Chapter Text
And so it was that no one was there to see it. But if, for example, some drunken cowboy was sprawled in the dry grass under a saguaro, barely conscious to watch, he'd have been in for a view. And he'd have decided his last whisky was a Mickey Finn.
Or just shitty whisky mixed with worse tequila.
The sun, incredibly huge and trembling in the air, sank onto the edge of the gorge. And out of this orange-scarlet radiance silhouettes of riders appeared one after another, tall and black, astride tall and powerful horses.
Holy shit, the imaginary drunk cowboy would have thought, but... but there's a ravine there! Should I ever get drink like this again? Where in the living hell are they from?
Meanwhile, the riders descended, turning more and more corporeal from dark silhouettes in the stream of light. Hooves clattered on the rocks, and debris rained down the slope. Harnesses rattled. One could see the riders wore quite common long leather cloaks and stetson hats, but almighty, were their boots strange. As were their rich saddles. And none of the riders had a rifle or gun. But each had a capable long belt knife, fit for both throwing and throat cutting at bay.
And there wee long bundles strapped to the saddles. And saddle bags, too. The fellows looked well off, riding excellent horses. And the nastiest, each and every man was handsome. More than men they draw on posh restaurant posters. Perhaps even beautiful, more than most women. Even the rich ladies and misses! The imaginary cowboy, hungover, unshaven and dirty, them would certainly sulk and turn envious.
- And what kind of, uh, robes are we wearing? - asked aloud one of the seven, the fairest redheaded one, in a deep and clear voice.
- First thing you told this world is you aren't content, - replied another sarcastically. — Hey, wind! Wind! I haven't felt it so long time…
— Especially a dry and hot one!
— Don't grumble. Not a poison land and not a desert – that's already fine. They say humans lived in this wilderness.
— And what is this language we're speaking? -- asked one of the black–haired men, with a voice as strange as a song.
— A discordant and mewing one - replied a swarthier, scowling horseman of slightly Spanish looks, but without hint of mustache or beard. — As if it used to have more sounds, which we have to swallow when speaking now.
— Skill with the language was also promised, — said one of the two almost indistinguishable redheads. On a closer look, one's hair seemed a just a shade darker. — Well, that's well! Maitimo! Where shall we be heading? Maitimo?
The tallest horseman, the stern and responsible one as if leading thousands or commanding whole hosts (would have thought the imaginary cowboy) – looked at the gang thoughtfully.
— Right ahead, — said he. – That way.
- Why? — immediately retorted the "Spaniard".
— Because in a bleak desert with thorny weeds the way does not matter. And if does not, let's ride ahead, — said the tall one.
He neither pulled the reins or spurred his big chestnut mare – she moved forward on her own, as if guessing his wishes. And the other riders followed her. None of them ever touched the reins.
Dusk still lingered at the time they rode into a town. A tiny town with the sonorous name of Paradise Springs.
*
...One day it happened. The dream fragmented as if a cloud, fog or cobwebs under the touch, a wind, dry, hot and dusty tore through and it. The sense of touch returned, and the first thing he felt was a stiff saddle, the swaying gait of a horse, ears and a black mane rocking in front of him. And their shadows stretched ahead, long and dark. A hot wind, smelling of dust and wormwood, blew into his face.
The prairie hummed with cricket voices.
He heard and touched the thoughts of all six brothers at once first, without effort, and only then saw them riding next to him. There they were, riding on either side, clad in strange overcoats and broad-brimmed hats of strange and unfamiliar kind. Otherwise, they all were just the same as in his memories.
Every single one of them.
The promise he had dreamed last came true.
The brothers were already laughing and swapping jokes, but he kept looking around, awaiting a catch... Or an enemy. But there was no one around – only a dry prairie studded which prickly green pillars, as if someone lopped branches off unfortunate trees and stuck the boles full of hedgehogs quills. The earth ahead rose up to flat-topped hills... "Mesas" – rang the word, a word he knew was a foreign one in this foreign world.
— Maitimo! – One of the younger ones exclaimed, and he looked at everyone. They, the brothers only, and no one else. – Where are we going now?
