift just a touch. Damaris’ eyes were sharp and focused, complimented by her earlier crack shot against the bandit leader. But they were also a pretty honey brown; her face, in general, was attractive. Even that scar across her right eye didn’t detract if anything added to it.

She picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the contents of the pot as it starts to simmer. “I thought your clothes were strange. Not to mention the guns you and your undead are carrying. What kind of firearms even are those? I’ve never seen their likeness before.” 

Deacon unholsters his 1911, holding it up while keeping his finger on the trigger guard, “Where I’m from, firearms are the primary weapons of all militaries. However, melee weapons are only last resort tools, as warfare has drastically changed.” 

“What a strange land,” She looks at him as he holds up his pistol, “Can I hold it?” 

“Be my guest.” Handing off his pistol, Damaris takes it into both of her hands. The grip rests on one palm while the barrel is on the other. 

“How does it work?” She asks him, looking it over. The only familiar thing about it was the trigger, but she wasn’t foolish to play with a gun’s trigger. 

Deacon takes it back from her, unloading the magazine and emptying the chamber. Then, catching the loose round, he flicks it to her to catch. “I’m not much of an expert, but I know that this pistol, the Colt 1911, is a single-fire, semi-automatic gun chambered in .45 ACP. It holds eight rounds, all of them packing a punch.” 

Damaris examines the strange round, confused by its shape along with his explanation of the gun's workings. Deacon then answers her unasked questions, “The bullet itself is at the tip; the rest is just a casing to house the powder that expels it once ignited.” 

“Thus removing the need to load powder each time. I must visit your homeland one day and get one of these.” She hands him back the round, but he waves her off. 

“Keep it as a sign of friendship and a little memento of our meeting.” He loads the magazine back into his pistol before holstering it once more. Damaris pockets the ACP round in a small breast pocket in her jacket. 

The fire sputters next to them, and Damaris stands to grab the pot. “Soup’s ready.” 

Deacon watches as she grabs the cooking pot by the handles, setting it down on the table. There were two wooden bowls he hadn’t noticed before, and now atop it, Damaris was spooning soup into one of them. “Help yourself; the least I could do for you for saving my life.” 

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