Jean Preston - Sledgehammer

Fiddler studied her with crossed arms, he wore dark green velvet, ruffled and elaborate, with white, skin-tight gloves.

“Mo Buckwheat has been elected mayor of Moortown; he bribed half his constituents of course. In Jord they say a village disappeared overnight, not a soul remains.” Fiddler went back to his violin, playing low, sad music, quiet enough that he could still hear her.

“In the south there’s rumours of GMH’s wandering about, big ones, like the old days.” She removed yet another layer of fabric and revealed a wineskin on her back, this too she stored away. “Funny thing happened to me on the way over actually. There was these three foreigners, 2 ladies and a lad. They was wearing the most peculiar costumes, one of ‘em was one of them scouse Rangers, and the – the feller he was wearin’ white rags with bandages on ‘im. ‘E ‘ad some sort of sword on is knees, had all scrolls and queer letters on. And the last one, she wore this peculiar suit of armour, black as coal, with little wings on the shoulders. Had a strange rifle, smooth and white. Pretty thing she was and all, spoke all odd-like. I didn’t think—”

Fiddler screeched the music to a stop. He froze in place. His back was turned to her. The old woman cringed.

“Did you speak to them?” he asked calmly.

“Aye. That… Ranger, she said they was some ambassadors or diplomats or summit, called the feller a high munk, I asked ‘im to bless me journey, but I never ‘eard prayers like that. I don’t know what scam they were plannin’ on, but if I could see through it—”

Fiddler was on her, his gloved hands gripping her shoulders tightly. She squeaked like a squashed dog. “Where. Did. You. See. Them?” he said, relishing each word.

“A day’s walk yonder,” she said, on the verge of tears. “They said they was heading towards Moortown on some diplomatic mission.”

“You are sure of this?” he said, his mask touching her nose.

“I swear, I swear!”

He looked to the side, to nothingness, then slowly turned to face her again.

“Pack my things,” he whispered. “Prepare my motorcycle. After I leave, you’re released from my service. Your debt is paid.”

“Oh truly master?” she whispered, tears in her eyes.

“Never speak of me again. To anyone. For any reason.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding.

He released her and she scurried off to another chamber of the vaults. He steadied himself on the counter, his mask pointing to the ground. He breathed heavily. With a final inhale he got up and strolled to the main room.

He buckled on a belt and holster. He retrieved a revolver, with a hexagonal barrel. He placed it inside the pouch and clasped it shut. He wore his helmet, silvery and egg shaped, like something from the Bronze Age. He fastened his silver greaves, and forearm armour, and breastplate. He placed two long grenades into slots in his belt. He fastened his boots which were brown leather, and they pointed upwards slightly at the tip. Lastly he fastened his sword to his side. The blade was long, with a hooked tip like that of a skinning knife. He placed his fiddle and bow in its case, and carried it to the garage. He placed the case in a container at the back of his bike, packed near to the brim with tools and supplies. He sat down and revved the engine. The garage doors slid open.

“Safe journey to you master,” said the old woman “and good luck.”

He turned to face her. “Leave the Moors, never return.”

She swallowed and nodded. He slowly turned to face the road ahead, and then burst out to it, the tires screeched and soiled the concrete floors as he left.

The youth strolled to the guardhouse, with a shotgun slung over his shoulder. He leaned in the open doorway, observing the card game for a moment. It was dark out, so they played by candlelight. Some of the older guards were bickering and laughing, throwing flat red tokens, spilling drinks. The youth cleared his throat: “Ali. There’s a strange man at the gate, says you know him. He looks fishy.”

Ali sighed and threw his cards on the table, scraping his stool backwards. “Was never my game to begin with,” he murmured, walking out to the palisades – a task made more difficult by his peg leg and drunkenness. He leant over and saw a ceramic face staring up at him. He tripped back, almost falling over. “Open the gate!” he hissed to the boy. The gate rattled upwards, faster than usual. Fiddler strode in.

He made for the Magic Carpet, the town’s sole public building still open at this time. It was fairly busy, and full of good cheer, the fighting hours were over and the singing hours were just beginning. Fiddler’s presence was not immediately felt by the revellers, preoccupied with their own business as they were, but when he was seen, by those who knew him, a pang of cold unease penetrated the fuzzy skin of their drunkenness.

The barman noticed him first of all. Fiddler strode straight to him and flicked him a silver coin, the man awkwardly caught it, nearly dropping it.

“Gin,” said Fiddler.

The barman nodded, and produced a frosted glass and a clear bottle with no label. He poured out a measure. Fiddler took the glass, placing it to the lips of his masks and slowly drained the contents. He coughed.

“I’m looking for a woman in black armour, came into town today, did you see her?”

“Aye of course,” said the barman, relieved. “Everyone in town did, her and her bodyguards. She had such marvellous trinkets and bauble – shapes would appear and seem solid – She was a queen I believe, or a princess? Of Avalon.”

“Where is she now?”

“They headed south. Uh, to Lundun, with half a dozen Cavaliers what she rented out, payed with her trinkets.”

“Do you know why they were going to Lundun?”

“Well… Carter, you know the one with the mechanics shop? He said she came in looking for some… aeronautical antigravital something or other. He didn’t have one in stock. Maybe they went to Lundun looking for one there? Lots of old treasure buried in the south they say, if you can get it.”

“When did they leave?”

“Oh, must have been two – three hours ago? Why? Somebody put a bounty on that Queen?”

“Thank you for your assistance,” said Fiddler flatly, then walked away.

“Sir – you paid for the bottle?”

Fiddler strolled out the door and then broke into a sprint through the tangle of cottages and corrugated-roof hovels of Moortown. When he saw the town gate it opened well in advance of him and closed as soon as he was out. He hopped onto his bike and exploded out into the horizon. The guards watched him leave, and were much relieved for having lost sight of him.

They rode through the night, blasting electric light into the darkness. Alana clung to the back of the Cavalier, her arms criss-crossed over his leather waist. All she could hear were the roar of the engines and the wind that rippled her poncho, and chilled her. She looked to her left and saw Kirwyn – he had never ridden on a bike before. He clamped onto his Cavalier like a mollusc, his eyes firmly shut. To her right was Loma, helmeted and inscrutable. In front of them were three other bikers, riding in a lazy formation that would fall apart and reform.

They rode over cement highways which were cracked, with little sprigs of grass and weeds blooming. The road was empty, occasionally they’d pass a burnt out husk of a vehicle, some blackened metal skeleton of a bike or a truck. But they passed no living traveller. The highways were controlled by the biker gangs. Traders between north and south relied on them, they paid tithes to the gangs in return for safe passage. In times of war however, they avoided the highways like the plague.