“I’m Riley,” the woman with the fancy spectacles said, tapping the countertop, “and I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have about our alchemical arms.”
Ward stepped up to the counter, his eyes still drawn to the polished and oiled guns hanging on the wall behind her. Some of the rifles had absurdly long barrels, and others were absurdly wide. Some looked like muzzle-loaders, and others were clearly meant to fire cartridges. Riley watched his eyes drift from gun to gun and said, “You certainly seem to like what you see.”
“I’m impressed by the craftsmanship, that’s for sure. They’re like works of art.”
“Well, our smiths take great pride in their work, and we wouldn’t put the Harkwright stamp on ‘em if they weren’t the very best.”
Ward nodded, frowning in thought. “They’re much finer looking than many of the guns I’ve seen since coming to Cinder. I take it there’s a pretty wide range when it comes to ‘alchemical arms’ quality, yeah?”
“Most definitely, sir.”
“And the ammunition? Do you manufacture it?”
She nodded. “Harkwright’s own alchemical fire factory is outside the city, just a few miles to the north. We have alchemists with the highest credentials creating our fire, and our bullet smiths make the finest, most stable ammunition with it.”
Ward nodded. “I was going to ask about that. I had a handgun I really—Well, if I’m honest, I really loved it. I had a guy make me some bullets in Tarnish, and they blew the barrel off it.”
“Oh, that’s awful! I hope it wasn’t a family heirloom!” The concern in Riley’s voice was palpable, and it made Ward feel better. He really had been upset about that gun, and she seemed like the first person he could talk to who understood that loss.
“Nah, just a revolver I spent a lot of time with.”
“A revolver?” She gestured to the shotgun-shaped weapon with the big rotating cylinder. “In a handgun?”
“Yep. It was a real beauty.” Ward tried to steer the conversation to more pertinent subjects, “Are any of your barrels rifled?”
“Rifled, sir?”
“Um, do you cut grooves inside the barrels to give the bullets some spin as they traverse it?” She looked at him blankly, shaking her head. “It makes them more accurate.”
“I…I’ll have to ask our gunsmiths about that, sir, but it’s not a technique I’m familiar with.”
“Well, it was just a hope.” As he spoke, Grace appeared, sitting on the counter to his left.
“She can’t see me, I’m sure. I stood by the door for a while so I’d have an excuse for being there.”
“Do any of these pieces catch your eye, sir?” Riley stood back a little and gestured toward the wall of guns.
Grace interjected. “Since they’re not going to be as accurate as modern guns, Ward, you should get something that you can use to even the odds—something like the marshal’s weapon.”
Ward had already come to a similar conclusion, so he pointed to the gun with the cylinder. “Tell me about that.”
Riley smiled and hefted it down from the wall. It looked heavy, but Ward could see brass hooks where a sling could be mounted. She set the gun on the counter between them, resting it on the stock and the polished wooden forearm. The barrel was about eighteen inches long, made of almost opalescent, blued steel, and engraved with the fanciful, flowing script Ward had seen on some of the enchanted items he’d come across. The cylinder had five big chambers, and it looked to be made of brass and steel.
When Riley flipped the catch and split the weapon just behind the rear sight, exposing the chambers, Ward whistled. “That’s a big bore!”
“Yes, sir! They’re designed for our signature ‘Hellfire’ cartridges. This is not a weapon meant for hunting rabbits or even deer; this is a weapon meant to wreak havoc on whatever is in front of the barrel.” She reached under the counter, and Ward heard a cabinet door open and close, and then she set a wooden box on the counter. She slid the top of the box aside, revealing row after row of brass cartridges, each a little bigger than a twelve-gauge shotgun shell.
“Hellfire cartridges?” When she smiled and nodded, Ward used his thumbnail to pry one out, hefting it in his hand. It was heavy but felt good and solid. The top of the brass casing was plugged with red wax. It really did look like a shotgun shell. “What’s in it?”
