Warstalker's Track (8 page)

David held his breath—they all did. And in that sudden silence, they heard, faint but clear, voices from the shore calling out farewells. And James Morrison Murphy, who loved music and hated Faerie, playing on his new Uilleann pipes that had been made in that strange land a rousing chorus of “Brian Boru’s March.”

“Well,” David whispered to nobody, “looks like we’re on our way.”

*

If David had thought this latest of his seemingly endless forays into Faerie would proceed without incident, he was mistaken. Barely had his companions taken their bearings when Aikin, of all people, cleared his throat and called everyone to join him in the stern. His face was grim—as serious as David had ever seen him. He stood close to the cabin and had spread a cloak on the planking of the deck. A round shield was propped up on a box just clear of the dragon tail at the aft end of the vessel; two feet across, its thick dark wood was carved in the semblance of a human figure in a style between traditional Viking zoomorphs and more realistic later styles.

“Okay,” Aikin began. “This is your party, Dave, but we both know who the gun ace is, so if you don’t mind, I’m gonna act on that suggestion you made earlier and give these folks a quickie tour through Shootin’ Irons 101.” He glanced at David for confirmation, then continued. “First thing, then, is for everybody to put whatever artillery you’ve got on this cloak so I can see what we’re workin’ with here. After that, I’ve got a few things to say, but mostly I just want us all on a level playin’ field. We’re gonna have to watch each others’ backs, so we need to know our strengths and weaknesses.”

A deep breath and he surveyed the group. They were all present, David noted with satisfaction. Even his father—taciturn, granted, but there. David caught his eye and mouthed a silent “Thanks” as Big Billy laid his trusty Stevens shotgun beside the other weapons.
Good soldier,
David conceded.
Knows when he’s in over his head and how to take orders—for now, anyway.

Aikin studied the array of armament with keen curiosity. “Looks good,” he acknowledged. “Okay, first off: any questions?”

“One thing,” LaWanda replied immediately. “What, exactly, can a gun do to a Faery? I know what Elyyoth said about the attack, but I’m lookin’ for specifics here. Also, can’t they, like, ward against it?”

Aikin raised a sheepish brow at David. “Uh, this one’s yours, I guess.”

David chuckled wryly and assumed his lecture tone. “A bullet can inconvenience
anybody.
A shattered joint or fucked-up eye’s the same in the short term whether or not its owner can heal. Pain’s pain, like somebody said earlier. As for this situation: if they aren’t expectin’ it, they’ll be unlikely to ward against it.” He glanced at Fionchadd. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Finno, but it takes a little warnin’ to ward or cast a glamour, right?”

The Faery nodded curtly, in spite of his earlier suggestion, clearly ill at ease at the presence of so many steel-based weapons. “More or less. The more Powerful you are, the faster you can accomplish that sort of thing, but like any mental discipline, it requires concentration to activate properly. That applies to glamour, warding,
or
healing. It is difficult to concentrate while in pain,” he added.

David nodded in turn. “And on that score, we’ve got an ace in the hole.” He turned to Aikin, who was loading a clip for the Glock. “It was your idea, Aik; let ’em have it.”

Aikin grinned self-consciously. “Y’all heard what Dave said earlier about the Sidhe and their, shall we say, allergy to iron. Well, it just so happens that Uncle Sam gave us a hand there—for a change.” His grin expanded, all reticence vanished. “You folks know that most bullets, shot, or whatever are made out of lead, which might be fine for damage but still has certain limitations. Happily for us, however, it seems that waterfowl tend to mistake shotgun pellets for munchies. The feds therefore banned the use of lead shot for duck hunting, so when I’m floating the Oconee, I have to use some substitute—the cheapest of which is”—he paused for effect
—
“
steel
shot.”

Both Sidhe promptly paled to their hairlines, their faces slack with horror and disgust, but Aikin continued obliviously. “
And,
boys and girls,” he enthused, “it just so happens that I’ve got a couple boxes left over from last season.”

Big Billy nodded sagely, favoring first Fionchadd, then Aife, with long appraising stares. “Shit, boy, you may make a soldier yet.” But then his face clouded with thought that gave way to a scowl of realization. He looked at David and Aikin again. “You know, you boys are older’n I was when I went to ’Nam. My
sergeant
then was the same age you fellers are. Got us back alive, too, so I reckon I can count on you gettin’ me back as well.”

