Shoal, bent with nausea, twisted so she looked up at Whistbone as he cleared the remaining space, his crooked body swiveling to-and-fro on his pelvis as he walked.

His hand came down, thin fingers wrapping around her face like a vise. Shoal dropped her pistol in the snow and started to raise her hands to claw at Whistbone’s gaunt arm.

“No,” she thought, “don’t give him this.”

She dropped her arms, made herself close her eyes; in her mind she made it high spring, out on the target range with gun in hand, lining the barrel up against the target and gently squeezing, never pulling. Calming herself.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Whistbone crooned, “this is why you have vexed me. The King’s Pistoleer, Dame of the Gun. I have brought Doom, slain your liege and raped this land, and still you’re defiant even when embracing death.”

He barked like a hyena, a sinister laugh.

“No, I don’t think this will be so easy as you think; lady pistoleer. There is something you will do for me, whether you will it or no….”