Verecleeve's Arc

Chapter 5 of 8

Verecleeve had three days to reach the tower. Before he rode east, he took stock of his weapons. His rifle was sound. His powder was dry. But his casings were spent. A sniper without ammunition was a stick. And the tower meant close work, indoors, where a long rifle turned clumsy. He needed more than one gun in his hands. He knew only one man who could fix this fast. He returned to the smithy. The Swordmaker stood at his anvil, hammer in one fist, tongs in the other. The thin man was all sharp bones under a filthy leather apron, his mustache flailing as he bent over the heat. He had once refused Verecleeve every secret because Verecleeve carried a rifle. Now he looked up and set the hammer down slow. "You again," the Swordmaker said. "The one who wouldn't put the gun away." "I need casings," Verecleeve said. "I have powder. I have coin. Enough coin to forget you're troubled by my rifle." The thin man wiped his hands on the apron. "Coin doesn't move my hammer. You know that. You failed my test once already." His sad eyes stayed level. "Show me your hands still deserve steel." Verecleeve had feared this. There was no time for a long trial. "Then make it quick," he said. "Name it." The Swordmaker pointed to a scrap of iron plate hung on a cord across the room. "One of your pistols. One shot. Cut the cord, not the plate. Miss the cord, or crack the plate, and you leave empty." Verecleeve drew a pistol from his belt. His last two shells sat in the chamber. He had no more to waste. He raised the barrel, breathed out, and fired. The crack filled the hut. The cord snapped. The plate dropped flat to the dirt, unmarked. The thin man studied the fallen plate a long moment. Then something near a smile moved under the mustache. "Steady hands," he said. "Even up close." He went to work. By dusk he had pressed a row of fresh casings, each seated true. He laid them in a cloth and pushed them across the bench. Then he reached beneath it and drew out something short and heavy, wrapped in oilskin. "You wanted a scattergun," the Swordmaker said. "I heard it in how you asked. No time to forge one." He unwrapped a stubby double-barreled piece, cut down for one hand. "I built this for a man who never came back for it. Two barrels. Wide spread. For a room, not a field." Verecleeve turned the short gun in his grip. It was ugly and it was perfect. "How much?" "The coin for the casings," the thin man said. "The gun you already paid for. You didn't crack my plate." Verecleeve loaded the fresh casings and holstered both pistols. He slung the rifle and tucked the scattergun close for the tower's tight halls. He was as ready as time allowed. Now the road east, and the tower, and the girl he had promised to pull out alive.