Peter was pleased to find that the itinerary for the day didn’t involve running laps and shooting himself in the head. He was led away from the circle of burrows into a nearby field of tombstones, pit-marked with large holes. The masonry looked as if it had been blasted to pieces by a thousand hand cannons. It had once been part of the large graveyard — back in the days when the dead stayed dead.
As Peter followed Norah at a safe distance, he heard the increasingly loud hiss of gun gas. “A shooting range?” he guessed. “I thought you said I wouldn’t be trained in weapons.”
Norah smiled. “You made faster progress than expected yesterday. I told the commandant, and he decided I could run over the basics with you.”
Peter tried to hide the stupid grin that crept across his face. He was excited to be on the safe end of a weapon for once.
They made their way through the pit-stricken field, and Peter smelled fruity Premernox gas before he saw a cluster of Nine Fingers Soldiers lined up, taking shots at distant pottery. The smell made Peter think of bruised apricots that had recently turned and were infested with fruit flies. The scent would have almost been pleasant without the hint of methane. The odor triggered something in his mind, so he now sensed ghost traces of blood whenever it was in the air. His heart beat faster. Peter plastered a smile on his face, and turned to face Norah expectantly.
“I’m mostly the physical training coach,” she said, “And this isn’t really in my wheelhouse. So today, I’ve asked for help.”
Peter saw a figure waving to them, and his smile melted. It was Captain Tobias Visser.
“Captain Visser? Are you sure he doesn’t just want to shoot me?” Peter asked.
“You may not like him,” Norah said, “But he’s good. Really good.”
They approached Captain Visser, and the captain cupped his hands around his mouth. “Range, cease fire! All eyes on me!”
The hiss and crack of shells died as all of the Nine Fingers fighters looked at Captain Visser in surprise.
Captain Visser glared at Peter momentarily before turning his attention to the participants at the range. “This man is a lich. I need you all to stay far away. Consider this your warning: If you get close, you will find yourself automatically being leeched.”
All eyes turned to Peter as the soldiers grunted their assent and cleared an area for Peter and his instructors.
“If he approaches you and leeches you,” the captain continued, “Tell me, and I’ll cut off his head myself.”
Peter swallowed. He knew the threat was likely impossible to carry out, but he knew Captain Visser would try his best.
His trainers led him to several wooden tables arranged in line. One had been prepared for Peter. Several gas arms and filtered respirators were neatly arranged on the flat surface.
Peter instinctively started reaching for one.
“I didn’t tell you to touch that, soldier!” Captain Visser snapped.
Peter recoiled. “Oh, er, sorry.”
“Obviously, we need to review customs and courtesy and the chain of command so you can learn something about authority. I’m a captain; you will refer to me as either Captain or Sir. Do you understand?”
“Uh, yeah.”
The captain glared. His dark brown eyes narrowed.
“Yes, sir,” Peter quickly corrected himself.
“The commandant told me you have been instructed to follow every order you received. You may think that you’re special. But you’re a private. You’re as low as Van Dijk — lower, even.” He chuckled to himself. “I didn’t know that was possible.”
“Hey!” someone protested.
Peter looked and recognized Van Dijk standing a little ways off. The goose egg on his forehead had dropped, giving him a black eye. He stood to the side with Isabella and the other soldiers, but Peter couldn’t see Owen anywhere.
Captain Visser ignored Van Dijk. “There aren't even a hundred of us in the field, so the Nine Fingers military system is straightforward. The commandant is our leader, and his ruling is absolute.”
Peter nodded and stood a little more firmly. Though harsh, Captain Visser's words made more sense now. He was talking to Peter as a soldier, not a liability.
“The Commandant works with his three Directors, two of whom are here. That’s Chief Director Stegeman —” Captain Visser pointed to a bushy-browed man who watched the exchange intently with his arms folded in front of his chest. “And that’s Director Van Den Hoak —” He gestured to a younger man, who wasn’t paying attention to them, but was speaking with a woman in the distance in a hushed tone. Van Den Hoak held one of her hands in his. Despite the cold, the young director didn’t wear a hat but covered his ears with a headband.
“Director Habets is with the commandant right now; I’ll be sure to point him out to you later.”
Peter was surprised. He never would have been able to tell which men held rank. He realized that they didn’t wear uniforms. The organization was run like a military, and the members acted like soldiers, but they didn’t look like an army.