— Straight ahead,— Maitimo said, and looked forward, where their shadows were pointed. In the desert it hardly matters where to. And by the way, there was a pitiful semblance of a road ahead. A path beaten out by horses' hooves and wagon wheels. Must turn into quite a morass whenever it rains. – Let's go ahead.
The sun was beating down on their backs. Should be a merciless blaze during the day here, like in the Dark Wasteland, but the dust around is lighter and reddish in places. And the rocks protruding from the slopes were red on their own, not from the sunset light.
He raised his right hand, felt its familiar weight, and held it up to his eyes. The metal of empty armor glove forged by Curufin flashed bright. So, the injury remained with him. Well, he's gotten used to it.
– Looks like a lot of unfamiliar small animals here, and probably snakes as well, – Celegorm remarked after a look around. – Not the bedmates I'd choose, even on the first night.
– May I humbly inquire the Great Ranger if there is any hope to spend the night under a roof? – grinned Curufin.
– The tracks in the dust are fresh, someone rode here recently, – red-haired Amrod began instead of the gloomy Celegorm, and then Amras, who overtook everyone, gave a merry whistled.
Beyond the slope of the hill they saw an inhabited valley, with a twisting tiny river, noticeable only by the line of shrubs along the bank, and a small town at the lowest part of it.
– Heres your hope for a roof, – Maglor sighed. – Cramped and dusty, two streets of a town/. Believe me, you'd prefer to spend the night under the stars.
– Enough grumbling, – Amras laughed.
— I know what the towns of Men are.
— Anyone cared to look through their bags? – Caranthir asked. – or am I the only smart one? Wonderful. I have a bag of small nuggets on my belt, as if straight from Lebennin. Hope everyone remembers the advice we were given? Because I feel like I just recently woke up just this way on horseback, and keep trying to recall the last dream.
— What if the advice was different for everyone? — asked innocently, and that's where the brothers got a little worried.
Caranthir rattled off the list hastily:
— Exchange gold for local money, buy the weapons they shoot here and learn how to wield them as soon as possible. And another personal advice for myself.
The others nodded. At least three pieces of advice matched.
— How many advices is for everyone? — Curufin began suspiciously, but Maitimo interrupted:
— We'll talk about it later. Without haste. I want to follow at least first advice in this city, and preferably two.
— Nothing to worry about! — the youngest of the brothers petted the bowcase strapped to his saddle.
— Enough to worry about, because of your arrogance, — Maitimo said dryly, and Amras stopped.
They rode up to the town border, marked off by a sagged stockade, in silence. The gates, such as they were, stood open and unguarded. One by one, the brothers drove inside, passing by the first shabby houses. People on the street cast anxious glances at them and hurried to hide indoors. Only a blond-haired girl with a bucket by the outmost house cast at them a look of almost childish cheerful curiosity, smiling so one could not help smile in return.
"Like an unwary kitten sitting on a window sill and reaching out to passers-by", —Maitimo thought.
In a hollow overgrown with shrubs and stunted trees, the two streets of the town converged on the brink of a muddy pond. Standing there was a large board bearing a faded and chipped inscription in local runes: "In September of the year 18 ... from the Birth of Christ, we found this heavenly place and founded our beautiful city of Paradise Springs! Praise Jesus!" Handwritten in chalk on a vacant margin there was: "The All Souls Day service will be held on the morning of November 2."
Behind the shield stood a small white house topped by a rather crooked tower. Four more buildings proudly stood at the crossroads. One bore a sign depicting a bag of coins, the other – a pair crossed bottles, and the other two signs faded past all recognition.
— Well, — Maitimo reined in his tall bay in the square, patted the horse's neck and looked at the coins sign, — I see a chance to follow the first advice right now.
Karantir silently dismounted and walked towards the door.
"Leave it to me" — rang his thought, — "And don't come to the door all together. We do look like a hostile host."
The other brothers dismounted as well, with Maitimo the last.
Caranthir just ran up three creaking steps, squinted at the sunset and rapped the door knocker, hoping the moneychanger, whatever they call them here, was still at his job.
Footsteps came from inside, a small window opened in the door, and a face appeared in it — a large crooked nose with an ashen mustache below it, and a pair of suspiciously narrowed eyes above.
