July 1, 1916.

  The world is at war. Imperial ambitions have swallowed up the lives of young men in the hundreds of thousands. Every battle on the Western Front is a long, drawn-out affair. Millions of artillery shells explode into the muddy, bloody earth, grinding the corpses into rotting meat.

  Technology has industrialized the slaughter. What was once an intimate exchange of will and bravery had become a cold operation and a test of logistical capability. Technology alone was not enough. The empires of Europe turned to their magic, bringing all manner of sorcerer into the fight. America has lent its aid to the Triple Entente with the gunslinger-sorcerers of Grady’s Posse. With magical escalation, entire battlefields are transformed. Man against man, gun against gun, mage against mage; the fighting chews up the Earth.

  This is the War To End All Wars, because there will be nobody left to fight when it is finished.

  On this day, the British Empire prepared to attack the German positions to the North of the Somme River. For an entire week leading up to July 1, the British guns fired on the German Line from Montauban to Gommecourt. This line made up the primary objective of the first offensive. To back up the British troops against any German sorcerers, Six-Guns of Grady’s Posse have been sent to the Somme, pulled from other battles in Galicia, Isonzo, and Verdun.

  ^^^

  Roarke’s boots sank into the mud as he stepped along the trench, passing British soldiers having their breakfast. The first light of dawn revealed the sorry state of the push-off trench, hammered by two days of rain. Thick mud had pooled in the bottom of the line, overtaking the duckboards set down to give the soldiers solid footing. Roarke considered the rain bombardment a favorable condition, when compared to the bombardment suffered by the Germans for the past week. Their lines were pummeled by British guns in rear positions relentlessly. The older Six-Gun wondered if there were actually any Germans left to defend their line.

  Alvin Roarke, a Ten of Hearts, had been sent to the war in 1915 in response to concerning reports of German war wizards. He had gotten as used to the fighting as he could, though he never felt quite acclimated to it. His Resolve had been colored by death in a way which couldn’t sit right with him. Six-Guns were never meant to be involved in conflicts like this, their Resolve was too responsive to the emotional atmosphere. Roarke knew he was starting to feel the effects but his Hearts nature kept him grounded in his humanity.

  As he passed the troops, laying out in their positions, they turned to look at him. Six-Guns in the Great War were outfitted with an Olive coat, grey wool trousers, and a set of Plaidshirt-developed “Battle Boots” which came up to the calf and had a sole with Gellerite cleats. Plaidshirt outfitters studied the problems faced by troops in the early war to develop a durable, waterproof boot which could provide traction in all conditions. These boots were also given Six-Gun decorative patterns, making the gunslinger-sorcerer stand out a line of troops.

  They also stood out by their lack of helmets. Six-Guns carried Grady’s lineage with their Western-style hats, and the wide brim kept the rain off of their face. They were also kitted with tan rain capes, with the Skull and Crossed Pistols embroidered into the back. In the Trenches of the Great War, a Six-Gun could be picked out from across No-Man’s Land. The profile of a Six-Gun, iconic hat and flowing cape, had become a symbol of American magical might on the Front.

  Roarke stopped as he passed his comrade, Evans, sitting on a barrel. Evans eyed him up as he drank from his canteen. The man’s brown eyes looked heavy from a lack of sleep. Roarke could tell that Evans had been in the trenches for at least a year. He had the look of a man who was never completely comfortable, never completely safe. This sort of wrinkling around the edges of a man’s sanity at first look seemed subtle, but the creases were deep and pervasive.

  Evans’ Resolve had taken a battering from all the fighting and death. His mind had taken a similar toll. Roarke could see it clear as day.

  “How’d you sleep?” He asked.

  “What do you think?”

  Nodding, Roarke looked out at the other Tommies readying for the assault. Anything to keep his mind free of Evans’ stress, anything to distract him. He brought himself back.

  “You green?”

  “Green to green.” Nodded Evans.

  “That’s good, yeah.” Roarke knew a lot went unsaid between those words.

  “We got another, few steps that way.” Evans pointed to his left, “Oughta go on and say hi. Him and us are it for this finger of the attack.”

  “Yeah, I’ll take it.” Roarke chewed on his gum, smacking his lips.

  Grunting, Evans stood up and grabbed his rifle. The Plaidshirts supplied Six-Guns with rifles for the war, which could take the ammunition that would be available. 458 Comet rounds would not be around, so they left their pistols at home. Both Roarke and Evens carried Short Magazine Lee Enfield rifles forged with Gellerite, and furnished with bright Birch wood stocks, so they could be identified even if caked with mud. These guns would take the 303 British round commonly issued to the Tommies they were fighting alongside.

  The pair of gunslingers came upon another of their brothers, laid out on the firing step. He held his rifle, facing backwards behind the sandbag cover. Roarke’s eyes widened in shock as he set his sights on his comrade. It was a kid, couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old. The blue eyes of the boy were stark; it made Roarke’s heart sink to look into them. The kid held a Gellerite-forged Lebel rifle in his hands, a clear sign he had been sent to Verdun first. Roarke teared up a bit as he imagined the horrors the kid had seen. Very few Guns had survived there since February. At his age, there was no reversing this.