David slapped him on the back, and even Aikin beamed. “Fine,” Aikin breathed eventually. “Any other questions?”

*

“Okay,” David said a short while later as he eased up to stand beside Brock, who was studying the array of weapons with wary interest, “let me get this straight: you’ve never shot a pistol before? Right?”

Brock shook his head sheepishly.

“Guess we’ll have to show you, then,” David yawned. “I defer to Aik.”

“Just as well,” Big Billy mumbled through a smirk. “He can outshoot you anyway.”

David spared his father a glare and wandered back to the cabin to watch. Aikin motioned the boy over to the weapon-covered cloak. “All right, let’s get you started,” he sighed. Brock promptly reached for the wicked-looking matte black Glock.

Aikin slapped his hand away. “Uh, uh,” he chuckled. “You’re startin’ off with a revolver. You wanta throw lead, you use the automatic. You wanta
hit
what you’re shootin’ at, you start with the Blackhawk.”

He picked up the large revolver. With a barrel that alone was over seven inches long, it was a lot more weapon than what David suspected the kid had seen in the old cop films that likely comprised his firearms database. The stainless steel gleamed in the eerie light; the grip was smooth, deep reddish-brown hardwood.

Aikin eased up beside the boy. “This is a Ruger Blackhawk. Fires six forty-five long rounds. It’s a single action, which means you have to pull the hammer back before you shoot. You can’t just pull the trigger. Got it?”

Brock nodded. Aikin turned away for a moment, and David
caught the clink of rounds slipped, one by one, into the cylinder.

“Now, I’m assumin’,” Aikin went on, when he’d turned back around, “that you know to treat this thing like it’s loaded even if you know it’s empty. That means makin’ damned sure it only points at something you wouldn’t mind puttin’ holes in. You ever point that thing at
me,
I’ll beat the snot out of you—with the butt of the gun.”

Brock nodded meekly, and Aikin handed the pistol to his student. Brock hefted the weapon, then swung around, pointing it at the target shield.

Aikin studied him for a moment, then: “Okay, now; take a firm grip with your right hand and rest the butt in the palm of your left. Yeah, that’s right—but don’t lock your wrist too much, ’cause the gun’ll jump up in your hand. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Brock scowled seriously and adjusted his grip. Aikin nodded in turn. “Okay, look down the barrel. The rear sight’s a notch, the front’s a post. Put the post in the notch and line the top of the post flush with the top of the notch. Now, set the target just on top of the post.”

Brock did so, gnawing his lip unconsciously.

“Now…pull the hammer back with your thumb…” Brock did. An audible
click
ensued.

“Take a deep breath, hold it, and squeeze the trigger.”

Again, Brock did as instructed. David saw his eyes narrow, his finger tighten on the trigger, the anticipatory tension that filled the boy’s slender body.

Snap.

“What the…?” Brock yipped. Aikin’s lips curled in a smirk. David had to suppress a guffaw.

“First off,” Aikin informed him, “you anticipated—and you flinched.”

Brock’s face was red with shame and taut with ill-suppressed fury David at once understood and held no sympathy for, having been there himself with a far less tolerant teacher. “Wasn’t loaded!” Brock spat. “You tricked me!”

“Worked, too,” Aikin retorted. “You flinched, so you’d have missed. Next time, relax. Don’t anticipate the shot; just let it take you by surprise.” And with that he retrieved the revolver, lifted and cocked it in one fluid motion, then took aim at the shield.

Snap.
He cocked the handgun.
Click.

“Just squeeeeze it off.”

Snap. Click

“Niiice and easy.”

The pistol barked and bucked in Aikin’s hands. David’s ears rang with the report. A hole less than half an inch across pierced the bronze boss in the center of the shield. Aikin grinned. “Nothin’ to it,” he smirked, as he slipped another round into a chamber and spun the cylinder. “Try again.”

The first live round startled the boy, and his shot hit high. “Not bad,” Aikin conceded. “You’ll get used to the kick. Hold firm, but allow some give or you’ll hurt your wrist. And try to get closer to the center of the target. Remember, you don’t aim at the deer, you aim for a specific spot on the deer—or whatever; otherwise, you’ll miss.”

Brock practiced with a dozen more shots, his aim improving steadily. Aikin plopped down nearby and began sawing methodically at the barrels of his shotgun, all the while continuing to advise his pupil.

LaWanda sauntered over to join him, then raised an eyebrow in alarm. “Is that
legal
?”