— What is it, boy? — a fresh, but hoarse voice asked.
— Talk to the owner.
— There's enough of you out there for a chat. Talk between yourselves, — answered the one behind the door.
— I bring gold to exchange, not threats. And I'll talk to the owner, not the guards.
— I won't bother the owner for a bunch of stray bandits.
— So, you want to deprive him of profit? Do you think he'll be grateful? — Caranthir grinned through the door window, hiding his anger. What a fix, asking a negligent servant to do a favor!
— He'll be grateful, — the door replied, — for keeping out a suspicious youngling with six more standing behind him.
— I can ask them to step back, — Caranthir shrugged, and took a step back himself. A tenacious, appreciating glance shot from the window and for a few moments stopped on his belt pouch. And the knife beside it. The glance searched for something else and did not find it, Karantir acutely felt some kind of shortage that the money changer's servant definitely saw, but he himself could not yet pin a name on.
— Do you always take a knife to a shootout, boy? — a certain gloating rapidly rose in the man behind the door.
— Call the master,— Caranthir repeated coldly, — It's not up to you to decide who he does business with.
— Wrong. It's up to me to decide whether to disturb Mr. Edmond or not, — the voice behind the door spoke sounded with a confidence the man did not really feel.
Humans, Caranthir thought with a wry smile, are very bad at controlling their thoughts. They can sometimes be heard out loud, like children still unable to firmly close their minds and keep their thoughts in check.
He silently rapped the knocker again and again.
— I don't think you heard me, kid. Get out of here, quietly!
Behind the the door, he felt, the man was preparing to kill: habitually and cooly, even with a certain pleasure. So, when a steel pipe appeared in the window, Caranthir did not waste time guessing what it was, but stepped closer to the door and gripped the man's wrist right through the window, as he'd gripped a hand wielding a blade.
He did graze his own hand on the edge of the window slightly — it was too small for two hands to fit in. The servant screamed, Caranthir gave his wrist a twist and snatched the dropped weapon.
"A mechanical needle crossbow? — He thought briefly, — "Too small..."
A door slammed inside the building, footsteps approached heard, and another dissatisfied voice came:
—Andy, damn you to hell, whatever are you doing?"
— It seems your guard has firmly decided, — Caranthir spoke up, — to deprive his employer of the exchange profit. With these words, he released the hand of his opponent, who jumped back, cursing in a muted voice.
— So, gentlemen, let's figure it out.
The latch rattled, the door swung open. The man on the threshold was middle-aged, long-armed and long-legged, wearing an absurd for the heat three-layered outfit: an upper jacket, a vest under it and an undershirt visible only in the neckline of the vest. The man really felt hot and stuffy, with sweat glistening on his neck and face, but for some reason he had to endure. Even the guard, presently cradling his hurt hand, was dressed more sensibly.
The master kept his right hand deep in a pocket.
It smelled stuffy inside, of human sweat mixed with the smell of dust and papers.
— Give Andy the gun back,— the moneychanger said, looking up at the customer. There was no fear in him, at least not right now.
— No. I don't like it when people try to kill me for just knocking on the door.
— He threatened me! — Andy shouted.
— If I wanted to threaten, seven of us would have stood at the door together.
The owner looked around the square at last, saw six more in the distance and shuddered. He got back in control rather quickly, however, for such a non-belligerent Man. After a look at the guest his glance, too, stopped on the belt pouch.
— You came to change...
— Gold,— Caranthir nodded.
— Andy, — the owner said softly, but heavily, — you're here to turn away obvious lowlives and bandits, not to judge who is a customer and who is not instead of me. You know, I can ask Big Bill to send me someone smarter. And someone who does not drop guns.
Andy's eyes flashed angrily, but he kept silent this time.
Just this time. When the Caranthir walked out of the moneychanger's stuffy and cramped house, the guard said softly to his back:
— We'll remember you, boy.
— ... — So, "we" it is, — Maitimo repeated with a grin. He spun the coin in his fingers and asked:
— Were you cheated much?
— I hoped for the best,— Carantir admitted reluctantly. — That's why I've kept half of the gold so far.
