Drawing Hand

By Ulysses Paxton

Jace Dune, a one-handed gunfighter, encounters Lyall MacRob, a medieval Scottish baroness, and Agor, a Neanderthal, who were both trapped in time. Against his better judgment, Dune is hired by MacRob and Agor to help locate a boy, and finds himself confronting his own past, dangerous cultists, and alien technology in the desert of the American Southwest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ulysses Paxton
• Release date: Sep 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005436599

Ulysses Paxton

California native, father, and surfer.

Book preview

DRAWING HAND

By Ulysses Paxton

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 by Ulysses Paxton, all rights reserved.

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgement

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Snare

Chapter 2 - Agor

Chapter 3 - Lyall MacRob

Chapter 4 - Jace Dune

Chapter 5 - Nigel MacRob

Chapter 6 - Contract

Chapter 7 - Plans

Chapter 8 - Punta Sierra

Chapter 9 - Tray Soor

Chapter 10 - The Reverend

Chapter 11 - Unwell

Chapter 12 - Committed

Chapter 13 - Bold Plan

Chapter 14 - Tough Luck

Chapter 15 - Partners

Chapter 16 - Indians

Chapter 17 - Cave

Chapter 18 - Rescue

Chapter 19 - Ambush

Chapter 20 - Bushwhack

Chapter 21 - Back Again

Chapter 22 - Temple

Chapter 23 - Trapped

Chapter 24 - Chamber

Chapter 25 - Thing

Chapter 26 - Boom

Chapter 27 - Escape

Chapter 28 - Run

Chapter 29 - Crypt

Chapter 30 - Showdown

Chapter 31 - Draw

Chapter 32 - Retained

Chapter 33 - Friends

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Donna, Daniel and Jake for their proofreading, criticism, and comments.

Prologue

There is no intelligence that knows all of who, or what, lives and roams the Milky Way. One hundred billion stars that nurture countless more planets. Curiosity and impulse for adventure leads life into space with the conviction that each planet is unique, and that each needs exploration. A compulsion to travel to the numberless planets, and to winnow from them other places where conscious life exists, resources may be found, and new homes can be made. Earth occasionally has been touched by those who rove between the suns. When or why is uncertain. The touch of a tourist, a prospector, a scout, or, perhaps, a colonist. It is unlikely even that they knew of each other. Some did not come at all, but sent only probes to snare samples of life or minerals, later to be retrieved and analyzed. Was Earth interesting, or was it easily forgotten among a thousand billion other planets?

And what of humans -- either knocking rocks together, or, fifty thousand years later, inventing the wheel -- they have little insight into who has been interested in their planet. History is not kind to mankind's reaction to things strange or unexplained. Strangers are feared. The unknown is misunderstood. Smashing force favored over inquiry. Our knowledge has little improved over centuries. Facts are reduced to fanciful stories, and time paints any extraterrestrial contact as supernatural, whether malignant or divine.

Chapter 1

SNARE

From trackless space it blinked into being just beyond Neptune. Shimmering, it skimmed above the plane of the orbiting planets, eventually arcing towards Earth. The shimmer contrasted blue with the orange of heat as the hull of the craft penetrated Earth's atmosphere. It plunged towards the surface, and then slowed until it hung, stone-still and weightless, a foot above a field of low grasses. Before its remarkable visit to the field could endure more than mere seconds, it shot upwards and away. Gone above the luminous clouds, out into space above the Earth, blinking back into nothingness.

It had left a bright and shiny object in the middle of the field.

The object was a cone, about nine inches tall, three inches wide at the base, and heavy. Its polished metallic surface sparkled the entire spectrum of colors, like a fishing lure. Midway from its base to its pointed end, the cone was bisected. The indented bisecting line that ran its circumference hinted that the top of the cone was different from the bottom. Just above the line, slightly raised and in dull black color to contrast with the kaleidoscopic surface, were a small triangle, square, star, and circle, all equidistant from each other. Opposing them, just below the line, were set the same four shapes. The shapes above and below made pairs separated by the division of the line. The pairs did not match, but presented the possibility that, if the top or bottom was spun, a match could be made.

