The Iron Guard

Al exited the hotel at 11 am on the dot. He was very particular about his punctuality. He tucked the medallion that hung around his neck out of sight beneath his shirt and stepped down off the wooden veranda on to the main street of Colby.

Al enjoyed his job, but things had got more complicated in recent years. And much more dangerous for sure. Being an ‘Iron Guard’ — so-called thanks to the ‘Iron Horse’ trains whose cargo he was to protect — paid well, but many he’d known had long since retired, and not always voluntarily. With fewer folk on the job work was plentiful, but so were the opportunities for those that sought to take what didn’t belong to them.

The town of Colby was a typical looking cobbled together western town. All manner of general stores and drinking establishments made up the bulk of the fronts on the main street, which then branched off to the sheriff's office and the railroad station, which was Al's intended destination. The train he was working was due in at 11:30, but his employer had requested to meet before he headed out of town.

A face-to-face meeting wasn’t unusual in his line of work, but most of his business was conducted via telegram, what with him moving around so much. He strode across the dusty roadway and headed in the direction of the bank, hoping they might have a pot of coffee on the boil.

It was going to be a long day. He could feel it.

—

A small bell chimed as he pushed through the front door. The clerk behind the heavily barred counter looked up. “Mr Barton is it?”

“That’s me,” Al replied. “The manager’s expecting you, if you would be so kind as to join him in his office, through the door there. Walter will let you through.” Al nodded, and crossed the tiny interior space to where a man stood, attempting, and failing, to exude an air of authority.

“Here to see the boss,” said Al. “Yeah I know, I heard him,” said Walter, as he unlatched a huge brass bolt that covered almost the width of the door frame. “Much obliged” Al nodded as he passed through to the rear of the building.

A short corridor led past the door to the clerk's post to another set of doors opposite one another at the end of the hall, the right of which bore a polished brass plaque with the word ‘Manager’ embossed on it. Al knocked and entered.

“Mr Albert Barton, come in, take a seat,” the manager said enthusiastically, gesturing to the chairs in front of the desk. “Thank you for coming, I know time is brief so I shall get to the crux of it.”

The manager sat behind his desk, a well-set gentleman with a wiry moustache that curled up at the ends, and while not old, was no spring chicken either. No sign of any coffee, not an ideal start.

”Now, Mr Barton” the manager continued. “I wish you to personally transport something of great value for me. This will be in addition to the already agreed upon shipment from the bank that my men are waiting to load at the station.”

“What kinda item we talking about?” countered Al. “We already agreed a price, so you know this is gonna cost extra?”

“Of course, of course, completely understandable. As I say, this item is of extreme importance,” said the manager as he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small wooden box with a tiny padlock on one of the sides. “This is what I would like delivered, personally, to Mr Clydesdale at the bank in Kansas City. Once received by him you will gain an additional 50% on top of the previously agreed sum.”

“A 50% bonus? What’s in that thing? Diamonds?”

“Alas, I cannot divulge the contents of the box, and must request you do not try to open it.”

“Seems mighty mysterious if you ask me, but you’re the boss. And for an extra 50%, I’ll make sure it gets to where it needs to be.”

“Excellent, a pleasure doing business with you.” 

The manager held the box up gesturing for Al to take it. Al stood, perched his satchel on the chair and reached out to take the box from the manager's outstretched hand.

As he did so, he felt the medallion around his neck vibrate. He tried not to show any visible sign of surprise. But there was a definite, unmistakable buzz, that faded as his fingers released their grip on the object.

Magical artefacts were in fact well known throughout the West. Initially appearing in what were thought to be abandoned mines, then one was found at the bottom of a lake, and now turning up with increasing frequency. Most were harmless, imbuing the owner with some minor power or other — being able to conjure an image of a horse, or light an oil lamp by thinking it — but where there were harmless artefacts there were also those far less so. 

Al slid his pocket watch out of his jacket, the time read 11:17. “Looks like I have a train to catch,” he said fastening up the satchel.

“Good luck Mr Barton,” said the manager with an edge of sincerity as Al exited the office. Passing back through the cosy interior of the bank, he found himself back out on the street and set off in the direction of the station.

—

The train pulled up shortly after its intended arrival time, and the manager's men loaded the strongboxes into one of the cargo wagons. The train itself was comprised of eight carriages, two for cargo at the rear and the rest for passengers. It looked like a newer model he’d heard talk of that included a saloon car. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad trip after all.

The journey from Colby to Kansas City would take around eight hours. As this was the fast train there wouldn’t be any stops between here and Salina which was about four hours away. In his experience, this meant one of two things: a whole lot of nothing, or plenty of time to get robbed.

