Tales of Rustler’s Lodge spread far and wide, each thoroughfare owned by a different gang, each gang sitting within the deep pockets of someone who deserves nothing but misfortune. Unfortunately, those pockets grow deeper with every passing day and they will never be full.

Torches lit, we ride the canyon path, each side towering above like the walls of hell. Darkness falls heavy on our shoulders, starving us of light, torch flames providing just a horse’s length of vision in any direction. This is an evil place, something other than man lurks within the gloom.

A scream from one of the men, taken. Flames snapped from existence, voice fading fast.

‘Ride!’ shouts Magna, driving his horse from trot to gallop.

His order falls on willing ears, swords drawn from scabbards, tor...

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