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The city of Tivor on the planet Dianis
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Ropert sighted down the long steel tube and aligned the iron fin at the front of the tube with the iron v-wedge at the rear, just as Troop Commander Rayamars had shown him. The gun felt heavy and awkward in his arms, but he held it firmly and braced his elbows against the rail of the tree stand.
Eliot stood quietly behind him. The magnificent stag took two more steps into the clearing, a full ten-pointer at least, with beams extending well out beyond the ears. For him, it was an impossible shot with a hunting bow, but with a rifle, at a hundred paces, it would be possible. The stag dipped its head to graze; the aorolmin aimed just behind the front shoulder and began to squeeze the trigger. Rayamars had cautioned him: “Squeeze, don’t pull or yank. The gun’s discharge should come as a surprise.”
Bang!
The aorolmin lurched back, shocked by the blast even after shooting it in practice. He waved at the smoke, sneezing. Looking downfield, he said, “Well, where did it go?”
“Darted back into the trees, lord. Let’s go have a look.” Anxious, Eliot clambered down from the hunting stand and waited for his lordship to negotiate the ladder. A retainer came with their eenus, and the lord of Tivor mounted up.
The aorolmin spurred his eenu, cantering to where his prey had disappeared. Their scout was already there. The lord felt his blood pumping. It was a magnificent animal, and the aorolmin himself had directed the hunt while Eliot, his guide, nodded sagely at his lordship’s instructions. In truth, the aorolmin had learned all he knew of hunting and woodland craft from the huntsmaster. Eliot took pride in his star pupil’s skills.
The tension was almost too much for him to bear; reining in, the aorolmin asked peremptorily, “Well, did I hit it?” The scout, a girl, an impertinent little Timberkeep from Wedgewood, rose from her crouch and smiled, pointing at the ground, “Minnie, even you can see that,” she chided him impishly.
“Rachael!” Eliot rebuked her, but the aorolmin merely shook his head and dismounted. “Don’t mind the lass, Eliot. The little wildcat hasn’t a lick of manners, but she can track a mouse over bare rock.” He stopped and dismounted, aghast at the great splash of blood, a deep red stark against the vivid green of the grass. “I did that?” He asked, amazed, “That’s mine?”
Rachael nodded emphatically, “Oi.” She bent and wiped a finger through the puddle and held it up, the crimson bright and glistening on her fingertip, “Weren’t here a minute ago, Minnie.” She glanced mischievously at Eliot, knowing he groaned every time she used her nickname for the lord.
Ropert could hardly believe it; he’d actually hit the animal, and it was a spectacular beast, easily the equal of any of Tivor Castle’s many trophies, none of which were his. He bent low; there was fur in the splash. Surely, the wound must be fatal? He’d long since admitted to himself and his associates that he was a willing but mediocre hunter. Coming from a long line of avid outdoorsmen, Ropert practiced hunting mainly to sustain the family tradition in the hopes that one day he would be able to add to the collection. It galled him that none of the aging, dusty trophies in the great hall were his but rather the accomplishments of his forebears, men he feared, greater than he. As a shy, childless widower, suspicious of any woman who showed outward affection for him, he didn’t have any progeny to pass his realm on to. He was sure it was another source of derision for his subjects, in addition to dining in a hall under trophies not his.
Trembling, he looked at the girl, daring to ask, “Do you, do you—”
Since the Timberkeeps had arrived on Mt Epratis, Rachael had taken to scouting with Elliot and had proven a skilled tracker on the aorolmin’s outings. Pointing, she said, “Plenty of blood. Do you want to track it, or shall I?”
He turned to Eliot, “How can that be? The bullet is so small, it doesn’t compare to an arrow?” He held his arms out, showing the length of a yard-long shaft.
Eliot bunched his shoulders, “I don’t know, milord. Both Achelous and Ogden say the bullet hits with a tremendous punch.”
“It must,” Rachael said, levitating a stone and spinning it in the air above her hand, “even I can’t fling a stone that hard,” and she sent the rock zinging off into the forest.
“How you do that, child, I shall never know,” the aorolmin exclaimed, momentarily distracted from the worry of yet another escaped trophy.
She proffered him a bright smile and launched herself along the blood trail, “Come on, Minnie, let’s find your stag so we can celebrate!”