— Losing your grip? — Curufin raised his eyebrows.
— You never had one to begin with!
— Cano,— Maitimo interrupted them, — find us a place to stay the night. Moryo, I'm going to the weaponsmith's shop with you. And be careful. I don't doubt our talent for finding enemies.
He looked at Celegorm and Curufin, standing next to each other again.
— Especially in yours.
***
The gunsmith's shop was low-ceilinged, and at dusk even the large window helped little. It was bright enough for Maedhros, but how would the owner find his way around?
Rattling the lock, the man unlocked the door, then, after a long fussle with flint and steel, got an oil lamp to light. The long narrow room with a door at the back was full of long objects steel and wood. Things like mishappen crossbows without a prod hung in rows along the clapboard walls. They smelled sharply, of oily grease and something else – smoky and pungent.
Those were weapons, without a doubt. And totally unfamiliar to them.
Maedhros caught the owner's interested gaze first, and then Caranthir's alarmed one.
"It's not worth showing your ignorance, – came brother's worried thought, – if many Men here wield weapons like that guard, we'll be easy prey unarmed!"
Maedhros grimaced at the need to lie again. Also, his head struck the ceiling. The owner looked up at him thoughtfully.
- And for you, mister all tall, I have a special offer. My hardest caliber! – he said with a strange unintelligible accent, as if still chewing on something. The brothers had to strain ears and minds at once to make out his words.
The owner took down a long non-crossbow with a smooth and shiny stock from the wall. He petted it with a smile.
- Sharps' newest carbine! – he proclaimed, – point fifty-two! Breech-loading. Brand new, straight from the factory. Carries to half a mile! Excellent for hunting, and for anything else in life, – he chuckled. – mind you, I never told you this, never ever heard a thing, but for putting that brazen one down a notch, I owe you. Take my best. And two, no, three boxes of cartridges, cotton-cased!
- Never handled such a new weapon, – Maedhros said quite honestly.
- I see, – the owner grinned. Caranthir stiffened slightly, and Maedhros stopped him with a look: whatever he was going to say, he'd better wait.
- Trust me, old Tucker is quite a judge of character. You looked at the carbine as if never you never held a half decent rifle.
- You won't believe what we used to have, – Caranthir grinned back.
- Eh, young man, you never won't surprise me. I've seen it all - Kentucky rifles, muskets, revolver rifles. They say some even shoot Indian bows and homemade crossbows. Just stories, for sure, – he waved a hand.
Perhaps this meant he'd seen the twins with bows at the saddle, or perhaps not. Maedhros chose not to discuss.
- Will you show how to handle it? – he asked in a restrained voice.
- Sure, can't but show the works to Mr. Big Man, – Tucker chuckled again. – Where would you gentlemen be from?
- Straight from the west, – Caranthir replied with a smile, reluctant to tell a straight lie.
- They usually drive west past us, not back. Strike it rich in California? Lucky?
- Lucky to be alive, – Maedhros said, and that was the end of the questioning. Tucker set the oil lamp right on the table.
- Then, Mr. Big, look carefully, – said the man, laying on the table the “hard caliber" – the carbine and a small box with inscriptions. His fingers, stained with ingrained gray spots, moved deftly, shifting the fine metal parts. Tucker pulled back a serpentine-curved hook, moved down a bracket under the non-crossbow's mechanism, next to what undoubtedly was the trigger, and the rear part of the long tube dropped down, opening a small hole. Taking out of the box a small oblong bundle that looked made of cloth impregnated with something, with an an elongated piece of metal sticking out, he inserted it into the hole with the metal part forward. Returning back the bracket , which closed the hole, he set a small coppery-looking cap, also taken from the box, onto a peg under the hook.
Maedhros watched him with the utmost attention, imagining how he’d have to manage his left-handed. He also thought how complicated these items were. And they were not just complicated... they had a peculiar beauty and efficiency of a device born from thoughts of many inventors and labor of skillful hands. It was very unexpected in a poor town with houses of boards and clay, where the most complicated thing should have been the work of a local blacksmith.