  Of course, many of the soldiers around him were the same age. He had long blocked the thought of them from his mind. Seeing one of his own was different. Roarke had children at him the same age as this boy in front of him. Their eyes looked way different.

  “Jesus Christ…” Roarke paced a bit, “He’s just a kid.”

  “Hands of God, brother.” The boy answered him, staring with those horrible eyes.

  The older Gun couldn’t argue with the words of Grady, spoken by a brother Gun. He took a breath and stepped back.

  “Name’s Alvin Roarke.” He presented his card, the Ten of Hearts, “This is Jacob Evans. What’s your name, kid?”

  Evans presented his own card, the Eight of Hearts.

  The kid pulled out his card, the Four of Clubs. “My name’s Billy Baird, sir.”

  “Baird. You’re a Four.”

  “Uh… yeah, yeah.”

  Roarke and Evans exchanged a look in silence, letting the rumble of the guns back into their conversation for a moment. A few of the troops nearby coughed, breaking the quiet.

  “Why’d they send you out here?” Roarke tilted his head, “You even been to an evaluation event yet?”

  Billy shook his head, “No. I haven’t.”

  “So then answer, why are you out here?” Roarke nodded to his rifle, “That’s Lebel. They sent you to Verdun. That was a bloodbath, they knew it would be.”

  Billy looked him in silence, prompting Roarke to spit out his gum.

  “He did something.” Added Evans, “Only reason he’d be out here. This is a sentence.”

  Both of the older Guns turned back to Billy, who kept quiet. All three of them stood in silence, giving Roarke a moment to think. He thought he had seen it all, the worst the Posse had to show him. He never imagined they would send young Guns like this to the slaughter.

  “You ain’t gonna tell us.” Sighed Roarke.

  “No.” Billy blinked, “No, I’m not. Does it matter?”

  “I guess not.” Roarke stepped in a bit, “Let’s talk about the mission. Today we are moving from this line to Gommecourt. We are on the lookout for German sorcerers. I hear talk that Galetz might be waiting for us.”

  He noted the slight head cock from Billy as he mentioned the Prussian sorcerer Kess Galetz, the Nacht-Fenster. The kid looked like he was about to have a heart attack, brow twitching. Galetz had come to be known as butcher on the Western Front. A fair many Entente sorcerers, Six-Guns included, saw their last moments as the saber of the Nacht-Fenster left its scabbard. As with all Germanic aristocrats, by Roarke's estimation, the skills of Kess Galetz were only outmatched by his pride.

  “What’s up?” Roarke nodded, “You heard of him?”

  “I saw him, at Douaumont.” Came Billy’s only response.

  The older gunslinger realized how hard it must’ve been for him, defending Douaumont against such an acclaimed mage as the Nacht-Fenster. Billy’s eyes betrayed the terror of it very clearly, even if he was trying keep a handle on his composure. Roarke asked himself; how many men had this boy, no older than his own son, seen cut down first hand? How many more would he have to see?

  “Get ahold of yourselves.” Evans butt in, “We can take Galetz three-on-one. If, and I do mean IF he’s still at Gommecourt, we can bag him. Settle a score for you, Baird. You good for that?”

  Billy nodded, “I’m good. You two don’t worry over me. I can handle myself.”

  “You’re just a four!” Roarke shook his head, letting the situation shake him from his typical stoicism, “You SHOULD be sorting out Corn Fiends back home!”

  “Shut up!” snapped the young Gun, prompting both men to look at him again.

  Billy fixed them with steady eyes, “You don’t know me. You don’t know where I’m at. Shut that ‘kid’ shit up, and worry about yourself. Galetz beat me last time, but I lived, and I’m right here.”

  Looking between each other, the two older Guns stood baffled. Other Tommies nearby peered over in curiosity, still sipping coffee and chewing on rations. The artillery barrage had gone silent, but Roarke hadn’t even noticed. The kid had floored him.

  “Galetz is there, lets not kid ourselves.” Billy glared at Roarke, “And when we find him, I’m gonna kill him. I’ll kill everyone else in my way too.”

  This was the horror of things, thought Roarke. The kid wasn’t a kid. He wasn’t like Roarke’s son, skipping rocks on the pond and wrangling up the horses. If there ever was a version of this boy who was like that, Verdun had killed him. Like the other Six-Guns who had been sent to the RFV, Verdun had slain that kid. Roarke didn’t know exactly what he was looking at, but it wasn’t a child. He let a wave of grief flush away, regaining himself.

  “You’re right, Baird. I believe you.” Roarke stared at him. “Let’s keep our eyes out for Galetz, and get this done.”

  Joining Billy on the firing step, Evans unslung his rifle. “Maybe this will be a break anyway. Damn Brits sure shelled the shit out of the Jerries.”