“What do the Directors do?” Peter asked.
“We plan,” Director Stegeman said. His posture was stiff. “We issue the assignments and work directly with the commandant.
Peter nodded, noticing how Director Stegeman puffed himself and looked down at Peter over his nose.
Captain Visser continued, “Then we have cells, which are our basic combative unit. A captain like myself heads each cell. Every cell has an operations officer, like Owen and basic soldiers to fill in the space. Each cell works as a team to execute the director's assignments.”
“How many cells are there?” Peter asked.
“We lost about two thirds of our cells in Calacray, so there are currently eleven overt cells,” Captain Visser said.
“Am I going to be in your cell?” Peter asked, dreading the answer.
Director Stegeman snorted. “We’re putting together a special team for you. You’re our front line, remember.”
Peter breathed a sigh of relief, but felt kind of bad. He liked Van Dijk, Isabella, and Even Owen. But Captain Tobias —Peter looked into the captain's eyes. He could see the distrust and hatred in those eyes. The captain spoke to him professionally, but it was just a mask that couldn’t hide how he felt.
Peter nodded.
A new voice from the other side cut in. “Are you going to be at this all day? Or can we get back to shooting?”
Captain Visser clenched his teeth, and Peter turned to see the three men who had interrupted his physical training session the day before. They stood in a group with seven others.
Hired guns,Peter thought, as he recalled Norah’s words from the previous day.
Peter guessed that the seven others with them were also mercenaries. When the captain called for space, the hired men and Nine Fingers operatives had naturally segregated into separate groups on either side.
Peter could see a noticeable difference quickly enough. Though the hired guns dressed the same way as the Nine Fingers soldiers, they carried themselves differently. The mercenaries held themselves confidently, with a certain careless grace, while the Nine Fingers soldiers were more tense and disciplined.
Peter recalled that they were not just mercenaries. They were in the former king's cell. Those men were the best of the best, at the height of Nosmeria’s power.
“You can keep shooting, Morris,” Captain Visser said to the speaker. “Enjoy the free ammunition while it lasts.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The men on both sides turned their attention back to the range, stuffing in earplugs, putting on filtered gas masks, and loading their weapons.
Norah stuffed in a pair of her own earplugs, but Peter declined when she offered him some.
The soldiers began firing down the range with painfully high shrieks and hisses, but Peter dismissed them. What was the point? He couldn’t hurt his ears.
“Pick up your weapon, Van Seur.” Captain Visser instructed as he pulled a filtered mask onto his face.
“What’s the mask for?” Peter asked.
“Premernox gas can be toxic,” Captain Visser explained. “Usually, I wouldn’t need a mask in an outdoor environment, but enough people are shooting here that it would be unnecessarily foolish to go without.”
Peter looked around surreptitiously. Not all the soldiers training wore masks, but many did. He opted to ignore the masks on the table. It was a redundant measure for him.
Peter eagerly picked up one of the smaller pistols. It was well-built, with a long barrel, and decorated with elegant silver trim.
“Not that wall piece,” Captain Visser corrected him. “The biggest one.”
Peter scanned the table. There were at least twelve different pistols to choose from. He grabbed one with a thicker wooden stock and a wider barrel. It wasn’t anything pretty, but it looked like it could pack quite a punch.
“Van Seur,” the captain cut in again. “That one.”
Peter looked where the captain was pointing. He had overlooked the incredibly thick, short, and stubby mass of metal, because it hardly looked like a pistol.
“That?” Peter asked. “That’s not a gun, that’s a cannon!”
“A Slagter Prime Hand Cannon, more precisely.” Captain Visser continued. “Light arms bullets won't stop a ghoul. You’ll need a well-placed slug to send them back to the grave.”
Peter looked down the line as the soldiers continued firing. Most of them were armed with Slagter Primes. He felt both anxious and disappointed. The weapon was downright ugly. It wasn’t at all what he was expecting, and it was more than a little intimidating.
“How do I load it?” Peter asked as he pulled the seal breacher back. The pistol he had used the day before had a chamber in front of the seal breacher to slide the bullet into, but there wasn’t a chamber here.
“It’s already loaded,” the captain said. “Pick a target and shoot, and if you flag anybody, I swear I’ll throw a rock at your head.”