Later that day, a hare gave it a tentative and suspicious snuffle, and then passed it by.

Chapter 2

AGOR

Agor stood before his cave, a man of eighteen winters. He was wise with the accumulated knowledge of someone who had managed to survive to be an adult. He lived each day to the full by necessity. At this early hour of the morning, the little band to which he owed allegiance was mostly disbursed, foraging for food. He had lingered near the cave to put the finishing touch on the bindings wrapping a stone point to the shaft of his spear. He was turning them slowly over a low fire to shrink any remaining moisture from their rawhide strands. Nearby, his mother Aga continued to patiently apply pressure to the edge of another, half-finished, spear point. With each contraction of her thick hands a tiny flake of stone spalled off onto the ground. Aga's points were known for their straight, keen edges.

As he watched her laboring under the overhang of the cliff, he was troubled that Aga was so reluctant to use her skill to make smaller points for his arrows. He understood the utility of an arrow -- which could kill at a great distance -- but his mother could not abandon the idea that killing was best done with a sturdy spear, thrust with the might of her Neanderthal muscles.

Agor was different. His father, whose brief interlude with Aga had not lasted even until Agor's birth, had been one of the itinerant bow people that occasionally passed through the territory of Agor's people. His father had stayed briefly with Aga's family's band. Aga could not remember the name of Agor's progenitor, but she did attribute all of Agor's unusual cleverness to his father's seed. The bowmen, she would say, are too clever to be satisfied with any regular way of doing things, and she teased Agor for being just like them. Agor's knowledge of bows and arrows, and certain other crafts he practiced, were learned from wandering men and women of the bow people. None of Agor's relatives seemed to fully grasp these teachings, and mostly treated any new concept with sullen suspicion.

For every bit that his mind was like that of his forgotten father's kinsfolk, Agor's physique was inherited from his mother's people. A primitive body, broad and massive in its construction, and almost six feet tall. Thick bones to anchor giant thews. A protruding ridge of brow shadowing narrow-set grey eyes. Thick matted red hair crept low on his sloping forehead. His head thrust forward aggressively on his bulging, short neck. His teeth were large and spade-like. His red body hair covered his deep, sloping shoulders and became sparse only as it neared his hands and feet, which were thick and knotted with tissue and callouses. His right arm and left leg, already large, bulged with extra power to aid in casting his heavy spear. The cords of muscle that wrapped his abdomen stood out in high relief, stretching from his scarred chest down to the edge of his skin loincloth. Small crude tattoos of dots and lines showed in spots beneath his hair.

He was, in the eyes of several females he knew, quite handsome.

It was also a physique that required energy to maintain, and Agor was hungry. Agor's delay to complete his weapon had caused him to miss his opportunity to hunt with others, so he grunted farewell to Aga, and set out alone to kill a meal. He took with him his new spear. Today he left his bow behind. He was of the mind to quickly kill a buck, rather than pierce it with an arrow and then be burdened to chase it as it bled to death.

While he moved through the forest, Agor kept his eyes on the ground. It would be rare to quickly find his prey by sight. Fresh tracks, however, would lead him to a likely target. He veered off to his right, towards rougher terrain with some small, creek-filled gullies. In that area he usually had luck finding deer, and it offered more cover for a stalking hunter. Given the late hour, he decided that, unless he saw obvious fresh spoor, he would make a beeline for a densely wooded brook that he knew would remain dim and cool even as the dawn passed into midmorning.