  “What you got in your bag anyway, Baird?” Roarke pulled a smoke out from a tin he had in his chest pocket, “You’re Clubs, got any spells?”

  “Kinetic Relativism.” Answered the young Gun flatly.

  “Kinetic what?” He looked to Evans for help.

  “Kinetic Relativism.” Billy repeated himself, “I can manipulate the relative kinetic energy between one object and another, by picturing the delta value and altering it.”

  Evans offered his lighter to Roarke, “I’ve heard of Kinetic Dynamism. Black Hand Benoit uses that. This kinda sounds like that.”

  Smiling, Billy enjoyed the comparison. Gaspar Benoit had been well known by Clubs in the early 1900s. He was the best of all Clubs, a scientist and a sorcerer. To be compared to him was an honor.

  “It’s kinda like that. I tried to use that one, but it takes A LOT of Resolve.” Billy’s voice picked up with passion as he explained his process, “I found a cheat! Instead of picturing the kinetic energy value of ONE object, loading Resolve into altering that value, find a reference object. The RIGHT one is important. The delta value between them is usually a much lower coefficient, much MUCH easier to manipulate. I target the difference between them, a delta. And the results? Exponential changes in the target object’s kinetic energy, with a fraction of the Resolve required.”

  Chuckling, Roarke wondered if Verdun had indeed fully killed that kid. It seemed there was a little more to the boy than he could see.

  “Well that’s an interesting tech. I’m into Material Transference, out here it’s just making barriers from earth. Not too hard with how loose the soil is. I can keep us covered if we are caught.”

  “That’s pretty useful, right?” Billy cocked an eyebrow.

  “Sure has kept me standing so far. Picardie ain’t no joke.”

  “What about you?” the younger Gun turned to Evans.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. I’m first gen Six-Gun. No inherent tech.”

  Roarke slapped Evans on the shoulder, “He can shoot though, believe that!”

  “I believe it.” Billy’s eyes glowed, “You got good Resolve.”

  “Now HE’S the judge, huh?” Evans looked to Roarke.

  As they laughed at the thought, another figure splashed over to them. This man, a British officer in a Tommie kit, gave them as crisp a salute as he could.

  “Sorcerers!” He broke his salute, “Lieutenant Bradshire! I am here to deliver this section’s order to attack!”

  “Right now?” Roarke stiffened up.

  “No sir, we will attack at 0730. The whistle will give the signal.” The Lieutenant’s voice maintained its proper quality.

  Roarke could tell this man was shitting his pants. He looked handsome and clean, obviously some wealthy British aristocrat who had gone to military school in a town which an ignorant hick like Roarke could not pronounce. The Six-Gun only hoped the man wouldn’t get too badly hurt today.

  “So why you telling us this, Lieutenant? We’ll wait for the whistle like everyone else.”

  Looking to him, the British officer released some of the tension he had been carrying himself with.

  “Well and truthfully, I had to deliver to you the news of an enemy magician.” His voice took on a melancholy tone. “The man named Galetz. Observation balloons have placed him en route to Gommecourt. Will you be able to support our attack?”

  “We have you covered.” Nodded Roarke, puffing cigarette smoke, “We go over the top with the first wave.”

  “Fantastic.” The officer snapped to attention, “We will proceed as planned.”

  Evans watched him strut away, letting a chuckle escape his gut. “Guys like him are gonna get killed.”

  “Totally.” Billy nodded, “First time he hears rounds whiz by, his pants are wet.”

  “You’re demented for a kid, know that Baird?” Roarke peered over into No Man’s Land, keeping his head down.

  “Told you to stop calling me that.”

  “Yeah yeah, don’t shoot me in the back…” Roarke studied closely the opposite line. Through the morning fog, he could hardly see the line a few hundred meters away. This concerned him, as he liked to get an early look at the defenses, if any were left.

  “Got a bad feeling about this.” Billy broke the silence after a moment.

  Thought he hated to admit it, Roarke shared Billy’s feelings on the attack. Something didn’t sit right with him, the stillness before the battle. It was made worst by the fact he couldn’t see the enemy lines yet. A rumbling in his gut told him this was a bad idea, a blunder on the part of the British. It was too late to advise that young officer against it.

  ^^^

  As 0730 approached, the British soldiers all took up their rifles and climbed up to the firing step. All remained quiet in anticipation for the attack. Nobody spoke, cracked jokes, or ate. A few soldiers coughed, and Roarke heard one retching further down the line, but the quiet covered all in a blanket of anxiety.

  “READY KIT!” A shout called down the line, relayed by the NCOs to their squads of men.

  This was followed by a shuffling as the trained British soldiers patted themselves down to ensure their gear was there, in the right place, and accessible. By July, 1916, chemical warfare had reared its ugly head, and the more experienced soldiers understood the need for their box masks to be ready on hand. The shuffling quieted as each man in the line judged himself ready. Roarke felt the tension mount, looking to his two comrades perched like cats on the firing step. Evans, the veteran, and that kid from Verdun. Both seemed ready to go.

