Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

“/ will not,” Dunkahn said. “Without offense intended.” “Nor taken, boy. Nor taken.”

Technically, Milo Morai had no obligation to take to the trail with Dunkahn, but the boy had been loath to spurn the big man’s offer of help. Really, it should have been a whole raiding party sent after the dirtmen—three of them now pulling a string of Braizhoor ponies, to judge by trail signs—but there had been the bulletholes, recognized by Bard Sami; tradition required that the Sheriff of Clan Lehvee go after gunmen.

Gunmen. The word felt strange in his mind. “How do you know?”

“About what, Dunkahn?”

“That the bullets that the dirtmen used were ancient? Isn’t it possible that some of the old wizards are still around?” Even in his sixteen years, Dunkahn Lehvee had seen things he wouldn’t have credited as possible.

Although he didn’t really believe in the magic of gunpowder. Morai shook his head. “Not likely, boy. Besides,” he went on as though to himself, “if it was of recent manufacture, they’d be back to ball and powder, not Geco-BATs, of all things. But the plastic caps left behind nailed it down: the rounds are old Geco-BATs.”

Again, something that sounded strange. A gecko was a lizard; a bat, a flying creature. That one would name a bullet after a bat was reasonable; but why would anyone name it after a lizard?

“How do you know about all this? And why did you insist on accompanying me?”

Milo Morai was silent for a moment. “I won’t answer the First; it’s private clan business. As to the second, boy, if there are more bullets and gunpowder around than your ancient handgun, Clan Morai is definitely interested.” Dunkahn could almost hear him smile. “When you get older, Dunkahn, you’ll learn that there are such things that man was not meant to know. Now, sleep.”

Dunkahn slept.

Morning came in with the threat of a storm. Which wasn’t good; a plains storm would wipe away any trace of a trail and assure that their meandering quarry would escape.

They rode quickly, thoughts of “gecko-bats” and “ball and powder” running through Dunkahn’s head as they rode single-file down the narrow trail through the forest. Ball and powder . . . was it possible . . .

“Are you a wizard, Chief Milo?” he finally asked. “Could you make more of my bullets?”

“Me?” Milo Morai chuckled. “No. Hardly.” He shrugged. “I talked too much last night, eh? It matters little. Just leave it there’s ... a road down which humanity has traveled before, and one of the important way stations leads to things like that piece of iron on your hip—and to things far worse, as much more dangerous that that as that is more dangerous than a bee sting.”

Morai spoke as though he’d given the speech several thousands of times before, but hardly expected to be believed. “You’re the last of your ilk, Sheriff—whoa, there.”

The big man suddenly reined in his horse and vaulted lightly to the trail, retrieving the core of an apple, which he held in the palm of his hand. It was dirty and browned, and the flies swarming over it had yet to carry off much. “What do you make of this, Sheriff Lehvee?”

Dunkahn shrugged. “There’s someone on this trail not far ahead of us, and that’s for certain,” he said. “And they don’t know that we’re following them, or—”

“Not necesssarily ,” a harsh voice snarled from the woods. “If ye don’t move, we might let ye live—for a while.” From behind the bulk of an old oak a short, grimy man in a dirtman’s ragged tunic stepped, followed by two others, who were even filthier, if such a thing were possible. “Although we’ll pro’ly havta kill the big ’un quickly,” he added in a clear afterthought. “Ye both know what these are, eh?”

Each of the three held a pistol clutched awkwardly in his hand. “Tol’ ya, I did,” the second dirtman said, “that if’n we killed a couple of ’em and lef a trail they’d havta send the sheriff after us.”

“And here ’e is, eh?”

“Be still, Dunkahn. They’re not going to shoot.” Milo Morai stood easily, the weight on the balls of his feet.

“Oh?” The third dirtman gestured threateningly with his pistol. “And what makes ye say that?”

“You’re after the magic of gunpowder, aren’t you? And you think that the sheriff here has that.”

The man gave a gap-toothed smile. “And aren’t ye the clever one? He’ll tell us, after he sees ye roasting over a slow fire. If not, we’ll start on his own toes.”

Finally, it had started to make sense.

They had heard about the one Horseclansman who had an ancient magic weapon, and assumed that he had the ability to make more. Actually, that made sense; a man knew how to make a bow or lance, and most knew something of smithing, although only few were expert enough to be swordmakers. Somehow or other, they must have stumbled across an ancient cache of the weapons; they wanted more ammunition and thought that the sheriff was the way to it.

“Be still, Dunkahn,” the big man repeated. “They’re not going to shoot you because they think that you know how to make more bullets. And they’re not going to shoot me, either.” The taller of the three men nudged his neighbor again. “A bright one, he is. And why should we let you live?”

The big man smiled. “Because you just think that the boy knows the secret. I do know it.”

One snickered, while another gestured Morai to silence. “Shaddap. I think he be serious, even if ye don’t. And what does it hurt to wait awhile?”

Morai nodded. “And I’ll be happy to tell you-— now, Dunkahn."

The big man drew his sword and lunged for the nearest of the three.

Time seemed to slow.

There is a last time for everything, he thought, as he clawed at the strap holding his pistol in its holster.

His vision narrowed, until the whole universe was the smallest of the three dirtmen, the one swinging his gun to bear on Dunkahn.

As he had done ten thousand times in practice, Dunkahn gripped the handle of the pistol smoothly, drawing it from his holster, his thumb pulling the hammer back as he brought it into line.

Trained reflexes took over; left hand clamped around and steadying his right, he brought the pistol up and centered the smaller man’s chests in his sights as he jerked on the trigger, twice.

The sound of the pistol firing was a thunderclap that echoed through his body, but the only effect was twin explosions of bark and splinters from the tree next to the small man, which jerked his arm up and sent his own shot wild.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dunkahn could see Morai, moving with a grace that belied his bulk, his sword drawn and held out in front of him, ducking under the shot of the second man; Milo Morai speared him through the chest and kicked the man from his wet blade as the third dirtman brought his gun in line.

Squeeze, don’t pull, he could hear his father say as he brought the gun up and pulled hard on the trigger, just as the other fired, dumping Morai to the ground with wounded arm and a muffled moan, just as a red flower appeared in the dirtman’s chest, instantly turning into a gout of blood, and Dunkahn followed up with another shot that knocked the dirtman off his feet.