Peter nodded and scanned the range. Dozens of clay dishes were set up on mounds and gravestones. The ground and stones were riddled with large blast marks, and broken clay lay scattered all across the field.
Peter focused on a jar that was placed on a mound and focused. He looked down the sights, then focused his eyes on the jar.
The blasting on either side continued, and he tried to drown out the noise. He exhaled and started to squeeze the trigger. Iris had told him that was the way to do it. She was in the junior shooting club at their academy.
Peter held his breath and waited for the bang.
Click —
Peter blinked. Had it been a dud? He looked at the captain, who muttered something to Norah. Whatever he said, Norah nodded in agreement.
“You anticipated the shot. You jerked your gun down ever so slightly to compensate. It would have gone way off.”
“There’s something wrong with this bullet —” Peter said but stopped as he caught on. “It’s not loaded. You made me shoot it empty on purpose.”
Norah nodded. “We needed to watch your hands without interference. Don’t compensate for the recoil. Most people who start shooting are scared of the buck and throw the shot off. Practice shooting it empty. Holding it still is the most important thing you could learn right now.”
Peter nodded and pulled the seal breacher back again. This time, he knew it was empty. He steadied the Slagter and pulled the trigger.
Click.
“Much better,” the captain said. Norah nodded in agreement. “Again.”
Peter did it repeatedly, practicing on holding his aim steady. As he got used to the subtle click, he was convinced he would have hit his target.
“Hold fire on the range!” Director Stegeman barked, and the others stopped shooting.
“Re-supply!” Range tenants grabbed several additional clay targets and carried them onto the field, placing them at different intervals.
Peter was about to help, but Captain Visser told him to stay.
The captain ushered Peter to a box under the table. Peter looked and saw hundreds of massive bullets—many times bigger than the pistol he had used the day before. They consisted of a Premernox compressed casing and a projectile with lines spiraling down the side, ending in several sharp prongs at the tip. He looked at Captain Visser with a grimace.
“Those open up and blossom on impact. They won’t just puncture through the ghoul’s heart; they’ll shred it.”
Peter pulled out several wicked-looking slugs and readied them on the table.
“The lever on the side opens the chamber,” Captain Visser said. “It’s break action.”
Peter pulled the lever, and the gun split in half, the barrel dropping on a small hinge.
“Drop a slug into it.”
He did as he was told as the men returned from the newly filled range.
“Lock it up.”
Peter snapped the barrel back shut. The pistol was considerably heavier this time. He nodded. It was definitely loaded now.
“Range open!” Director Stegeman barked, and the others began to fire off new rounds, setting off miniature explosions of pottery.
“Shoot it, but do it like you did before. Let the hiss surprise you. Don’t be scared of the recoil.”
Peter nodded and closed his eyes for a second. The gun is empty, he told himself. I’m going to pull the trigger, and nothing will happen. He opened his eyes and sighted the target. Breathe and squeeze gently. Let the shot surprise yo-
The Slagter Prime almost leaped from his hands with a hiss, and the pot exploded.
“Woah!” Peter cried. His hand was definitely bruised, but like all injuries, it was suddenly fine after three or so seconds. The familiar scent of bruised fruit and sewage permeated the air around him as the released gasses escaped, and cold vapors drifted off the barrel's end.
“Not bad,” the captain said, “but way too slow. Again.”
Peter hit the brake lever. The barrel dropped, and he grabbed the casing. It burned his hand, and he hissed as he pulled it out and threw it aside. It was like an instant frostbite; it was so cold, it burnt. He was perfectly fine in a few heartbeats. It wasn’t until then that he noticed all the other shooters were wearing gloves to cope with the cold. Peter twitched but didn’t ask for a pair of his own. He didn’t need them, and he would do better getting used to the pain.
He loaded another one and aimed. He sighted on a bowl quite a bit further away.
Easy, Peter thought to himself. Relax and … No. He tensed at the last second. He lost his focus. Peter shook his head, refocused, and squeezed the trigger.
Tsshhhssss.
A plume of earth sprayed up into the air just beside the bowl.
Peter cursed — a nasty habit he would have judged himself for half a year ago, but something about the profanity acted like a pressure release valve.
“Don’t shoot unless you’re going to hit.” It was Morris.