  “FIX BAYONETS!” came the call.

  Again a dreadful rattling cut the quiet down as bayonets were mounted to rifles and snapped into place. Roarke slid his Gellerite bayonet from its sheath and fixed it to the end of his rifle, watching as both his comrades did the same. It took Billy a little while longer, as it was obvious the process was tougher on the Lebel than the SMLE rifle. He nodded to them as their rifles had been readied.

  A whistling screamed through the air as the section leader blew hard. Others, farther down the line, blew into their whistles.

  “BEGIN THE ATTACK!” Called the young officer.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  At once, the entire trench worth of Tommies shuffled off of the firing step and weaved through openings in the wire traps. A spiderweb of sharp razor wire had been laid out by the sappers, making an enemy advance difficult. Running inches from the earth, the network of wire stretched out line some dreadful jungle vine ground cover. Stepping carefully, the Six-Guns pushed through the wire and made their way into No Man’s Land.

  “Keep it sharp!” Snapped Roarke, who had assumed the role of senior in the trio. “Advance, and stay Resolute.

  Three pairs of eyes glowed lowly in the morning mist as shapes lumbered through. The silence was the worst, for Billy, who had become accustomed to the rumble of German guns at Verdun. He breathe in and out, listening to the sound of his breath and his footsteps. Moving between craters, the Six-Guns let their Resolve keep them vigilant. Already the colors in the currents were painted with fear, anxiety, and disgust. Roarke had to steady his mind against the creeping dread.

  As the enemy line drew nearer, the shape of it coming into view, the craters became more frequent and dense. Clusters of them completely redefined the layout of the land, holes over 12 feet deep in the ground from the previous week’s artillery shelling sat full of murky, muddy water.

  The whistles blew again, prompting the next order.

  “CHARGE!” cried the young officer, “CHARGE MEN! FORWARD!”

  Still a few hundred meters or so from the enemy positions, the Tommies shifted from their cautious march to a brisk jog. Holding rifles out in front of them, bayonets pointed, the men began their final charge toward the enemy at Gommecourt. Shouting and yelling rose in a chorus of battle rage; the British attack spinning up into a frenzy.

  It was then the truth of the battle became clear to Roarke, all at once. A Critical Moment rang through his mind. He ducked down into a nearby crater preemptively, shielding his head. Evans and Billy, both Resolute, had the same notion. The two of them ended up in an adjacent hole.

  Immediately the German machineguns opened up on the attackers. Their positions had obviously not been compromised enough by the shelling. Several guns in front of the section came to life. Their rhythmic cracking filled the air and accented the attackers’ battle cry. Further down the line in each direction, the machineguns opened up as well. The exchange had begun.

  Men were mowed down near the Six-Guns in their hundreds, most of them unprepared for the sudden barrage. Bullets tore through the Tommies around them, kicking the blood up in a mist all around. Soldiers dropped, some injured and some dead straight away. A man fell into the hole next to Roarke, his left leg blown off from the knee down. He screamed and cried as blood poured from his open artery.

  Billy could only watch as more and more of the dead Tommies piled into his crater. They slid to the bottom, stuck in the water, Some of them held onto what life they had left, others grimly accepted death at the bottom of the pile. In his Resolute state, he watched the death color the Currents. The mass slaughter tainted everything around him, seeping yet again into his own Resolve. Such things were bad for a Sorcerer-Gunslinger, they affected his mind. Frozen in his spot, Billy felt the creeping fingers of death and dismay grip him.

  “Stop!” Evans shoved him hard, his eyes now normal, “Baird! Cut it off! No Resolve!”

  Billy instinctively did as he was told, leaving his Resolute State and refocusing on the material world around him.

  “You can’t go Rez here, Baird. Too much! It’s just too much man! Stay down!”

  He knew Evans was right, there were too many dying. More soldiers pushed forward from behind, many of them meeting a bitter end just over him.

  “What’s happening?” He shouted, trying to speak over the death around him.

  “German MGs! Guess they were ready for us!” answered Evans, “This is bad news! We can’t push forward this way!”

  Roarke remained Resolute, himself able to withstand the barrage on his mind. He looked out for the signatures of his comrades, finding they were hiding low nearby. So much rising pain and suffering made it difficult to pick them out, but he could see them in the murky Currents. Acting quickly, he sprang up and waved his hand in a sign to activate his spell. He palmed the ground near him, kicking up a low wall of earth in between his hole and theirs.

  The corpses littering the ground became swept up in the spell, carrying them into the wall. Machinegun bullets pounded the soil and bodies, but were stopped by the defensive structure. Roarke rushed across and hopped into the hole next to Billy.

  “You hit?” He asked them.

  “Not us!” replied Evans, “We are good. Need to break through or they’ll waste too many men!”

  “Gotta be a sap nearby.” Roarke raised his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the positions before him. A bullet snapped through the air near his head, prompting him to duck again.