- Outside now, – Tucker said, grabbing the carbine and kicking open the back door. A long, narrow yard stretched behind his house, and at the end targets were painted on a chipped fence. With one finger, Tucker habitually flicked up the sight, clung to the carbine, took aim and pulled the trigger.
The shot struck the sensitive ears of Maedhros. Indoors, it would have deafened for sure, but out there the sound filled the yard and perhaps the entire town. Not splinters, but shreds of wood flew from the thick board on the fence, the tiny metal projectile punching an impressive hole through it. That means, Maedhros thought in amazement, the projectile's speed was enormous!
- Tucker!!! – A low, but unmistakably feminine voice screamed from behind the wall, – what the hell be you shooting after dark, you old drunk!?
- Chill, Mrs. Neville, – he yelled back, not at all embarrassed by the guests, – I have customers! I'm on business!
This seemed a simple place, after all.
- Your try, – Tucker said, reloading the weapon swiftly.
Maedhros hesitated to answer. How could one handle it left-handed?
– I'll try first, – Caranthir immediately intervened, – my brother will have time enough, but I’ll try something new.
He hefted the gun, set it to his shoulder and took aim, slowly and thoughtfully repeating the actions of the merchant. Maedhros watched, and now he understood how lucky Caranthir was to wrestle away that handgun in the money changer's house. Brother just didn't know his danger. Maybe it's for the best.
The shot rang out again unexpectedly, freezing Caranthir in the middle of sound explosion. His whole body shuddered at the recoil, the barrel jumping to the side. Brother barely managed to hold onto the weapon and keep an impassive face.
Maedhros never saw where Caranthir's shot landed.
- No, lad, that be all wrong, – said the merchant, – don't know what you used to shoot back home, but I sell a good reliable rifle for war and for hunting, and you got to handle it straight. Find someone and practice.
"Be quiet," Maedhros ordered, seeing bright flush flare on his brother's cheeks.
- Whom do you mean? - he asked.
- Someone who can shoot for real, – the shopkeeper evaded the question, – even girls can just aim and shoot. Shooting well is another thing. So, do you take it?
– Yes, and all the accessories, – replied Caranthir.
Tucker named a price that meant absolutely nothing to Maedhros. But Caranthir felt himself in his element and hagged animatedly, trying to knock the price down by ten hundredths or so. Looks like he chose the wrong target: the merchant held fast, telling he was parting with the newest gun, even showed the guests how to handle it, and did not yield a single coin. He relented a bit only little when Caranthir promised to come right back at once with two more brothers and buy three more guns.
- OK, I’ll step down for you... So be it... one percent, – the merchant said, and promised to give up only another hundredth after a new dispute. He was rock steady as a Dwarf, sure that no one else sold guns for miles around, and not a bit cheaper. Caranthir found himself a worthy opponent.
When Caranthir laid out his trophy handgun on the merchant's table, he glared at it.
- I done sold this here Colt Dragoon to Andy last year meself, – the owner said hoarsely.
- I honestly took it away from that Andy who tried to shoot me for no reason, and I need a case for it.
- So, – said the owner, making a decision. – I never saw that gun. I won't sell you holsters, but I will sell two loaded cylinders for it, at a good price, just for pinching Andy's tail. But walk carefully, gentlemen. Andy is one of Bill's men.
- Which means nothing to us, – Maedhros said, stepping closer.
- Bill's gang is bigger than many Army units. Stay the night and leave town. And you didn't tell me nothing about Andy. Neither me to you. Now, bring your brothers, – the merchant muttered, hurriedly taking apart the ingenious weapon and laying out the parts on the table in the lamplight.
Leaving his brother to study his purchase and pay, Maedhros walked outside with the rifle in case, again stooping low in the doorway. With a sigh, he considered the average height of local Men, and how he'd have to bow like that to almost every door...
He was also confused by the lack of fortifications at a settlement that had an enemy to fear. A light fence made of poles and planks did not pass for a fortification in any way, at most it could only delay single riders, forcing them to dismount for a short while it'll take to move or break the fence. A village in the middle of the desert without a wall felt bare.