“No, no child, do not say that, for surely the animal is miles from here and safe in some bog.”
“Ha!” she rebutted. “Not with that much blood. There,” she pointed, “and there, and there.” Her arms waved as she skipped through the woods, pointing out splotches of red, oblivious to the gory nature of her work. Her singsong voice called out like a sprite counting violets, getting farther away. “And there, and there,” and the aorolmin, having put on some weight in the past years, had to hustle to keep up. “And there, and there,” came her twittering melody, and then she stopped abruptly and whirled around. The aorolmin came puffing up, Eliot close behind him. Rachael could hear the other members of the party riding their eenus through the forest towards them. She stooped to smell a rare blue trillium.
“What is it, child? What have you found?”
She plucked the flower. “This, your lordship.” She held it out to him.
“Oh, my. A blue trillium,” his fleshy, bearded face red from the exertion. He accepted the gift. “Thank you,” he said as a father to daughter, patiently appreciating the gesture even amidst the gravity of the situation. “And what about—” he asked gently, not wanting to demean her present.
She giggled and pointed behind her. “And there!”
The aorolmin blinked and looked past her shoulder, but all he saw was brush and forest understory. He moved past her and found a dollop of red, then painstakingly searched for another. Then he drew up sharply. His heart fairly pounded in his chest. Could it be? he wondered. The brown hide blended perfectly in the understory amongst the leaf litter, but the yellow horns, the massive yellow horns, stood out from the bracken, catching sunlight like ship masts in the harbor. “Oh my,” he breathed. “Oh my.”
Trudging through the undergrowth, ignoring the clawing of the blackthorns, he stood over his quarry, hardly believing his eyes. He settled to his knees and rested his hand on the soft, warm fur. Rachael kneeled next to him and counted the points on the rack, one by one, like counting toes on her feet, though she didn’t have so many. “Twelve,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Twelve!” he said, awed.
“Yep,” and she dutifully recounted them, the lord not daring to interrupt. “Twelve.”
“Tis a truly magnificent creature, milord,” Eliot said. “Worthy of the greatest hunter’s hall.” The last a not-so-subtle hint that the aorolmin no longer need look on his forebears’ trophies with embarrassment.
Not realizing an audience had gathered behind him, the lord of Tivor just kneeled there, reveling in his accomplishment. All his life, he struggled to match the lore of his elders. Ropert loved the hunt, but not for the thrill of the kill, but for the comradery and the grand excuse to leave the castle, courtiers, and troubles behind. It was one reason he’d grown fond of Rachael. She didn’t care who he was and treated him like any person, and he found that distinctly refreshing. She didn’t care if he fumbled an arrow or sent a bow shot wide. She just reveled at frolicking in the forest.
“Congratulations, lord.”
The aorolmin stirred himself at the voice. Standing, he greeted the rest of the hunting party.
“Oi, we heard the shot, lord, and came straight away.” Ogden stood with his own rifle slung across his back, looking for all the world as if he’d been born with it.
Achelous rode up beside Ogden. These past weeks, since their arrival from Isumfast, had been a blur. They’d taken a calculated risk shifting from the repair bay to Mt Epratis, but Jeremy had worked every energy emissions sensor available and confirmed the fleet had left the system, matching the news on the Fednet that the Matriarch was back on Avaria. If any ships or recon drones remained behind to monitor the planet, Jeremy had not detected any response to the field perturbations.
“Yes, congratulations, sire,” said Achelous, “I believe you have bragging rights.”
“Bragging rights?” the aorolmin asked, his throat thick and dry.
Ogden, Achelous, and Troop Commander Rayamars solemnly looked at each other and nodded, knowing they’d been bested.
“Yes,” said Eliot. “They were taking bets as to who would get the first shot, and you beat them all.”
“And I am certain,” Achelous added, “that you are the first person on D—” he almost said on Dianis, which would imply the weapon was used elsewhere in the galaxy, and how would he know that? So he said, “—in the world, that has shot a stag or any animal with a rifle.”
“Truly?” the aorolmin asked, his eyes wide.
Ogden nodded gravely, “Truly.”
“Shall I clean and dress it for you, milord?” Eliot asked.
“Oh, shouldn’t I do it?” Ropert replied, genuinely curious.