  “Think I saw one, close to the left. We gotta take out just a couple of the gunners, then we dip into the sap and clear this trench. The boys will back us up if we can quiet the machineguns!”

  “Right!” Billy nodded, clutching his rifle.

  Reaching for his belt, Evan’s pulled a few fragmentation grenades. “This is our way. Hole to hole till we can chuck a few of these at the machineguns. Then we get in the sap!”

  “That’s the plan!” Nodded Roarke, “Let’s move!”

  All three men sprang from the hole, into the hail of gunfire. Billy went Resolute again and kept his eye out for Critical Moments. He managed to catch one and threw himself into the first hole he could see. Narrowing avoiding fire, Billy yet again let his Resolve down to preserve his mind. He landed atop more bodies, most of them motionless. Next to him, a soldier dragged his feet forward on bloody ankles. His head was gone, blown clean off. The body took a few steps, nerves still firing for a moment, before it dropped limply.

  Billy repeated his pattern, going Resolute as he hopped up and ducked to another shell hole and cutting it off. This was the only way to keep his mind protected from the double-edged sword of his sorcery. He knew he was close enough to the gun for a good grenade toss when he would hear soldiers chattering in German as they reloaded their machinegun. Guns like these were large, bulky pieces. They required a team; one spotting, one shooting, and one loading constantly.

  Staying as flat as he could, Billy crawled over the lifeless Tommies who had been shot charging the machinegun. He breathed out sharply as bullets flew inches over his head, struggling to get close enough to silence the machinegun nest. A hand snagged his cape. Twisting, he felt himself being pulled.

  “Heeelp, he-gughg…” A British Soldier with haggard eyes yanked at Billy, pulling him closer. His throat had been torn open, his carotid pushing the blood out onto the dirt in gentle bursts. Foaming pink from the mouth, the young soldier pleaded through torn vocal chords for something, anything.

  “Ma….ma…” He groaned.

  Billy kicked at him, trying to stay as flat as he could. The horror in the man’s gaze colored his Resolve in ice cold dread. Billy knew only one thing in that moment; to succumb would be to die. The cracks of rifles, German shouting, and percussion of the machinegun so close to him reminded him of the enemy. His strength MUST prevail, he would have no other choice. When the others died, Billy would have to prevail. When they died behind him, he could not look back. When they died in front of him, he had to push onward, past the bodies.

  At seventeen years old Billy Baird would have to push forward over corpses, or he would be numbered among them.

  Reaching for his grenade pouch, he pulled one of the egg-shaped Mills bombs and yanked the pin. He wheezed, steadying himself as he twisted onto his back and made the toss for the gun nest. After a sharp blast dirt showered onto him. The gun had gone quiet, steaming mere meters from him.

  Other soldiers nearby had begun to gain momentum, now even moreso. Through waves of the dead, the soldiers pressed their attack into the forward line. Wire slowed the final advance, but Billy had managed to avoid the thicker fortifications on his way to the sap. Thankfully, the preparatory artillery bombardment had shaken up much of the razorwire network such that he had an opening.

  More grenades went off to his left and right, signals that Evans and Roarke had made it this far too. Clutching his rifle, Billy breathed in deeply. It was time, he had mere moments to press the sap and jump into combat. His Resolve would have to carry him. This moment tested his willpower, laying flat so close to the German line. This was it. Billy would have to fulfill his father’s core teaching, taught through the nightly beltings and bruises.

  Force is the only thing that determines authority. It’s the only thing a man truly understands. Everything else is fluff.

  This lay at the core of Billy’s beliefs. His father had told little Willy that over again with that liquor breath, as the boy huddled in the corner of his room. His father had spent a great deal of his time and energy showing little Willy who was boss, and WHY he was boss. Billy had taken that with him all the way to Europe. It had pulled him out, barely alive, from Fort Douaumont.

  The horrible teachings of Billy’s father had carried him through the darkest moment of his life, in the halls of the surrounded Fort Vaux. Not one month prior to the attack at the Somme River, Billy had survived five days of the heaviest fighting imaginable. If not for his faith in violence, Billy’s mind would have been lost with the other Six-Guns who did not survive Verdun.

  Billy took in a deep, sooty breath and entered a Resolute state. His mind had been made up. He sprang into action, bounding into the fractured sap. The German manning the trench fell back as Billy shoulder-checked him. A Gellerite bayonet rammed into the soldier’s neck, twisting before Billy yanked it away.

  Critical moments came at him left and right as the Germans realized their line had been breached. Bounding into the duckboards below, Billy got low and shot the nearest German. His mind singularly focused, he was able to see their movements as they decided on them. He shot and shot, killing one defender after another, cycling the action with lightning efficiency. The Gellerite bolt felt comfortable in his hands, conducting his magic. The enemy howled as they were shot, screamed in fear as they recognized a member of Grady’s Posse, those horrid American sorcerers. Their meagre attempt at a defense collapsed like a house of cards before three Six-Guns.