Well, at least that was not the Great Enemy and not his underlings, but mere Men. In this... This was something they were firmly assured of. In the most mundane of senses, this probably meant an opportunity of a good night's sleep and seeing to the local life tomorrow, – believed Maedhros.
The local Moon was breathtaking, too. It looked anything but a ship loaded with radiance. The celestial body that floated above his head was unmistakably a ball of stone, partly hidden by shadow, partly brightly glowing. Along the inner edge of the shadow he could make out jagged edges and tops of mountains picked out by the light. It all seemed both close at hand – and unimaginably far away.
Moryo brought him back to earth, walking out with a third weapon and a bag. The shopkeeper rattled keys behind them once more, and they went to the well-lit open doors of the tavern, or whatever passed for a tavern here. Maglor at the hitching post waved invitingly at them – probably arranged everything in the meantime.
Not that they really were in need of rest, but it was a time to think and talk calmly.
***
Finnigan immediately realized that this was trouble. When you are the owner of the only saloon in the wilderland, and everyone comes to you except the Injun ghosts, and even those only for fear of the cross and cold iron, you learn what a visitor brings right from the threshold. Threats, money, problems, boredom, just thirst or thirst for adventure for one's saddle-sore rear.
Today, big trouble came. Not just because the trouble was six feet six each.
They were even polite. Kind of old-fashioned, bookish polite. The first one spoke in such a calm, soft voice, asked for a place to stay for himself and his brothers, asked where to put up seven horses. And Finnigan felt a chill running down his spine and found himself wanting to crawl under the counter.
He was never a coward, a coward would not drag himself this far westward. But he didn't seek trouble, either. He was a normal person looking for a better place, out of trouble. Standing in front of him was something that'd look at any trouble from above with its creepy bright eyes, politely greet the trouble in this soft voice of his, and spill the trouble's guts.
Because one never sees a white man riding around these wastelands without a revolver, just a huge big knife in his belt, and doesn't seem to care like an innocent baby? Baby-smooth face too, not even stubble, as if just shaved, on this tall one. And long hair to put any Mexican beauty to shame. And in the hall, sweet mother of Jesus, there are Bill's people, not afraid of anyone or thing, drawn to the smell of danger like to the smell of whisky. Or blood. And they will find some way to provoke him, will have to. If not the hair, then the girly-smooth face. If not to that, then those strange ears.
And the sweetest, of course, is to poke fun of a man without a revolver. And a man who rode through these godforsaken wastelands alive and well without a revolver will not let this slip. Because he survived for a reason. And there are seven of them...
It's bound to start, Finnigan told himself.
Should have never let them in. But the money... Everyone here needs money.
That's why Finnigan said there were two rooms upstairs. And then, when the tall guest turned away, he quietly scooped up the daily proceeds from the drawer ( including the tall one's money) poured it into a bag, coughing to hide the jingling of coins, and shoved it under the floor board.
If it starts, today's profits should be safe.
And after hiding the money, he found himself regretting that such big and polite troubles did not live in his city — maybe a certain Bill would have taken a detour round Paradise Springs.
First he saw four of them: one talking to him, three tending the horses in the stable, talking to them with more affection that many use to their wives. It seemed to Finnegan the men spoke to the horses and among themselves in an unknown language, their words seemed to sound... too firm. Then a handsome lad with a luxurious wheaten-red color (no girl in town could boast such hair) walked out of the stable, and, turning around at the gate, said with the distinct accent of East Coast old money:
- I'll name her Autumn.
Then two more appeared, and one of them was taller than anyone Finnigan knew. And the second one gathered some of the brothers and led them away in the direction of the gun shop, this is when Finnigan saw all seven of them, including another black-haired one appearing from somewhere. Three were dark red-haired, three black-haired and that one reddish-wheaten, like a foundling. And every single one of them was head and shoulders taller than the average man in these parts. Finnigan silently prayed there would be no trouble, though he'd long suspected Lord neglects any voices clamoring from this desert.
First it even seemed that everything would be fine. The three redheads went to the second floor, the very first one came up to arrange food and sign the house book, which Finnigan made a point of keeping diligently and persistently, despite the price of ink and paper. He looked closely at the steel pen, held his hand over the page, peering at the previous entries — and wrote slowly but firmly: "Maglor son of Feanor and his brothers." No, of Faynor, Finnigan read it right the second try.