The others laughed. Ogden offered, “Lord, if someone offers to do the dirty deed, accept it unless, of course, you have a bent for that sort of thing.”
They made room for Eliot to get to work.
With a nudge from Achelous, Ogden hesitantly reached down and retrieved the aorolmin’s rifle where Eliot had set it by the carcass. As he made to sling it across his back, the aorolmin asked in alarm, “What are you doing?”
“I need to take it back to the armory, sir. Have it cleaned and locked away.”
“Uh,” Ropert said, “I’ve come to rather like it.”
Ogden gave a blank look, then turned to Achelous, who asked, “Yes, sire?”
“You’re a trader; sell it to me. Ogden can have it cleaned and do whatever he needs, but I want to use it when the mood strikes. Moreover, I want more practice with it. I’ll be your first customer.”
Achelous asked Ogden for the weapon, who handed it to him. Achelous then presented it to the aorolmin. “Sire, it is yours as a gift from Ogden and me in recognition of your feat today. Ogden can etch your name on the barrel.”
The aorolmin gravely accepted the weapon. “It is the third gift given me today.”
“Your third?” asked Rachael as she fixed her concentration on a buttermilk butterfly. It hovered an inch over her hand, fluttering vainly to fly away. Satisfied, she smiled brightly at Ropert, and the moth fled from her attention, no worse for the trial.
He grinned, “First, Mother has provided me with this grand stag. Second, you with a blue trillium. And now, Achelous and Ogden with this,” he held the rifle out with both hands.
Rayamars cleared his throat. “Lord, do you think one will be enough?”
Consternation crossed the aorolmin’s ruddy features. “Why? Do they break?”
Ogden quickly shook his head. “Noi. They will foul with soot from repeated firing, but we build them well, lord.”
“Then why do I need more than one?”
“For our men, milord,” Rayamars replied gravely. “To defend Tivor.”
“Oi,” Ogden said. “If we had a full ward of rifles at the Battle for Wedgewood, the Scarlet Saviors would not have burned a single building. The Scarlet Bastards would not have gotten close enough to the Tannery to set it afire. Our arrows were stuck in their heavy shields like pincushions. None would penetrate. We needed to use ballistae mounts, but with forty rifles, not a single Savior would have survived to light a torch.”
Ropert swallowed hard. He’d heard the stories and could not bear the thought of any part of Tivor burning. Not even the brothels and grog dens along the wharf. “Are you sure of that? I am mightily impressed by what it has done to reap me a great stag, but what is fur compared to armor? I understand Scarlet Saviors wear the best?”
Achelous turned to Rayamars, “Commander, I believe a demonstration is in order. Rachael, fetch a cooking pan from the field kit on the pack eenu and hang it in a tree fifty paces from here.” He pointed in the general direction of several suitable targets. “Commander, if you will, ready three rounds. On my command, load, and fire at the pan as quickly and accurately as you can. Ogden will count the time.” Watching Rachael fetch the pan, he added, “And, commander, it would be best if you were to hit the target.” They all laughed except for the aorolmin. Everyone, except for Ropert, had seen Rayamars practice. He was Ogden’s chief tester of new prototypes and had become a noted marksman.
Rachael ran to a tree, excited to see the demonstration. She stopped at one about fifty paces away, turned, and looked at the group. She gave an impish grin and ran a further fifteen paces. Snapping off a branch about head high, she hung the pan by its handle using a loop of twine. Then she gave the pan a good push and started it swinging on the branch. Eliot and Ogden laughed.
Rayamars glanced at Achelous, then bent to one knee, readied his primer horn, and set three of the new paper-wrapped powder cartridges on his hunting cap that lay on the ground beside him. With a scraping noise, he pulled out the ramrod and set it on the ground beside the hat.
“Interesting target, milord,” Achelous said to Ropert, “must be sixty-five paces and swinging on a rope. How many archers could hit that?”
Ropert grunted his own skepticism.
With Rachael safely back, Rayamars said, “Ready.”
Achelous replied, “Commence fire.”
Rayamars bit open a cartridge, poured its contents down the barrel, seated a bullet and wadding, and rammed it home. With a practiced motion, he primed the pan with his powder horn, dropped it on its lanyard, and brought the rifle to his shoulder. He pulled the doghead of the flintlock back, steadied himself, aimed at the swinging pan, and fired. The pan bucked at the impact and swung on the branch. “Well done!” exclaimed Eliot.