Agor had stood immobile for one hour, his left shoulder resting easily against the bole of an alder so that he would not tire or sway. Already his feet were planted in a stance to throw his spear, both of them worked into the dirt and leaves so that no noise would be caused from any shift in his weight. His spear, held loosely in both hands, was ready to lift for a throw or thrust. Its deadly tip pointed at the adjacent trace of path that led down to the tiny creek below. A screen of leaves separated Agor from the path. They quivered slightly in the air as a ruffle of breeze roamed towards him from the opposite side of the trail. Below, in the bottom of the gully where the direction of any breeze would not be so purposeful, Agor's scent could circulate back to an animal daring to drink. Agor had carefully avoided choosing that spot for an ambush.

It was an hour well spent, because a fat buck had, after long consideration, deemed the track safe for a cautious approach to the water. It crept along with moist nostrils flared and head bobbing slowly up and down, testing the breeze. Agor was now rigid, for the animal was close enough to touch with the spear, and the temptation to strike was great. The front right chest of the deer offered a poor target of angled ribs and muscle, so Agor held his breath and observed the deer's bulging brown eye. That eye unconsciously met Agor's ... and then passed along. The buck saw no trace of motion and did not recognize any danger in Agor's still form.

When the buck took another two steps forward, exposing its shoulder, Agor exploded into motion and plunged his stout spear into the ribs below the withers. The point penetrated deeply, instantly lacerating the animal's lungs and likely its heart. Agor purposefully dodged the buck's convulsions and twists as, dying, it sought to gore and slice Agor with thrusts of its sharp hooves and antlers. Agor held to the shaft of his spear just long enough to ensure it tore more vital organs and then he let go. The deer made it almost to the little stream in the ravine before it collapsed. Its raw liver, thick with stored calories, Agor ate immediately.

Homeward, Agor skirted the forest, taking an indirect but easier and open route. Not a usual path, but one which he knew would take him home. The carcass of the buck was balanced on his shoulder and hung over his back. He jogged effortlessly under its weight. When he arrived at his cave, he would use flint tools to flense and dismember his kill. Every part would serve some purpose, either as food or incorporated into a primitive implement. Agor was relaxed because he had meat to spare. It was unlikely that he would have to hunt again for several days. Instead, he could lounge near a fire or perhaps bask on a warm boulder atop the cliff above the tribe's cave, and enjoy the spring.

While cutting across a broad meadow, his eye was arrested by a glint from the nearby grass. He stopped, not losing sight of the exact spot he had seen the sparkle. Sometimes a crystal or similar valuable stone would make such a reflection. Woe to the rockhound who took his eyes from his quarry and lost its reflection among a crowd of other pebbles. He felt a little thrill of anticipation as he followed the path of his gaze. Depending, the right glassy stone could be fashioned to a fine arrow point or could serve as a bauble to tempt the imagination of a coy female. He could not have anticipated the glimmering cone that his foot exposed when he used it to part the grasses at the spot his sight had marked.

Agor retreated in wary surprise. In eighteen years, he had neither seen nor heard of anything like this, so, by the standards of his existence, it was supernatural and therefore uncanny and perhaps menacing.

On the other hand, it was beautiful -- more beautiful by an order of magnitude than anything Agor was able to imagine.

After scanning in all directions, Agor backed-up a bit further and unburdened himself of the buck. He then again advanced on the cone and squatted near to peer at it. He did not expect it to move, but was ready if it did. For some time, he patiently watched it and shifted positions in a perimeter around the object until he had studied every detail. Then, satisfied that it was inanimate, he nudged it gently with the butt of his spear. It tipped, but did not tip over. Agor concluded it must be some sort of mineral, but its mesmerizing beauty baffled him. Its lure was almost irresistible, and he wanted to touch it.

There was a small chance that Fa-tan knew what the cone could be. Fa-Tan was Agor's mother's brother, and, having lived thirty-four winters, Fa-Tan was aged. Because Fa-Tan was the most senior of all of Agor's family, he was responsible for remembering and recounting all of their stories. Agor could not believe that, if Fa-Tan had seen something like this before, he would not have already made a story of it to tell and re-tell. He had never educated anyone with any tale of such an object. Still, if anyone were old enough to know what the thing was, it would be Fa-Tan.