- Come on in, Mr. Faynor, – Finnigan said quietly, – I'll bring some bread and water upstairs." None of you should really sit in the hall. I don't need problems with some visitors, neither do you... probably.
The one named Maglor glanced with a question, yet nodded and thanked him, also in an bookish way. And later, when three more returned from the gun store with cases, he immediately led them up to the room. The wheaten-haired and one of the black-haired brothers had already gone upstairs, and things could maybe have gone smooth, but at the last moment one of Bill's men, watching the strangers closely, slammed his glass on the table and loudly said:
- Just look what pointy-eared and long-haired people beauties showed up here.
- Exactly, – another added, – And what Finnegan's saloon needs is a beauty. A working one.
He made an indecent hand gesture.
- Anyone dislike long hair? – Turning around, the last of the black-haired brothers still on the stair, asked into space. Blush flashed across his cheeks, – I, for myself, dislike long dirty tongues.
Finnigan waved at him from behind the counter, meaning to leave quietly, but it was too late. Bill's four men were drunk and cocky enough, and they've just been handed a cause. A big fat... a tall slim cause.
- Look, our beauty is showing off! – A third exclaimed.
- Hope she sings well when I'll ride her! – The second one joined in again, and the others laughed.
"It's done started" – Finnegan thought wistfully.
Next moment, the black-haired Faynor that stood at the stairs was somehow at the table. A blow, imperceptibly quick – and Bill's man crashed to the floor, struck his head violently against a bench, rolled back to the wall and remained there.
Chairs rattled and guns cocked. Finnigan, whispering blasphemies, ducked under the counter, groping for a loaded shotgun in a niche, and when he peered out, he saw the black-haired man and Bill's men facing off. Three guns were pointed at the black-haired man at once. But he, too, had a Colt Dragon out, aimed it right at Marco's chest, somehow marking out the boss. And he was not alone. Two of his brothers already stood at the bottom of the stairs, red-haired and indistinguishable, each holding his right arm outstretched. Straight knives glinted, and there was no doubt they would fly and kill before any bullet found its target.
- Stop it NOW! – Finnigan shouted to everyone.
No one even looked at him.
"It's about to start, and Lord willing, I'll have both loads into that brute Marco. Then grab the money and beat it. Nothing left to do here, damn it all to hell."
- We're leaving, – Marco said suddenly, obviously weighing the odds and realizing the balance did not favor his side. — Fortunately for you, we still have business here. You have until tomorrow to get fucking lost.
- We seek no war, – came a loud voice from upstairs, and Finnegan realized that the tallest and obviously eldest of the Faynors was also here, – but nor will we bear being threatened. Tread your own path, and you'll stay alive.
This bookishness among the the chaos of saloon standoff shocked Finnigan more than flashing guns and knives.
Marco waved the barrel of his revolver.
- You, fetch the body and march outside.
The other two picked up the injured man. His face was covered in blood, an eye swollen shut; the other eye gazed at the black-haired man with hatred, but the bandit said not a word while in the saloon.
- We'll be back! – Marco declared from the threshold and also left.
The nearest Faynor looked after them with the same bright, terrible eyes as his brother's, glanced at Finnigan (the saloon keeper shivered), lowered his revolver and went up to the bedrooms. Others followed him. And the saloon hall was left half empty, with the few remaining customers sitting very, very gloomy.
"They are bandits and cutthroats too, and it's a good thing there is only seven of them," – thought Finnigan, and felt very sad. Well-mannered, but scoundrels all the same. Lord Almighty has completely neglected this cursed town, named Paradise Springs as if in mockery.
***
Amrod walked in last, after locking the door, inspected the the painted wooden walls and frowned.
Maedhros ran his hand over the coarse fabric of the bedspread, over the coarse linen underneath – at the very least, it was clean. He sat down on the bed. The other six sat down on their beds, too.
- Not the luckiest of first days, but could have been worse, – he concluded.
- Rump of a day, – Caranthir snorted, – and even so, they tried to pick a quarrel with us out of the blue!