Ignoring the accolade, Rayamars poured a second powder charge down the barrel. Though the pan was both swinging and twisting, Ropert could swear he saw a hole in it.
Pulling the ramrod out of the barrel, Rayamars rested it against his side, primed the pan, dropped the horn to dangle on its lanyard, and again shouldered the rifle. With the barest hesitation, he fired. Smoke and flame burst from the barrel, and a loud clang came from the iron skillet.
Rayamars rammed down the third bullet as he shuffled to the right to clear the growing gunsmoke.
Bang!
The pan jumped on the impact of the third bullet and fell to the ground.
“I’ll get it!” Rachael squealed and darted off.
“Three shots in the count of forty-five sire,” Ogden noted with pride.
“Forty-five?” asked Achelous. “With a full ward, that’s a hundred twenty shots per minute.” He let that thought sit with the aorolmin.
Rachael ran back to them and held the pan up to her face, peaking through one of three holes blasted through the metal.
Ropert held out his hand, and she gave him the target. He fingered one of the holes punched clean through.
“It’s not hardened steel, sire,” Eliot said, “but it is thicker than armor forged to turn a blade.”
Achelous, in his in-country role as a trader of gems, spices, and weapons, never really thought of himself as an arms dealer, but if there was ever a scene of a weapons manufacturer lobbying a government official, this was it.
“Not a weapon of war, sire?” Rayamars asked. “I grant you a good archer can shoot faster, and distant is the day where Tivor will unstring its last bow, but no Tivor arrow can pierce the heavy armor of Warkenvaal lancers. And what of their bands of eenu archers that roam our plains and plague us with their hit-and-run tactics. We could counter with our own eenu riflemen.” The lieutenant had clearly been thinking about the idea.
Ropert hummed. They’d had some success countering the Warkenvaal with their own mounted archers, but the Vaal were experts at the strategy. He looked at Rayamars with a keen eye. As aorolmin, he’d ruled Tivor for the past seventeen years and had seen much strife with its larger southern neighbor. “Ronny, your father served me with honor and died in the defense of Tivor at Wichin Wash. Now, you stand in my service and have added distinction to your family’s name. In both your father’s honor and yours, you would hold to this?”
“Sir!” He came to attention. “I look to the day when I find a Warkenvaal cataphract in my sights. With this weapon, they will learn that Mother’s Wheel of Life is truly round.”
Ropert seemed to deflate, the hard glint to his gaze gone. Achelous held the man in sympathy. To have lost so many for a man who considered himself a father to them all was a grave burden to bear. “How many did you say we would want?”
“Lord, I would recommend eighty to start. Enough for a full company.”
Ogden saw the uncertainty in the lord’s eyes at what eighty rifles might cost the Tivor treasury, so at the risk of speaking out of turn and drawing the ire of his principal investor, Achelous, Ogden blurted, “And we will supply them at cost, lord. There will be no profiting from Tivor. Oi, you have been most gracious, grand, and generous in your offer for us to settle here. It would be against our principles to treat you otherwise.”
A kindly smile spread across the aorolmin’s ruddy features. He reached out and placed an arm on Ogden’s shoulders. “We are together in this, good smith. I know your clan has suffered much at the hands of the Paleowrights, but understand as well that your steading here on the shoulders of Mt. Epratis puts you squarely athwart the next Vaal incursion. Build not only rifles for me but for you and yours as well. The Vaal will come, surely as autumn follows summer.”
“Aw, let the deep souther’s come,” Rachael tossed a bullet she’d taken from Rayamars, “I’ll stick this in their ear like I did with the loglards and Parrots.” She spun the bullet like a top on her finger and then sent it humming in a circle around the outside of the group like an angry hornet.
Ropert brushed a stray lock from the child’s forehead. “Put your bee away, little wildflower. There will be time enough for that, I promise you.”
She pouted, but the bullet ceased its buzzing and returned to her hand.
“Lord, on our return to the castle, may we presume on your time with a short detour?” Achelous asked.
“A detour?” asked Ropert.
“Yes, sire, Marisa is keen on a new invention of Ogden’s, and it may catch your interest.”
“Marisa? By all means. For once, I would like to know something of what she does before reading it in the Littoral.”
