Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

How was he with a pistol? He didn’t know, despite all the hours of practice. The pistol was supposed to be a symbol, not a weapon. To actually have to use the pistol was something he had considered only idly.

And for what? To avenge a God-forsaken Braizhoor horsethief, his woman, and their cubs? Ridiculous. Granted, dirtmen had to be persuaded that attacking Kindred was a fatal mistake, but the point could have been made another

way. Still, he didn’t like the memory of the large hole in what had been little Ahrthuh Braizhoor’s chest. Braizhoor

cubs were cute, just like all little children. Why had the dirtmen shot the little one?

That wasn’t right. Nothing wrong with killing a full-grown Braizhoor, but a baby? That wasn’t right.

“Chief Milo?” he asked from the back of his horse, while the big, black-haired man knelt next to the ashes of the campfire. “How long?”

Milo Morai eyed him levelly. “More than a moment, less than a year.” With a grace that belied his size, the big man swung to the back of his brown gelding and kicked it into a slow wafk, leading the two packhorses while Dunkahn led their two spare mounts.

Riding toward a setting sun felt strange. The long travels of the Kindred were always to the east, occasionally veering north or south, but never west. The morning sun had been created to beat into one’s eyes; the afternoon sun was supposed to warm one’s back.

Milo Morai’s eyes didn’t meet Dunkahn’s as they rode. Not that there was anything shy about the big man, but eyes fixed on the next stand of trees or rocky outcropping had no time for the courtesy of looking at the one he was addressing.

They rode in silence as the darkness slowly fell; before the light totally faded, Milo called a halt and they made a rude camp in a stand of trees at the edge of the forest, although he relaxed visibly only after Dunkahn had climbed the tallest of the leafy giants in an attempt to spot their quarry.

There was sign of them—they had clearly entered the forest and were likely camped somewhere along the trail—but they were clearly not near. Yet.

Supper was a swig of water and a few mouthfuls of pem-mican for the humans and water for the horses, who were hobbled to graze nearby. Good Horseclans ponies, they wouldn’t wander far, and would sound an alarm if anything approached. Except for Sunflower; Dunkahn patted her solid neck and let her roam free, knowing that she would return at his whistle.

The two men took to their furs. Dunkahn eyed the sky; it was a clear night, stars burning overhead like distant campfires.

“Are you sure that you won’t lend me the pistol?” Chief Milo asked from the dark.

It had been a shock to Dunkahn when Morai had made that suggestion two days before, before they had set out on the trail of the fleeing murderers. After several gentle repetitions, it wasn’t shocking anymore. He wasn’t certain why Morai kept it up; didn’t repeating the same silly question bore the older man?

“No,” Dunkahn responded gently. “Only the Sheriff of Clan Lehvee or his heir may touch the badge of office,” he said, refiexively bringing his thumb up to touch the blackened shield pinned to his rough leather vest, “or the pistol that backs up his au-thor-ity,” he finished, stumbling over the old English word that wasn’t Merikan.

“Understood.” Morai nodded. “I’d really like to take a look at the rounds, though. Probably most don’t fire, after all this time. Although your ancestor did choose well; Remington Archivals were designed and packed to have an indefinite shelf life.”

Dunkahn wondered, again, where such knowledge came from. If knowledge it was, and not mere braggadocio; Chief Milo often let go pieces of information that it would seem he couldn’t possibly have come by. But Milo Morai didn’t impress Dunkahn as a braggart.

And while it simply had never been done for another to touch the sheriff’s tools of office, looking was something else, Dunkahn decided.

Dunkahn burrowed into his furs and took the spare round from his belt pouch, holding it in the palm of his hand as he walked over to Morai. Sealed in something like intestine, only thinner, brass shone brightly in the moonlight.

Dunkahn had never seen prettier metalworking; the smiths that had built the pistol and rounds must have been true wizards, indeed.

But they and their magics were long since gone. The world was left to the damn bowmen and swordsmen.

“Looks good.” Morai shrugged as Dunkahn returned to his furs. “Can’t tell by looking, but some have clearly survived the centuries.” He patted at the hornbow strapped to his saddle and hitched across his belt at his sword. “But maybe we’ll have to rely on this.”

“/ 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.