“Our proprietary alchemical ‘hellfire’ and fifteen magnesium-alloy pellets. You have good taste, sir; this weapon is the pride of our master weaponsmith. He’s given it a name.” She shifted the gun onto its side, displaying the right side of the stock where, in flowing, polished pyrography, someone had written, “Blazewitch.”
Grace laughed. “Of course, it’s a she!”
“Blazewitch, huh?” Ward tapped the dark, burnished barrel, “Um, is she the witch, or is she meant to be fired at witches?”
For the first time, Riley’s answer wasn’t instantaneous. She took a moment to look at Ward, especially in his eyes. “I’d say that’s up to the wielder, sir.”
“Good answer!” Grace crowed.
Ward smiled. “I’d love to see how it works, Riley.”
She pressed her lips together and made a quick nod. “I can demonstrate the weapon if you’d like. We have a shooting gallery on the second floor.” She hefted the weapon, snapping the breech closed. “If you wouldn’t mind bringing that box of munitions, sir?”
Ward nodded and picked up the box. “How, uh, stable are these things? Is it dangerous to carry—”
“Not at all, sir! Our alchemical fire is the most stable on the planet! Those shells, in particular, are foolproof. They require the activating runes inscribed on Blazewitch’s cylinders to fire.”
“Wait—these ‘hellfire’ cartridges are made just for this gun?”
As she led the way toward the back of the shop, Riley chuckled and shook her head. “No, sir. We have a few other weapons designed for those munitions.” She opened a door revealing a narrow stairway up, and Ward followed her to the second floor. Another door opened onto a shooting gallery, just as she’d promised. A counter ran the length of the room, and beyond it was open space. The far wall looked to be lined with cinderblocks and heavy wooden pallets.
“Quiet day?”
“Very! As I said, we were just closing for lunch, and my colleague, Mr. Taft, had already left when you arrived.”
“No Harkwright?”
“I’m a Harkwright, sir. My great-grandfather established this business.”
Ward worked to remove the shoe from his mouth, “Oh! I shouldn’t have assumed! I don’t know why, but when I heard the name ‘Harkwright,’ I pictured an older man with a big gray mustache.” He chuckled lamely, but Riley was game and smiled as she nodded, bobbing her ponytail.
“Sounds like my grandfather! Perhaps you saw some old sales brochure or another.” She split the breech on the gun again, revealing the cylinder. She pointed to the counter. “Please set the box there, sir.” She set the gun down, then, before loading it, walked to a far corner where she grunted and strained to drag a big square target stand made of cast iron toward the counter. Ward hurried to help, and she quickly relented, allowing him to take over. “Please place it ten paces from the counter.”
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While Ward dragged it through a narrow walkway, she moved back to the corner, where she picked up a two-foot square of wood about an inch thick. As Ward steadied the cast-iron stand, she affixed the wooden target to it with long bolts and butterfly nuts. Back behind the counter, she asked, “Might I ask your name, sir?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? I’m sorry about that, Riley! I’m Ward.”
“It’s a pleasure, Ward. The Blazewitch is not a weapon meant to be used at range. I wouldn’t shoot it at anyone—ahem, thing—further than twenty paces distant. The force of the munitions and the short, broad barrel make for a wide dispersal of the fiery projectiles. For that reason, be cautious about whatever might lie behind your…target.” She smiled, slipped one of the brass cartridges into the cylinder, and snapped the gun’s breech closed with a satisfying click. “Please guard your ears, sir.”
Standing a few feet behind her, Ward reached up to plug his ears as she held the polished stock to her shoulder. The gun looked heavy, and she wasn’t a very big woman, but she held it like a pro. The weapon didn’t have a visible hammer, but whatever the trigger did to activate the shell made another audible click as she pulled it.
The reaction was instantaneous—Ward was certain he’d be hearing nothing but a high-pitched whine if he hadn’t plugged his ears. The thunderous report reverberated through the room, shaking dust from the rafters and sending target papers fluttering off the counter. Ward felt it deep in his chest and almost took a step back.
Meanwhile, Blazewitch’s barrel flashed with an intense burst of light, far brighter than a typical firearm. He had to squint against the glare in order to see the fire that spewed from the muzzle—a roiling plume of alchemical flame, orange and blue in hue, laced with streaks of white from the burning magnesium. The fire looked almost alive, briefly dancing forward in a wild, erratic wave.