Agor fell to deciding a method for marking this spot, rushing home, finding Fa-Tan, and then returning with him to the field for a diagnosis of the cone. Although it was likely Agor could follow his own spoor back to this spot, a chance spring shower could make that difficult. Agor required his spear, so it could not be left to serve as a marker. A detour would have to be made to the forest to find a pole, as a substitute for his spear, to thrust into the ground to post the cone's location. Agor thought. To his frustration, Agor realized that, in leaving, he would have to chance that someone else might find the object, particularly if they investigated a pole standing near it. Moreover, while wondering how the thing came to be in this spot, Agor developed the uncomfortable feeling that, if he left it alone, it might just disappear.

Eventually, Agor's continued indecisiveness caused his initial discomfort with the cone to distill into a certain familiarity. Agor decided that he would touch it. With his left hand placed firmly on the ground for balance, and both his feet gathered underneath for a spring away, Agor stretched to touch the cone with the index finger of his right hand. After a split second, he withdrew his hand as if bitten, but he did not flee. The thing was cold and smooth, an unexpected sensation that had alarmed him.

His hand stretched out again to test the surface of the cone. It was cool as a wet river stone. The surface had a slight dimpling and his finger slid across it because it was smooth as melting ice.

Agor's decision was made. After again briefly turning to search the field's horizons, Agor reached out and grabbed the cone. It was slippery, but he was able to grasp it firmly, aided by the light perspiration on his nervous palms. It was very beautiful. Now that he held it in safety, he gave it a good sniff. It had no odor. He pressed his tongue to it. It had an almost indiscernible taste he could not place, although it vaguely reminded him of the taste of his own blood when he sucked a cut or hurt a gum. He fingered the raised geometric symbols on its circumference for a moment. It was, he concluded, the most magical thing ever to exist. It would bring him great luck.

Hardly daring to let go of the cone now that he possessed it, Agor opted to sit and place it between his legs while he quickly tore up nearby grass that he roughly twisted and weaved into a crude length of rope. He used the rope to tie the ankles of the buck, which he then slung around his neck and over his back. It was awkward, but served to leave his hands free. He had one hand for his spear, and the other for the cone, which he clutched to his chest. Agor set off for the cave again at a trot.

At the cave, the envy of all was apparent as they marveled at the cone. Agor displayed it jealously. Fa-Tan was as impressed as anyone, and had no explanation for it. Despite request, Agor had let nobody besides Aga touch it. Sublimely, the cone glimmered even in the shade of the rocky shelter, and the group pressed close to Agor in awe. The buck lay forgotten at the entrance to the broad cavern, just inside the line of shadow made by the bright, noonday sun.

Soon, Agor decided he had had enough attention, and roughly elbowed away the covetous crowd. As the dominant mature male in his band, his touchy behavior was meekly accepted. Agor moved to the seclusion of a raised nook in the dim back corner of the cavern. He messaged those who might think to interrupt him by displaying the broad expanse of his hairy back and his adjacent spear. Disappointed, a couple of his young cousins squinted at him from a distance. Aga idly monitored him from her domain near the smudging fire. The rest fell to the practical task of dissecting the carcass of the buck, figuring on a later chance to study Agor's treasure.

Now alone and unencumbered, Agor could again scrutinize the cone, and privately test it for any secrets. With care, he applied pressure to its surface and base. It was unyielding. He shook it to no effect; he could not tell if it was hollow. The cone was silent, even when pressed against his ear. The line, almost a groove, that ran its girth with its little geometric shapes, especially intrigued him. It reminded him of a closed mussel, such as he occasionally found in a nearby stream, or a walnut, and perhaps could be pried open. He tried to work his thumbnail into the line, but was unsuccessful. Carefully, he firmly tugged at the cone in an attempt to separate the apparent top from the bottom. Nothing gave. Great was the temptation to commit some of his enormous strength, or apply a judicious beating, in an effort to open the cone. Prudence, however, prevailed. Much of Agor's hard life was violence, and he well understood that, once something was broken, repair might not be possible. And, as he reasoned, Agor did not know what the cone was, much less how to repair it if he broke it.

