Chapter One: Killer

A man catches up with fate

In an age of gunpowder and industry, the thought of a man with a sword at his hip was almost laughable, but Samson wasn’t laughing. The forty-four inches of double-edged steel piercing his lung made that quite impossible.

Samson’s breath gurgled wet and metallic as he crumpled to his knees. The cavalry saber’s hilt gleamed, its silver inlay catching the flickering light of the whale oil lamps overhead. His trembling hand instinctively reached for the blade, but pain flared white-hot, freezing him in place. 

The world around him stank of ocean salt and the harbor’s squalor, but even that was already slipping away. Those malodorous sensations were quickly replaced with the familiar scent of coppery crimson on the air. The scent had become a beloved perfume to the man, but not when it was his own.

He didn’t want to die in some back alley of some backwater port town, but it didn’t seem to matter what he wanted. It was all about what he wanted.

The bladesman stepped closer, his boots striking the cobblestones with the soft chime of spurs. Weight shifted on the blade agonizingly as he leaned his face towards Samson. He was unremarkable yet unnervingly captivating�"a bit tall but not broad, his plain features obscured by the brim of a battered hat. A thin goatee and mustache framed his contemptuous lips. He wore a revolver on his hip, just like Samson, but he hadn’t reached for it. He hadn’t the need to.

Samson’s vision swam as a bitter truth clawed its way into his mind: I wasn’t even worth the gun.

He’d been too slow. When the chance came to draw, he had already lost. He hadn't even pulled back the hammer before the cold kiss of steel slid past his ribs.

“I thought you’d be faster,” the swordsman said, his voice calm and almost apologetic. “After all the fuss about Quicksilver Samson, I expected better. To think I’d be this disappointed in the end.”

Samson tried to speak, to retort, but blood surged up instead, pooling at his lips. The world blurred as death crept closer, yet the swordsman wasn’t done with him.

“You thought you were untouchable, didn’t you?” he continued, crouching slightly to meet Samson’s failing gaze. “The Republicans couldn’t kill you. I bet those poor girls you left behind certainly wished you’d died. And the Captain? That b*****d looked the other way every time. If only we’d gotten here sooner.”

With a slow, practiced motion, the man withdrew the blade, seeming to take delight as he twisted and wrenched the steel free. The sickening squelching echoed in Samson’s ears as he toppled forward, gasping like a fish on dry land. The adrenaline dulled the pain somewhat, but it was still so excruciating he almost succumbed to unconsciousness. If only he could have been so lucky.

The swordsman straightened, dragging the cavalry sword against Samson’s thick jacket to clean it. Then, with the ease of habit, he sheathed the blade. A sharp kick to Samson’s side sent a barely felt jolt through his body�"a final affront.

The swordsman crouched again, his hands descending upon the fallen man’s gun belt. His gloved fingers ran over the exquisite leatherwork that had cost Samson a small fortune, lingering on the strings of prayer beads Samson had threaded through the cartridge loops.

“My my… You were busier than I thought. I’m sure your victims will rest easier now that I’ve relieved you of your trophies,” the swordsman said as he laid claim to a trophy of his own. The belt came free easily enough with a bit of forceful maneuvering.

With an elegant flourish, he pulled a small hunting knife from the pilfered belt and cut the beads free. The little icons of bone, glass, and clay clattered against the cobblestones, scattering like so many discarded lives.

“Pick a god and pray,” he said coldly, his voice echoing with quiet disdain. “Looks like you’ve got plenty of choices. Not that any of them will save you from the Pit.”

The swordsman turned to leave, his form melting into the icy night. For a fleeting moment, the flicking oil light caught his face, plain, forgettable. Yet his eyes burned, cold and gray with a hatred as old as it was unrelenting. With the shadows pressing in, there was no humanity left in those features, coming across as one last monstrous visage to dwell on as he faded.

Samson’s vision dimmed, his thoughts fully unraveling as the darkness took hold. His fingers brushed against the scattered beads, but there was no comfort there. Only the cold, hard certainty of oblivion and flame.