- Luckily, you did not kill any of them, – quipped Amrod, – need a couple of us to hold you down hand and foot?
- Quiet, – Maedhros said, – we are not at war, and you, Moryo, will keep yourself in check. On your own. Your brothers do not have to stop you every time.
- Whatever for? Compliance with the terms? – he asked defiantly. – Look, hear, feel it, elder brother! It reeks of blood downstairs. If we stood up to an insult, we won't be any different from the locals.
- We've shed blood enough. Hope you won't tell me that you've become addicted?
- No, – Caranthir said, straightening up.
Maedhros swept everyone with a glance.
- Still, I think we would not end up here if our corruption ran that deep.
- Not deeper than their, – retorted Curufin.
- Not deeper than their, – Maedhros nodded, – and no less shallow. This is probably why we're here.
- Probably? – Curufin asked again.
- Is there anything to clarify? Speak up, – ordered the elder brother.
- There is. What do we do next?
- We have enough immediate worries. Must find a way to master the local weapons without betraying our ignorance, so as not to seem easy game, – Maedhros spoke, and as he spoke, a feeling he had missed something very important grew and grew.
- What’s next? – Сurufin asked urgently.
Maedhros stopped short.
- Anyone remember anything besides the rules and the parting words? – Maglor asked suddenly, very slowly.
The six stared at him.
- You mean...
- What did they want from us? – Maglor interrupted his older brother, – what is to be done?
In the dead silence one could hear a dog scratching in the backyard and dishes rattling in the kitchen below.
- So, it was not told to you? – Сurufin asked.
- I was sure it was told to you!
- You're crazy! A memory like a Human's!
- We have been reborn just today, cut some slack, – Amras scoffed, – I, personally, woke up in the town.
- What a mayfly you are, with a short memory!
- What a woodpecker you are, with a long tongue, Turсo!
- Quiet, – Maedhros growled softly. The shutters rattled.
-If no one remembers anything, that's also for a reason.
- Do you think we've been deceived, brother? – Сurufin stared at him.
- And you were the one to ask this. Why would they?
Maedhros said nothing.
- Before we spoke, I was sure we had an answer, – Maedhros now looked Maglor in the eye, – that at least you had one.
- Which means, no one has it.
– A stupid joke, – said Celegorm. He squinted to the down and right – briefly, almost imperceptibly. But there was no one there. Still no one.
- Could it be that we all forgot what we were going to do here? – the eldest asked, looking at the circle of six.
– Each one thought another remembered, – Сurufin clasped his hands, – every one relied on the other... And we started by failing each other!
Caranthir blushed with anger and embarrassment, which always walked hand in hand with him.
– Let's stop whining, – Maglor said encouragingly, – if we really knew it, we'll recall it, and quite quickly. For example, after a real night's sleep.
- And if we don't recall? – interrupted Amrod.
There is no time to waste.
- Then we just live and make ourself a decent living here, – snapped Maedhros, – let's try to remember what it feels like to to live without fighting.
- Not the best place for this, – chuckled Caranthir, but the elder brother has spoken, and everyone accepted his decision. Every one seemed to be relieved from sudden anxiety.
- Let's not let each other down, – Сurufin said hastily, – can't sleep at a hostile place unguarded. I take the first watch.
Maedhros wanted to interrupt him and appoint himself first, but changed his mind to not spoil the fifth brother's uncommon care with his moralizing. Let him care. That'll do him good.
- Set the others, then – he said. He looked out the window, the huge Moon was leaning towards the hills, unusually large and mottled. The places of the brightest stars seemed to have changed as well...
– Mine will be the middle of the night, after the moon sets, – he decided. He wanted to look at the stars without distraction and think.
The brothers conferred briefly, appointing the watches, then the three middle ones retired into the next room, separated by an almost symbolic plank partition.
Maglor was already asleep, with his arm dangling from the cot. The eldest took a place by the window without undressing, stretched out and realized his feet could fit only on the windowsill, so short was his bed, so he propped them there.
He tried to relax and remember the last talk there... There, before the prairie heat blew into his face, before the stones ground under the horse's hooves and he woke up right in the saddle.