Once the last box was loaded he climbed the steps to the rearmost passenger car. He wanted to stay close to the cargo, but also didn’t fancy sitting on the floor for the next eight hours, Al felt this was a reasonable compromise.

The station master blew his whistle and the train lurched forward, Al surveyed the other occupants of the carriage. It was sparsely populated, an older couple at the far end, a couple of business looking types — likely returning to the city — and a woman attired not too dissimilarly from himself, ‘another iron guard?’ he thought to himself. There was plenty of cargo back there so it wasn’t without merit.

He set the satchel on the seat next to him, wanting to keep it within view. He found himself thinking about what had happened back at the bank and the strange vibration from the medallion. Pulling up the chain he flopped the medallion out over his shirt and rested in his palm. A flattened bronze circle with an aquamarine triangular gem in the centre. Circling the stone was an inscription in a language that made no sense to him, they could have been scratches for all he knew, though that now seemed unlikely. It’d been a gift from a wealthy, yet sadly now deceased former employer. He liked the way it looked but had never even considered it had magical properties.

Looking up he caught the glance of the woman of similar attire, and quickly slipped the medallion back under his shirt. Whatever was in the box, in a matter of hours it would be delivered and he could go on not thinking about it. He took a newspaper out of his bag and settled in for the journey.

—

A couple of hours passed, he’d exhausted the paper miles back and was trying to enjoy the entirely unsatisfying view of unending desert plains. After first locking eyes with the woman further down the carriage earlier, he’d noticed her glance his way a few more times.

The woman stood up and took a couple of steps toward him. Noticing this Al prepared for the menial pleasantries of Iron Guard chatter.

Without warning, a bolt of lightning shot through the air between them, shattering the right-hand window of the row in front of Al, fizzling out on the luggage rack on the opposite side of the car.

The woman fell backwards and Al instinctively threw himself to the floor in case the next burst struck closer to him.

A second bolt surged through the further end of the carriage, again decimating the window. But this time followed up by several gunshots that seemed more to intimidate than to do actual harm.

Al shook his head attempting to compose himself, peering around the edge of the seats and glancing down the centre aisle to see the woman on her back, raising herself up by her elbows, giving the impression she knew how to take care of herself. Al called out “Everyone, get down on the floor now! Is anyone hurt?” No replies, everyone too scared to respond.

Al needed to figure out what they were dealing with. He edged back over to below the window and allowed himself to risk a peek outside for a split second.

The woman had now made her way along the wooden floor to his position.

“Not the introduction I had in mind” she said with a wry smile, “Name’s Meg, you an Iron Guard to I take it?”

“Pretty much, under the circumstances a real pleasure to meet you. I’m Al.”

“So Al, See anything out there?”

“Seems a posse of four, maybe five, obviously one Spellslinger, but could be others.”

“Well, this trip just got more interesting’,” Meg replied. There was that smirk again. Al thought for a second. “You know if there’s a saloon car further up?”

“Yeah, couple of cars up. Why you thirsty all of a sudden?”

“No, but hopefully they’ll have a bunch of silverware we can use, trays if we’re lucky, bout the only thing I know that’ll stop magic.”

Al hadn’t had much experience in dealing with Spellslingers, but professional curiosity meant he’d read enough about them. Turns out all the stories of silver being the antithesis to the unnatural evils of the world, were, in fact true and It had some unexplainable properties that allowed it dissipate any magic it came in to contact with.

“Let’s move,” said Al. As they started towards the far end of the carriage he suddenly recalled the box, turning back he snatched it from his bag, and buried it inside his coat.

They reached the far end without interruption and slid upright in the gap next to the door. “Ladies first” Al gestured, “I’ll cover you”

“Gee thanks” Meg shot back.

She grasped the door handle and flung it open, throwing herself across the gap. As she did so another bolt filled the space between them, erupting in a shower of splinters on the roof of the adjoining car. Sensing an opening, Al yanked the revolver from his waist, pivoted round the door frame and let loose a couple of rounds in the direction of the group before following Meg across. Another volley of gunshots smacking into the wood surrounding the door.

“You hit anything?” Meg asked. 

“Not sure” Al replied, “I swear there were fewer than before though.”

“Fewer??”

“Others might have gone ahead, might be tryin’a stop the train. We need to get there first.”

They rushed through the car, a thought forming in Al’s mind. Bandits usually try to board the cargo wagons and toss anything they like the look of out the side, but this group hadn’t gone anywhere near the cargo, what were they after?