  Roarke, watching out for his two comrades, noted Billy fighting as ferociously as any other. He figured the kid would be a liability, no matter what he said about himself before the attack. In his mind, young Baird would crumble under the assault on his Resolve that all this death and hatred carried out. But here he saw him in a different light. Billy’s Resolve flared, bolstered by the killing. Concerning to the Hearts-aligned Roarke, the young Six-Gun appeared to be well suited to the slaughter.

  A rumble of footsteps followed the Six-Guns into the breach. Tommies from the second and third waves funneled in as the German defenses crumbled under the attack. More and more men filled the German line; bashing each other, screaming, and striking with blunt objects. Flames rose as a lantern knocked into some supplies, lighting the twisted faces of British and German men fighting for their lives.

  “How you holding up?” Roake slammed himself next to Billy, opening his bolt to load a clip of rounds in.

  Working the action on his own rifle, the young Baird slipped new rounds through the empty tube magazine. His chest rose with his breathing, legs shivering and aching.

  “I’m… I’m good.” The boy struggled to catch his breath, “You? Good?”

  “Yeah huh, I’ll manage. I need you to fortify.”

  Roarke reached into his pouch and brought out a smashed carboard box. Within were a bunch of jelly beans, all different colors, which had been made by the Plaidshirts and shipped off to the Front. They were loaded with Resolve-strengthening materials. The older Gun tipped his head back and let some of the sweet candies into his mouth. Chewing, he offered the box to Baird.

  “I think… we might have this trench…” Evans stumbled over, watching the two Guns chew on their candies. “Y’all hurt?”

  Shaking his head, Roarke regained his breath, “No, but the counter is sure to follow. Ready up on the step, we wait for Galetz.”

  He tapped Billy, “Good job, brother. You got the stuff. Prep for the counter.”

  As he spoke the words, whistles from far off signaled a German charge. Screams rose, a wave of Germans bounding for the newly captured lines. Even as the initial defenders retreated into the rear lines, fresh troops passed them sprinting. Hopping up with a groan, Roarke leveled his rifle on the firing step and started to pop rounds off at the attacking wave. The other Guns joined him, their rifles cracking and actions cycling with the fluidity of well-oiled machines.

  Gunshots, to the left, to the right, everywhere. All Roarke could hear were gunshots. The war had brought into his mind a new hatred for the sound of rifle fire. He had come to dread it, despise it, plead for it to all just end. He didn’t like the sound of own rifle going off, he couldn’t stand it. Roarke wondered, as he shot the Germans rushing his way, if he would ever come back around to the sound of gunshots ever again.

  With a loud crash, an artillery shell landed onto their new line. It smashed the sandbags and obliterated the wooden substructure. The mangled remains of a Tommie tumbled up into the air alongside the dirt and wood splinters.

  “Counter barrage!” Shouted Roarke, “Heads down!”

  This strategy had proven a solid tactic in the war. The Germans, anticipating the possibility of losing their forward trench, pre-sighted it with their field guns and long range artillery. If, and in this case when, the position had been overrun by the enemy, the guns would very shortly be able to put accurate fire on them. Such a grim strategy counted on defeat before victory, something the war had unfortunately proven wise to both sides.

  Haunting screams filled Billy’s ears, but not the screams of men. Artillery shells cascading down his way could be noted by their sharp whistling. Like horrid banshees, the rounds screamed into the line of British defenders. Bodies tosses about, defenses shattered, and bunkers crumbled. What seemed even more sadistic to Billy, the Germans fired into their own advancing wave. Both friend and foe were caught in the barrage.

  As he went Resolute again a fresh feeling overcame him. More men had fallen around him than ever before. Not even at Fort Vaux had Billy been witness to so much slaughter. The bodies started to fill the trench, turning the defenses into a charnel pit of short-lived misery. A shell struck close enough to knock Billy from the firing step.

  He felt a sensation that his body had left the war. The heat of the morning, the sounds of the shells, and the shaking of the ground could no longer be felt. He sat propped there against a lone piece of earth, covered in muddy duckboard and sandbags, amidst a black abyss.

  This was the bottom of his soul, this sensory wipe. Billy’s eye twitched, something he hadn’t been able to help since Douaumont, as he looked below him. It was blood, knee high, as far as the eye could see. In all directions, there was only blood and blackness, save for the mount of earth in front of him. It was the purest Hell his mind could picture.

  Clutching his rifle, he felt the blood rising past his knees. Alarms and whistles went off, a deafening cacophony as the blood level rose like a tide. Billy slung his rifle over his shoulder and swiped his boots at the mound as the blood level reached his chest. Climbing, he continued up to stay above the surface. The earth in his hands crumbled away as he pawed at it. An arm in a French uniform slid free, limply hanging from the mound. The higher he climbed, the less and less of the mound consisted of dirt. Bodies and bones packed the mound, in all uniforms. Bloated faces pressed to Billy’s as he fought his way up against the rising tide of blood. Feeling it overtake him, Billy Baird struggled for breath. He reached up, but was pulled down from below.

