The Sheriff of Yrnameer

For Alicia and Minya

The Bad Men set out at dawn.

There had been a somewhat involved discussion over the appropriate time to depart, a debate ultimately settled with a firestick—a double-barreled Firestick 24, to be precise, the weapon of choice for those who want to decorate the landscape with bits and pieces of their opponent. At least that’s what the promo copy said, and in this case the description was fairly accurate.

The eleven remaining riders picked their way down the steep, rocky slope past what was left of the twelfth Bad Man, a process that continued for several hundred yards. One of them later discovered a lone digit from the twelfth Bad Man lodged in his bedroll. A few solemn words were said over the finger, and it was reverently lowered into the dog’s mouth.

The Bad Men were not all men, either by gender or species. But they were Bad Men just the same. The ones who had teeth had bad, blackened, rotten teeth. The one who had a sucker instead of a mouth had a bad, blackened, rotten sucker. There were many scars on their flesh, and much of that flesh was devoted to home- and prison-made tattoos. One of the Bad Men had a professionally crafted design, but the tattoo had long since malfunctioned, the animated image skipping in an endless loop just before the illustrated figure finished lifting her skirt. The Bad Men all stank of grime and sweat and desperation, and carried with them a cloud of menace and senseless violence.

The dog was mean, too.

They had a long ride ahead of them: down from the mountain
encampment to the brown, sandy dryness of the alluvial plains, hoping the wind didn’t kick up one of the choking, punishing sandstorms; then back up again, but not nearly as high, to a plateau, and then to hills thick with thorny scrub brush, and then up some more to the forest and the rolling fields beyond that. And then the town.

None of them wanted to make the journey, but Runk had sent them. Runk was the one who’d put an end to the impromptu morning discussion session with the Firestick 24. He was their leader. They didn’t fear much, but they feared him.

So they complained and grumbled and argued among themselves. They took out their aggression on the baiyos, the indigenous herd animals they used as mounts, whipping at their thick, brown hides until they raised welts. The baiyos, in turn, snapped and kicked and spat at them at every opportunity, their dispositions being as evil as those of their riders. On the second day one of the baiyos managed to plant its two rear hooves square in the midsection of one of the Bad Men, launching him in a high, graceful arc that ended in a deep ravine. Then there were ten Bad Men.

Although the incident provided a few moments of levity, the laughter died away when they realized that the recently deceased was the only one who knew how to start the Krager portable stove. Their collective mood darkened further.

They didn’t have to ride. They could have used the one functioning skimmer and flown. If they’d done that, they could have made it to the town in a few hours, instead of getting torn up and dried out by the country. But Runk told them no, he didn’t want to waste the fuel. What he didn’t tell them was the real reason: he
wanted
them in a vile state of mind when they arrived at the town.

When they did, all that knotted-up fury would explode on the unsuspecting townspeople. The guns would come out, the Bad Men would state their demands, and the terrified townsfolk would acquiesce without resistance, because they’d know that the Bad Men were just the messengers—there were a whole lot more from where they came.

The unsuspecting town was nestled in a peaceful valley, which narrowed into a pass and then opened up again into fertile farmland. The freestanding gate at the eastern end of the settlement had no door on it, just a sign that announced the name and existence of the village and welcomed visitors to it. It was a gate that seemed to suggest: Things Are Different Here.

Inside the gate, the streets and passageways radiated out in a cheerful, organic jumble from the wide Main Street. The buildings and domiciles were as varied as the townspeople, but they tended toward the modest and hand- or other prehensile-appendage-made. A river did not run through it, but it ran nearby, clear and fresh and full of fish.

The townspeople—or townscreatures, really; they were quite a mix—were refugees of a sort. They came from across the galaxy, drawn there by an ideal, even if they weren’t always in complete agreement over what, exactly, that ideal was. It was a wondrous, magical community, blessed with an abundance of artists and craftsmen and musicians and philosophers and poets.

Perhaps, some might say, a slight overabundance.

If one were, for instance, looking for a skilled sculptor, or a talented wordsmith, or a painter or ceramicist or bodyworker or someone knowledgeable in the finer points of macramé, one could hardly be in a better place. But if one instead required a person who could stand down a rancid, murderous horde of bandits, with violence if necessary, one would—to put it somewhat indelicately—be absolutely farged.

And while the townsfolk didn’t know it yet, they very much needed someone like that, and very soon—someone to organize and inspire them, someone to shake them up and help them defend themselves, someone bold and courageous and honest and forthright and capable.

They needed a sheriff.