The wondrous beauty of the thing continued to impress Agor as he assayed its nature. When he pressed his nail against each of the little shapes, he realized that their random opposing placement irked his sense of order. It seemed to Agor that the beauty of the cone would actually increase if the shapes were harmoniously paired. Indeed, their sequence above and below the line were the same, so if one set were rotated against the other, they would match. Agor's thought brought him to immediate action. He grasped the cone above and below the line and began to twist.

Aga's hearing was sharp. Being always alert, she had lived almost as long as Fa-Tan. She heard an unfamiliar snick, like the rap of two small stones together. Aga innately feared the unfamiliar, and this sound was alien and therefore sinister. She immediately spun to confront the noise, which emanated from her son in the far corner of the cavern. There she saw that Agor was in sudden motion, grasping at his spear as he was haloed in blue-white light. Aga heard a sharp clink as a blinding point of light fell between Agor's legs to the stone floor of the cave nook. Struck dumb, she watched as tendrils of light, like flame on a log, licked up and around Agor, who now seemed to be suspended in the glow, his muscular limbs growing indistinct in the brilliance. With a clap, it was over, and Agor was gone.

Aga, and all who had witnessed the horror, ran in abject terror. Never did anyone return to the cave.

Chapter 3

LYALL MacROB

Although a Scottish baroness, Lyall MacRob did not look the part today. Separated from her men, she and Alec MacGregor were picking their way down a damp wooded ravine by way of a trickle of a brook. Lyall slipped on a wet cobble. Her soft boots were wet, her breastplate was scuffed from a slide down into the ravine, and her breeches were streaked with mud. Her long hair, which had been pinned and braided, was in mixed disarray.

MacGregor looked even worse as he staggered like an automaton behind Lyall, dwarfing her small frame. His swollen temple continued to ooze blood from a wound taken in ambush that morning. Dried blood matted down his blond hair near the wound. MacGregor's attacker's flail had likely cracked his skull. In any event, MacGregor was having difficulty speaking coherently. His padded vest was torn, he was wet, and he had lost a glove. His eyes were glazed, and his round, freckled and usually rosy face was puffy and pallid. His unfocused stare centered on the middle of Lyall's back.

Lyall wished she knew exactly where she was. Her party of ten had been on the road, traveling back from Lord's Castle, still a long way from the ramparts of her home, when they had been waylaid. They were no average robbers who made the ambush, but organized and armored men with a mercenary look. They came simultaneously from front and behind. They had not called for quarter, but had mutely driven their heavy mounts to the attack with a focus on Lyall herself. Lyall's men, also grim fighters, would have been a match for the twelve that came from the front, but the additional dozen attackers in the rear made defeat certain.

After a brief and furious exchange, Lyall and MacGregor had been divided from their cohorts, and the two soon faced an even eight opponents. One additional attacker lay on the grass between them, clutching his gut where Lyall had stabbed him through. Moments later the eight swarmed at them, and the chain-tethered iron ball of a morning star snaked out from the fray. MacGregor caught it with his head. Their deaths being near, Lyall reached for the reins of MacGregor's horse and pulled him away to flee. And flee they did, the sounds from the conflict behind fading into the drumming of hoof beats, punctuated by the smack of the flat of Lyall's blade as she hammered her horse to greater speed.

Fortunately, in that initial flight, MacGregor remained conscious and appreciated their need to escape with their lives. The eight pursued, but their sturdy beasts, bred for war, could not match the speed or agility of