Fan Fiction ❯ "I was born, six-gun in my hand . . ." ❯ Chapter 3

In Ilead, Gunslingers are things of legend, people of nearly mythical proportions. To the Il'duri, a race of people trained for warfare since birth, Gunslingers are considered equals if not slightly better. The hundred survivors of Eld's battle with the Il'duri consisted of twenty Gunslingers, including King Alexander himself, and eighty lucky soldiers who were being protected by that elite force. On the battlefield, only twenty of Eld's casualties were Gunslingers, only half of their force.

 

To put it bluntly, Gunslingers are bad ass.

 

About a year-and-a-half into training, a handful of us were chosen for a new kind of training - training to become Gunslingers. Merak and Zeke were accepted without question due to their excellent report from Chief Saquorro, but I was not because I was a girl. The Chief was my strongest supporter, arguing that while the others chosen were excellent, I was downright stellar, but I was surprised to find that Maerlin was my next sponsor. He was the one who fought hardest for me to be enrolled in the Gunslinger training program, but in the end it came down to a meeting with Arturius Eld.

 

I don't know what exactly I expected Arturius to look like, but he certainly didn't match my rough expectations. In stories, Alexander Eld is always portrayed as the classic hero - tall, well-muscled, handsome, and totally unafraid. Even as a child I didn't put much stock in the stories of Vai Eld, but there was one part every storyteller and yarn spinner agreed on - his eyes. Eld had eyes of the bluest skies to draw a line from one of my favorite songs. They were deep and intense, the eyes of either a dios or a diablo. When an Eld line was watered down beyond usefulness, the eyes were the first trait to go.

 

Those eyes were what I was looking for in Arturius. We entered the hall and instantly I was taken back by his appearance. This was no Alexander, though he was handsome enough as every man in this city seemed to be. Arturius was gangly, and no taller than I am now, a little under five-and-a-half paces. His hair was blond and thin, his eyebrows and lashes practically invisible against the pasty white skin. His face was well structured, but no more regal than the average Il'duri hurrin rancher. Or the hurrin itself for that matter.

 

And then there were the eyes. When I heard stories of Vai Eld, I always put my father's eyes in the imagined face. My father's eyes were blue as the sea, brilliant in his tanned face. Those eyes could entrance you one moment, intimidate you the next, and have you grinning after that. My definition of intensity was measured against my father's gaze. In Arturius' eyes, I was looking for something deeper thanks to his lineage. I was looking for something bordering on the meaning of life.

 

In Arturius' watery eyes, I saw only haughtiness, deception and egotism. Il'duri have no wizards, but hedge-mages we had aplenty, and I saw his eyes were blue thanks only to a glamour. Not even the best glamour I'd ever seen either, but a sad little attempt that irritated his eyes and let their true color, a deep brown, seep through.

 

“I thought you were bringing in a candidate for Gunslinger training Maerlin, not a potential kayda,” he said in a voice so high pitched and grating it set my teeth on edge. “Bring her back when I can get some fun out of her, or at least stand to hear her scream my name.”

 

The arrogance of this person daring to even think of me as his little woman on the side, his kayda, unlimbered my jaw before I realized it. “Dít, Lai Eld, pelia evar ven Ekken eti sava dian pen Il'duri Kai'dagath'iar.”

 

He gaped at me, his idiotic stare almost making me laugh. He really did look like a hurrin. “You ask some foreign little girl to be a Gunslinger? She doesn't even speak our language! What did she say?”

 

Anger bred a kind of fearlessness in me - or maybe it was Maerlin who did that, running his hand over that damn Rainbow and grinning - and I raised my voice in flawless Imperial Standard. “I said you could go to hell, unworthy Mister Eld, until you learned respect for an Il'duri warrior.”

 

Before that moment, I hadn't seen the ghostwood gun grips in the holsters at his hips, but I did as soon as the words were out of my mouth. He was fast, incredibly fast, but so was I. There was no way I could beat him on the draw, but like any good Il'duri, I would count a life-and-death tie as a victory against a stronger opponent.

 

Time sped up, then slowed down again, and I was staring at the business end of a true Gunslinger piece. I stared into that barrel forever, wondering what it was like on the other end, then looked at Arturius. The grin on his face melted away as a red spot on his white shirt began to grow. In the center of the spot was a small metallic gleam - a throwing star, the pendant my father had given me. I was unarmed now, facing a prepared weapon, but the message was clear: If I'd wanted to, I could have put that star in his throat and left him maimed if he was lucky or dead if he wasn't.

 

Frowning, Arturius removed the star and handed it to me. “She'll do,” he said with a long suffering sigh. “But she really would have made a good kayda.”

 

“Deimo vikai,” I spat at his retreating back, then followed Maerlin to the Gunslinger barracks.

 

Zeke and Merak were waiting in the barracks. As soon as the door opened and I entered, Zeke clapped me on the back and grinned. “Great idea Vega,” he said. “Make sure the king hates your guts. Way to escalate the level of difficulty.”

 

As usual, Zeke had a point. “Sheka,” I cursed again, a bad habit I'd fallen into.

 

“Don't worry,” my friend ordered. “You'll be our kaisha as you were meant to be. It's Ka.” Automatically we all made the sign of Ka - a tap on the eyes, the throat and the heart - and turned back to face west where home was. “Hile Vega,” he said, put his right fist to his left shoulder and bowed his head in respect. The others followed suit, and from that moment on I was the unofficial leader of the Il'duri Gunslinger-iar.