Peter looked at the hired gun in surprise. Morris had stopped shooting and was watching Peter. Morris’ expression was difficult to read through his surprisingly soft features. He didn’t look grizzled, or hard, but relaxed and dignified.
“Also, focus on your front sight, and don’t look to see if you’ve hit until you’ve loaded in a new shell. You should always be ready to shoot.”
Peter nodded and flung the shell casing from the Slagter Prime with a wince of pain. He loaded another shell and noticed Captain Visser failing to hold in a scowl toward Morris.
Interesting, Peter thought. He’s annoyed.
Peter sighted on another distant jar.
Don’t shoot if you won’t hit. Peter switched to a closer one, focused on his front sight, and fired.
Without checking to see if he hit, he flipped out a cartridge and loaded a new shell. He chose another nearby target and fired.
Moving as smoothly as he could, he loaded and fired at three more nearby targets randomly. He never stopped to look but moved on to his next shot. He loaded in another slug and looked up.
“Pretty smooth,” Norah said, “But you’re slapping the trigger again. Don’t anticipate. I know it can be hard to keep track of the fundamentals simultaneously.”
“Did I hit any?” Peter asked as he scanned the range for his targets. Between shooting quickly and the field of broken clay, he wasn’t sure which were his.
“No,” Norah said simply.
Peter’s confidence shattered.
“Good job getting one in the chamber before you check,” Morris said with a nod. “If your enemy closes the distance you could shove the barrel of your weapon through their teeth and force feed them some lead.”
Captain Visser knitted his brows towards Morris. “Could you maybe get back to burning through our ammunition, and let me train my soldier?”
“Maybe that’s the problem, Captain,” the youngest of Morris’ companions shot back. “You would do well to accept Morris’ feedback.”
“Don’t be rude, Skye,” Morris cut in. “I’m sure they have a good reason to ignore us.” Morris nodded humorously before turning away.
Captain Visser turned back to Peter sour-faced. “Your shooting sucks. Try taking a shot at something that’s further than point blank.”
“Time to burn through some slugs!” Morris said loudly, deliberately directed at Captain Visser.
Peter looked over at him.
Morris dropped into a low stance and fired at a distant pot.
Peter blinked and looked back as Morris squeezed off a second shot.
Peter’s jaw dropped as Morris loaded and fired in rapid succession. His hands moved in a blur, smoothly flipping out old shells, loading in new ones, and firing. He squeezed off a shot every second. He blasted away at pots, plates, and bowls. He effectively cleared a chunk of targets out of the range.
Morris shot his tenth round, destroying a distant jar before jamming his Slagter into a thick holster. He turned and looked back at the captain. “But what do we know about shooting? We don’t have a rank, so there's no way we can offer anything of value to your recruits.”
Morris turned and walked away without further debate. Skye, the youngest of the hired guns, shook his head with a grin at his older companion. The third man looked indifferent as the three of them turned to leave.
“Wow,” Peter said. “He’s good.”
“He’s alright.” Captain Visser sniffed.
“Can you shoot like that?” Peter asked, growing excited.
Captain Visser flinched, his hand on his gun. “Not everything in war is about how well you can shoot.”
“Morris Dewolf is something of a legend with gun play,” Norah said, her tone laced with honest admiration. “So are the other two, Benedict Smulders and Skye Brink. We’re lucky we could afford them.”
Peter found himself looking after the departing men wide-eyed. They were incredible. Controlled, skilled, and dangerous. “What exactly did the King’s Cell do?”
Private Van Dijk crept closer to the captain, drawn from his shooting by Morris’ display. “They worked as a personal task force for King Adrichem before the world went crazy.” Van Dijk looked after them the way a child looks when they meet their hero for the first time.
“Enough,” Captain Visser snapped in disgust. “We don’t need our soldiers lauding after mercenaries. If they were really patriots, they would have died when Stalpia fell. They are hired guns who only care about the coin in their pocket. They aren’t real soldiers. They’ll be your friend until your money runs out. They’re fake and arrogant. Aren’t you supposed to be training, Van Dijk?”
Van Dijk Jumped. “Sorry, Captain.” He returned to his spot on the range, but not before glancing over his shoulder again at Morris.
Captain Visser turned back to Peter. “Now, let’s try that again.”
“Director!” a messenger cried as he ran up to Director Stegeman. “The House of Nyamar just broke council. They’ve made a decision!”