  “Get up!” Roarke shook Billy, his voice barely audible over the crashing of artillery, “BILLY GET UP!”

  The young Gun gasped, laying in a washed out crater just outside the trench. Shells continued to go off around him, pounding the defenders into mulch.

  “Shit!” Roarke’s eyes buzzed, “Shit, Baird! Get up and fight! They’re coming!”

  Instinctively, Billy fumbled for his gun. Finding the Lebel, he picked himself up and looked around. Tommies were retreating, running from the shelled-out trench. Many of them stood around, an odd sight, looking up calmly. A man, his arm completely blown off, stumbled around to look for it. When he was satisfied he had found it, he picked up the arm of another soldier and dragged the whole body back until he collapsed. Evans lay a feet away in the trench, his frock a dark red. Lifeless, the Six-Gun shifted as he was trampled by more retreating Tommies.

  “I… I can fight… I can…” Billy fiddled with his action. He tried hard to regain himself.

  Roarke, seeing the state of the kid, knew things were more dire than they seemed. Blood trickled from Billy’s hair. His head must’ve been hit. Looking to the trench, he noted the absence of Evans’ Resolve. He wanted to go and grab his card, take something back to Evans' family, but there was simply no time to stop. He could see a clear presence within the tainted Currents, a stark magical aura which did not belong to him or Baird.

  Smoke cleared from the trench, revealing the glorious red cape of a Prussian knight. In a dress uniform which had been minimally marred by the war, Kess Galetz strode confidently into the fray. He carried with him his saber in a golden scabbard. The medals adorning his chest shone in the light of the flames. As the British troops advanced in the battered German position, Galetz unsheathed his blade and let loose a flurry of swipes. Amazingly, the slashes struck the entire wave of attackers meters away, as if Galetz was right up upon them. They appeared to die from nothing at all, their bodies falling to cleanly-butchered bits. Not a man among them had time to process his own death. Their eyes remained wide open as their heads tumbled to the dirt. A solid clink could be heard; Galetz' blade returned to the scabbard before the bodies had fully dropped.

  “Ah! Amerikanishe Zauberer!” Galetz laughed, his moustache waving in the wind, “Amusieren Sie sich etwa an diesem Gefecht?”

  Roarke, who had been able to speak German since his upbringing with his German grandfather, understood very well the taunt. He responded in kind.

  “Kommen sie nur, schwein. Heute werden Sie sterben…”

  Through the grim battle, Roarke’s singular purpose had been revealed. Galetz had arrived. The time for wars, offensives, and defending rallies had ended. It was now time for sorcerer to face sorcerer.

  “Can you move?” He asked Billy, eyes locked on Galetz.

  Already, the younger Gun had dropped his rifle. He knew it would be no use against the Nacht-Fenster. He had fitted Gellerite knuckle dusters onto his fists, a move which Roarke had found surprising, but one Billy had learned from his time in Verdun. Galetz would have their lunch if they kept rifles in hand. Billy knew this.

  “We take him together, old man…” Billy wiped at his bleeding nose, his Resolve reaching its limits, “That or we bite it here, like Evans.”

  Steadying his breathing, Roarke watched Galetz approach, “You really ready to die today?”

  “I’m ready to kill today.” came the only response from the young Gun.

  Roarke believed him.

  “Alright, Baird.” He mustered up what courage he had, “Let’s waste this fuck!”

  “I love your enthusiasm!” Galetz spoke his English with a thick German accent.

  In a flash, the Fenster came for Roarke, who threw up a barrier of earth and corpses. The sound of saber leaving scabbard was distinct, and the barrier suffered a clean cut which severed it. All around, the artillery and troops poured in. Meanwhile, the British reassumed their charge into the forward line. Whilst mage fought mage, the battle continued in full swing.

  The true power of the Nacht-Fenster, as Roarke had learned from firsthand accounts, was his ability to follow the swipes of his saber with a secondary arc of cutting power, which appeared to project from the path of the actual blade. Functionally, this acted as a projection of the slice, allowing Galetz to cut things he hadn’t yet come in contact with.

  Billy sat in the hole with his hands balled into fists, conducting his Resolve through the knuckle dusters. His breathing came on shakily as he tried to filter out the shooting and shouting of soldiers all around him. His vision had become blurry around the edges, and he felt somewhat dizzy. The fight for his life was not over, not by a long shot.

  Part of him wanted to give up, let his shaky legs collapse, and curl up in the hole. He was so, so tired; so exhausted. Billy had been at this since the beginning of the year. He wanted to give up and let the enemy kill him. It would be quicker than all this, less painful in the long run. But then his father crept back into his mind. A man was only free when he had to claw and fight for it. He only truly deserved his life when he had snatched it back from death. Looking at the Nacht-Fenster yet again, Billy knew it life or death. He set his Resolve into a razor focus.

  Roarke watched as Billy pushed up over the fallen soldiers towards Galetz, who stepped back into a crisp fencing stance. With his saber leveled, he prepared for the Six-Guns to attack.