They made it across the next coupling, narrowly avoiding more stray bullets, and into the saloon car where they found the bartender cowering behind his well-stocked counter.

“We need silver…” Al uttered urgently in the direction of the barman.

“What?” came the slightly confused reply.

“Silver trays? We’re not robbing you, we’re Iron Guards trying to ensure you keep on living.”

Another bullet, this time through the window, exploding a mirror set further down the car.

“Oh, err, right, trays…” the man flustered.

The bartender scrabbled around below the counter for a few moments then appeared with an armful of silverware that must have cost a few bucks.

“Thanks,” said Al taking the top couple off the pile.

“Follow my lead,” he said handing one to Meg and preceding to flip the other, grasping the tray handle from above and letting the length of it lay across his forearm like a makeshift shield.

Meg looked on incredulous.

“Hey, better than nothing, right?”

“If you say so....” said Meg, reluctantly following suit.

They made their way further along the train, one car after another, avoiding gunfire as they went, managing a few potshots of their own, the lightning bolts seemingly relenting for now.

They entered the final passenger carriage, no door at the other end, just a solid wall between them and the hulking furnace of the engine car.

Al paused. “We’ll take a passenger door each. Have to climb around the outside. Whoever gets to the driver first, make him stop this thing!”

As he said this an odd sensation came over him, it felt like the train was starting to lose momentum.

Al pushed past Meg and raced to the nearest passenger door, forcing it open, leant out the opening and was instantly dumbfounded.

—

The locomotive was hovering a few feet off the track at a slight angle. The giant metal rods on the wheels still pounding away furiously in mid-air. Al turned and saw two horses still galloping full pelt, one of which was carrying two men.

The second of the two men — a smart-ish dressed man wearing bowler hat — was clutching the man at the reigns with his right arm while the left arm reached out like a tree branch, outstretched toward the engine. The man seem transfixed.

Without thinking, Al raised his revolver, trying to steady his hand, and fired a couple of rounds in the hat man's direction.

Bang. Bang.

The first shot went wide, striking the front rider square in the shoulder. The hat man, still entranced, seemed unfazed.

The second shot, however, connected with the outstretched hand. Al instantly realising his mistake.

The train dropped from the air.

It came down at an angle to the track causing it to wobble almost comically before the iron giant flipped onto its side.

The whole train lurching at the sudden loss of speed. 

Meg, who’d been observing Al from down the car with an air of confusion, was thrown forward barrelling into him and knocking both of them out of the open door.

Seconds passed in a blur as Al hit the floor, knocking the wind from his lungs, before rolling several times and coming to rest face down.

The next few moments were excruciating as the train slowly screeched itself along the track sideways in a shower of sparks, red hot coal dripping from the driver's cabin as if it had just broken free from hell.

Al attempted to move his head, turning sideways and called out “Meg? You ok!?”

No response.

Before Al had a chance to call out again he heard the sound of hooves pull up near where he lay, and a voice cried out: “Time to takes what’s mine!”

It was the bowler hat guy, now alone on the horse and with his damaged hand tucked inside his blazer. The three remaining members of the posse arriving behind him before fanning out to form a loose circle around Al.

“Who the hell are you guys?” managed Al.

“That’s none of your concern, Mr Barton. The package if you please,” the hat confidently shot back.

“What package? I don’t know you? Who…” the man cut him off, visibly growing more irritated. “Fine! I don’t have time for this. Please kill him would you gentlemen.”

The other men, pleased by this request, immediately drew their weapons and began to fire.

— 

Al felt a warm sensation on his chest.

But, it wasn’t blood as he’d expected, but something else, something soothing, something… pulsating?

He looked up at the men surrounding him, they seemed as confused as he did, then he saw the bullets, many of them, hanging in the air above him.

Before he could blink he felt a burst of energy emanate from beneath him, washing over him and releasing in a rush of air above his body.

The men were all sent flying from their saddles, with at least one being caught by their own repelled bullets.

Al lay there for a minute or so, trying to process what had just happened, still unsure if he could even stand.

Had the medallion and the box just somehow conspired to protect him?

He pulled himself up and staggered over to where Meg lay. She was out cold but seemed intact otherwise from what he could tell. She was a survivor.

He stumbled his way back over to the carriage he’d been sat in when he first boarded, yanked his satchel free of some splintered wood and placed the box back inside. Picking up his shotgun he clambered back out of the car and scaled one of the now riderless horses turning it in the direction the train had been headed.

Dammit, he thought, he hated being right. It really was going to be a long day.