Standing slightly to the side, Ward could see the blast shred the wooden target against the cast-iron target stand. The wood burst into fiery splinters, and the magnesium pellets seemed to spread against the cast iron, burning with white-hot intensity, turning the metal around them orange-hot as the remaining bits of wood burst into flames. Thick, acrid smoke filled the air, and after she set the smoking gun down on the counter, Riley waved her hand in front of her face, smiling broadly. “What do you think?” she yelled.
Ward was still basking in the backwash of heat from the blast, and his answering smile was enough for Grace. “Oh, my gosh. You’re going to buy it, aren’t you?”
“I like it!” Ward said, nodding. He stepped up to the counter and hefted the gun. He was right; it was heavy but not as bad as he feared—maybe a bit more than his old Mossberg.
Still grinning, with flushed cheeks, Riley nodded toward the gun. “Go ahead and carry her, Ward. Let’s go back downstairs, and we can talk about options.” She picked up the box of ammo and led the way.
On the way down, Ward asked, “What if I run out of ammunition and I’m nowhere near your store?”
“We’ll give you a recipe for the fire, and if you save your cartridges, any competent alchemist with credentials from one of the major academies should be able to refill them.”
Ward wanted to ask her about the “academies” in question, but she was already through the bottom door. When he followed her back into the shop, he saw she had other customers waiting—two men with hard faces, long, leather trench coats, and expressions of impatience. Riley told them she’d be right with them, and, feeling a little sorry for her, Ward decided to keep his extraneous questions to a minimum.
He liked the weapon for what it was—something he could pull out when things went to shit. If he’d had it against those trogs, the alpha would have been a hell of a lot less scary. That said, he didn’t think he needed hundreds of rounds of ammunition. He ended up buying two boxes of twenty rounds, along with a masterfully made, tooled-leather sling for the gun. It was adjustable, and before he left, he set it so that if he hung it over his neck, on his left shoulder, the gun rested comfortably on his right side, down by his hip and opposite Haley’s sword.
Altogether, he spent his remaining fifteen hundred glories and another thousand of Haley’s. He felt a little guilty, considering he’d just made a pauper of himself and would be mooching off her for everything until he earned some more money, but he also felt a hell of a lot better with that gun hanging by his side as he exited the store. What little magic he knew was powerful, and he intended to learn to use the sword, but, in the meantime, Blazewitch’s weight was…comforting.
As he led the way toward their next stop, Grace teased him. “You just had to buy the biggest gun in the shop, didn’t you?”
“I don’t think it’s the biggest—”
“Oh sure, some of those blunderbusses had bigger barrels, but they were one-shot weapons! You had to get a five-shot, hellfire-spewing cannon!” She laughed.
Ward shook his head, grinning. He couldn’t deny it. “I mean, you saw her shoot this thing, didn’t you?” Ward lifted the gun, smiling at the weight, admiring the gleaming, polished barrel and the smooth, oiled cherry-wood furnishings. Riley had cleaned the barrel—easy enough to push an oily rag through it—before he’d left.
“Magnesium and ‘hellfire’ alchemical mixtures? Please don’t shoot it indoors, Ward. You’re going to burn down half the city.”
“Doesn’t seem like something that would be legal back home, does it? I mean, if ‘alchemical fire’ were a thing back there.” He frowned. “I’m interested in trying to recreate a proper pistol and ammo—something more like my old gun—but I figure we’ll be leaving this town soon, and something like that might take a while. Maybe in the next city, depending on how far out our trip to Springsea is.”
“Sounds like a plan. You should take some fighting lessons, too. You’re tough, and you’ve been in some scuffles, but I’d like to see you learn to use that sword properly.”
“Yeah, I had a similar thought.” Ward turned to the left, nodding to the watchwoman on the corner, then lengthened his stride, scanning the buildings on either side of the street for the alchemist shop Kent had recommended.
“What about the horses?” Grace asked out of the blue.