  “Billy! Don’t rush!” Roarke bolted into action.

  But the younger Gun had no intention of running into Galetz’ blade. He ducked into the trench, slamming down on top of the piled bodies, and popped up with one of the British rifles.

  ‘A feint…’ thought Roarke, who had circled around to the opposite side of the sap. Staying low, the gunslinger tried to avoid shots coming his way from all sides. Fighting like this was Hell, there were no clean angles to attack from. Plus, a shell could land near his head, and he had no recourse. Of all the problems with this war, by Roarke’s calculus, the artillery had to be the worst.

  Firing quickly, Billy popped three shots off towards the German sorcerer. Galetz, an experienced war veteran, was more than ready for bullets. His supernatural swordsmanship far outpaced the technological progress through the war. Without a word he sliced apart each bullet as it screamed towards him. It was effortless, prompting a shocked look from Billy.

  Suddenly, something blotted out the sunlight over the Nacht-Fenster. The trench shifted over like some horrible wave, tumbling dirt and debris onto Galetz in an avalanche. Roarke, his hand on the side of the defensive wall, held a Rite as he cast his spell. Exhausting so much of his Resolve, Roarke’s nose began to bleed. He didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to push himself so hard, but it was clear to him that he and Billy couldn’t outlast the likes of Galetz if they didn’t put it all on the line. The wave of earth, wood and corpses crashed down with a tremendous roar. Soldiers on both sides found themselves engulfed in the awesome trench tsunami.

  Gasping, Billy threw up the Rite of Release, his left eye showing a delta engram. As fast as he could manage he tried to find the kinetic delta in the wall of earth coming at him. He found he was unable to nail down one solid set of numbers, so the wave crashed over him too.

  With the line completely destroyed, the attackers on both sides still shooting from their positions in the artillery craters all around, Roarke collapsed to his knees. He wheezed, struggling for air. Too much of him had been poured into that spell. He only hoped he didn’t kill Billy with it. As if to answer his thoughts, Billy shifted through the broken arms and legs of fallen soldiers. He clawed his way up, cape hanging in tatters from his back. Walking over, Billy put his hands on his knees and caught his breath.

  “We good?” He asked, “Did we get him?”

  Roarke saw it before Billy did, the slash coming his way. With the last of his strength, he lunged for Billy and pushed him aside into a ruined pillbox. The projected slash from a seemingly unkillable Galetz tore through the exhausted gunslinger, bisecting him. Roarke’s waist gave out from under his torso, the whole becoming two. He fell face-first onto the upturned soil.

  Watching with wide eyes, Billy coughed dark blood. Galetz stood, his uniform covered in mud, with a deep gash in the side of his cheek. He grinned in malicious glee at yet another sorcerer killed. Watching mere inches away, Billy felt that chilling fear crawl up his neck. Yet again he found himself alone against Galetz.

  “Very well, little lamb!” He approached Billy slowly, “Time for the slaughter…”

  This was it, Billy knew it. It was do or die. Springing forward, Billy gathered what energy he had left. He went Resolute, his vision inverting. The Currents had gone black with the pain and suffering. Billy wiped it all away to finish the job. He could see the set of slashes coming at him, one after the other. Ducking under Galetz’ attack, he scooped up a stray bayonet from the battle mess and shot up into Galetz’ inner space. The Nacht-Fenster got a good slice off at Billy, cutting him deeply across his chest. Billy ignored the pain, eating the cut. His eyes burned bright as he focused only on the kill. The stolen Bayonet sunk deep into Galetz’ chest, with the force of Billy’s body behind it.

  Bleeding out on the ground, Roarke watched Billy knock Galetz over after taking the slash to his chest. His vision blurred, hearing dulled, as he saw the young Gun punching at the German’s head with his knuckle dusters. Thick thunks resounded as blows landed, amplified by Billy’s Kinetic Relativism. Roarke’s vision went dark as his life drained away.

  Billy shouted and screamed unintelligible curses, atop the Nacht-Fenster. Slamming one fist after another into his enemy, Billy kept hammering him. For him it was still life or death, even as the gore and brains splattered onto his face from below. He didn’t stop until the sorcerer was mush beneath him, head grinded into the dirt.

  With his quarry silenced, Billy sat up and cocked his head to the sky. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. The sounds of the German whistles shook his frenzied mind back. A retreat had been called, the artillery picking up in intensity to cover the fleeing troops. A long grin crept along his face as he listened to the guns booming in the distance. His chest shuddered with sickly chuckling; Billy found a strange moment of excitement in his kill. He looked down at the remains of Galetz with satisfied eyes.

  There was nothing left for Billy Baird in that moment on the North bank on the river Somme. A wave of Tommies rushed past him, pressing the assault. The young officer from that morning, his left eye blown from his head, blew hard on his whistle as he ran forward. As he passed, the lone sorcerer picked himself up, scooping Evans’ SMLE rifle from the filth and blood, and took off running after the Germans.

  Forward, forward, forward over corpses; Billy Baird continued his advance.