“Screw the law,” Aikin snorted. “This is war!”

“Little melodramatic, aren’t you?”

Aikin put down his saw and regarded her coldly. “You think I’m takin’ this too seriously?” He gnawed his lip, then looked up at Brock again. “Yo, John Wayne, get your butt over here.” Brock started as if he’d himself been shot, then padded over to stand at Aikin’s booted feet. Aikin’s gaze took in the two of them—and the rest of the company as well. “I probably don’t need to tell
you
this, LaWanda, but even if I don’t, it bears repeatin’: this ain’t
D & D,
boys and girls; ain’t
Sands of Iwo Jima.
This is real. You shoot somebody with any of this stuff, it’s gonna be messy.”

“Blood,” David added quietly. “Bone fragments. Severed tendons and nerves. Ruptured organs—and let me tell you, viscera stinks.”

“Right,” Aikin agreed. “But you freeze up, it’s your ass
and
mine. I had a cousin fucked up in the Gulf, and an uncle who lost his sight in ’Nam. Dave had his favorite uncle in the whole wide world blown to shit and back with a hand grenade somebody was
playin’
with. Never mind John Devlin, who could sure as hell tell you a thing or two if he was here.”

“Don’t forget that Dale had front row center for World War Twice,” Big Billy put in, clearly relieved to find familiar ground. “And I did a tour of ’Nam myself.”

“Damned straight,” Aikin affirmed. “Now, Brock-boy, you think the pointy-ears are gonna let you off with a warnin’?”

David rose from his seat, not alone at being taken aback by his friend’s outburst. God knew Aik wasn’t one to give speeches when a word would suffice. Only LaWanda spoke up in the boy’s defense. “So what’re
you
gonna do, hunter-boy?”

Aikin stared thoughtfully at his handiwork. Time passed. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “Reckon I’ll do…what I have to. If it’s a choice of us or them, that’ll make it easier.” His gaze swept past David to settle on Fionchadd. “But I’d sure as hell want to be sure about the rules of engagement. Like, who
are
our enemies? How do we tell ’em from the good guys? Do we bluff, or do we shoot first and let the god of their choice sort ’em out? If we shoot, do we shoot to scare, disable, or…kill, given that we’re dealin’ with iron now. What about it, Finno; any advice?”

Fionchadd met the mortal’s hard stare evenly. “Fine questions, young hunter, and to be sure, our code of war makes no provisions for such arms as you wield. By rights, this should fall under the Morrigu’s province, yet she is with us no longer. Still, our situation is desperate; we must therefore act accordingly. First of all, any who oppose us should be treated as enemies. If you wound a friend in ignorance, they will likely recover, and there will be time for those mightier than either of us to explain things later—assuming we succeed. Should our adversaries find us, however, they will be on us swiftly. Unless I warn you otherwise, do not hesitate. Strike hard, for to one of our kind a wound is easily dealt with; death takes longer to overcome.”

“’Specially from steel shot,” David noted dryly.

Fionchadd tensed. “Yes…especially. But do not forget: our foes commit treason against King and Land, and such traitors deserve a traitor’s death—the Death of Iron.”

David’s glance strayed to Aife, who was staring silently at the deck while Fionchadd went on obliviously. “Those we seek see mortals as mere nuisances, or at best as resources to be exploited. Your arms will be a threat unexpected—and such a deadly power as your new weapons wield may be unheard of. The first blow they feel will be the sharpest. I doubt not your skill in arms, Aikin, nor your mettle.”

Apparently mollified, Aikin resumed his work, and after a flurry of strokes, a two-foot section of gun barrel clunked onto the deck. He tried a few practice swings before declaring it a success, then handed it to David, who likewise tested the weapon: shouldering it and sweeping an arc across the sea before centering it on the shield. His first shot, after loading, took half the top away.

For the next hour and a half (at a guess; watches always misbehaved in other Worlds), everyone on board gave themselves over to target practice. Brock embraced it with the wholehearted passion of the young with some new toy, and wouldn’t rest until he’d tried every last theme and variation of available ordnance. Big Billy worked silently and methodically—and with intense, if workmanlike, confidence. LaWanda was as easy and relaxed as with anything else.
Does nothing scare her?
David wondered, then answered his own question when he recalled her devotion to Piper. By and large he was encouraged about their competency, as far as armed combat was concerned—though, he admitted sourly, he’d never be Aikin’s equal.