“Huh?”
“When you travel via ship, at least based on my experience from Earth, it’s quite a lot more costly to bring livestock, and the voyage is often hard on them.”
Ward rubbed his chin, shaking his head. He hated the idea of Haley having to part with Wind Queen. He liked Nutmeg, too, but leaving the trusty gelding behind wouldn’t break his heart. “I dunno. I guess that’s up to Haley. We’ll see how long the voyage is and what kinds of ships are available. That’ll make a difference.”
“I mean, that’s just to Westview; who knows how hard it’d be to bring the mounts off-world on the living ship.”
Ward nodded and shrugged. “I get it, Grace. We’ll need to talk about it. I can’t do anything about it right now, so—Aha!” He pointed to a wrought-iron sign with a large, blown-glass bottle hanging from it. The sign was painted with bright yellow lettering that read “Raskin’s.”
“I’ll be in your head,” Grace announced, and Ward remembered that supposedly a sorcerer was working in the shop. He nodded and went inside. It was almost exactly how he might imagine a popular medieval alchemy shop would look—racks of bottles, bins of herbs, candles, soaps, and lots and lots of smells.
A man in a plain brown smock was busily mashing something with a large black mortar and pestle on the wooden counter. Without looking up, he said, “Welcome. We’ve a special on widow’s root.”
Ward grunted as he unslung his backpack, tangling it in the strap for his new gun. He cursed and fought to separate them without dropping Blazewitch on the ground, and that’s when the alchemist finally looked up and widened his eyes. “Oh, hello there, brother! It’s been some time since another with the touch stopped in.”
Growling, Ward set his pack on the ground, unwound the gun’s strap, and then slung it over his neck. When he looked up, he saw the man was staring with faintly glowing eyes. He wasn’t sure he’d notice the glow in the daylight, but in the dim shop, it was pretty apparent. “Um, thanks. Pleasure to meet you; I’m Ward.” He doffed his hat, but when he looked around and didn’t see a hatrack, he nodded and set it back atop his head.
“I’m Elliot! My uncle is Reynaud Raskin, the owner of this establishment. Are you a traveler, then?”
Ward opened the flap of his pack and withdrew the heavy lead-sealed box. “I am. Just passing through, but I was hoping maybe you could tell me a little something about this.” He set the box on the counter with a heavy thud.
Elliot recoiled, frowning. “It has a rather unpleasant feel, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. An insane guy dug it up from a grave, but I’m not sure where. I took it from him after he tried to kill me.”
“Insane, you say?” He peered at Ward closely as he spoke. “Was he a sorcerer?”
“Yeah, of a sort.”
“Your voice is so resonant. Tell me, Ward, do you know many of the words?”
Ward frowned, giving the guy a closer look. His smock was stained, his fingers equally so, and he looked lean and hungry. He looked like a man who’d been cooped up for days or weeks without anything decent to eat, and Ward was a freshly roasted chicken. In a way, he reminded Ward of Nevkin back before he’d gotten the tongue. Thinking of the tongue, Ward resolved to keep his lip movements small and his tongue firmly behind his teeth; he didn’t want to deal with this hungry-looking sorcerer getting ideas about what he might or might not have. “I know a few, yeah.”
“Care to consider a trade?”
Ward’s eyebrows shot up. Now, that was something he hadn’t considered but probably should have. It explained the guy's hungry stare; he wasn’t looking to rob Ward; he was looking to exchange some knowledge. “I might be interested. Let me hear what you’ve got to say about this thing first. If you seem like you know what you’re talking about, we can discuss a possible trade. How’s that sound?”
“A challenge! I like it, traveler! Now, let me see here. Those runes are familiar, but…where did I see them?” He pulled the box closer and leaned forward, staring at the runes. “A moment, Ward, I must retrieve a text.” With that, he turned and slipped through a beaded curtain, sending the strings bouncing to and fro as they rattled.
Suddenly, Grace was there, crouching low before the counter. “Be careful, Ward. Something’s strange about that man.”
Ward gently slapped his hand on Blazewitch’s stock. “I’ll be careful.”