Princess of Wands

by John Ringo

  “Flyer?” Hjalmar asked.

  “Out of zero,” she replied, pulling a small screwdriver out of her purse and adjusting the rear sight to the left and down. She lifted the pistol again and targeted a different bull’s-eye, again targeting one of the dots. This time the round nicked it, low and to the right. She repeated the zeroing action and then shrugged.

  “It’s in,” she said.

  “You’re all over the target,” Hjalmar protested.

  “You’re assuming I was aiming at the bull’s-eye,” she said, quietly. Then she lifted the pistol and fired five rounds, fast. Re-aiming she fired five more, then the last two in the clip, spaced. She dropped the clip, inserted another and slid the slide forward in one rapid blur. “Reel in.”

  As the target approached it was apparent that there was a perfect four-leafed clover centered around the main bull’s-eye and the lower left one. The upper left and the upper right had rounds squarely through the X ring.

  “Reel another one out,” Barb ordered.

  This time she fired five rounds, fast, at the center bull’s-eye, then switched to her right hand only and fired another five at the upper right, then left-handed to the upper left, then switched to her third, and last, clip and fired the bottom two, one, handed. Last she fired five rounds, spaced, one-handed, switching from right to left in deft “gun-fighter” tosses.

  When it was reeled in, the target had five almost perfect cloverleafs and a round through the cardinal points of the paper, outside the center bull’s-eye, with one additional on top. A couple of the outer bull’s-eyes were slightly out of position but given they were fast, one-handed shots, they were still phenomenal.

  “Crap,” Hjalmar said, quietly. “I guess it wasn’t blowing smoke.”

  “I’ve been shooting since I was eight,” Barbara said, calmly. “I’ve put more rounds though a USP than most SEALs I’ve met.”

  “Why cloverleafs?” the guy with the piercings asked. “I mean, why not through the bull’s-eye if you’re that accurate?”

  “I trained for combat shooting,” Barb said with a shrug. “If you train to put rounds through the same hole over and over again, you tend to hit the same spot on a target. You want to choose your spot, aiming for major arteries or nervous points. And if you’re taking more than one round to put your target down, putting the rounds in different spots.” She picked up the gun again, refilled a magazine and armed then targeted the metal post targets, each six-inch circles, putting all five down in about five seconds.

  “The problem with going for really targeted shooting in combat, of course, is that your target is moving,” she added, placing the gun down on the table again. “And it’s harder to hit the point targets you’d prefer.”

  “And you can high-level channel,” James said, breathing out in surprise.

  “I’ve been gifted by God,” Barb said. “Training helps. I’m only starting to learn to control my channels. That has been interesting training. I’m also going to be interested in finding out the vulnerabilities of the enemies of God. I wish I’d had some idea where on Almadu there was a vulnerable point. As it was, I had to just fill him with lead and hope for the best.”

  “Most constructs don’t have the vulnerabilities of natural beings,” Hjalmar said. “So it probably didn’t matter where you placed your rounds. But I have to admit that you’re the first time I’ve heard of channeling into your actual rounds. That, right there, is an amazing gift.”

  “The gods never give gifts without reason,” Janea said, thoughtfully. “I wonder what your purpose is?”

  “I’m sure that will be plain someday,” Barbara said, picking up a magazine and starting to refill it. “In the meantime, though, let’s have fun!”

  Chapter Five

  They spent about three hours out on the range, switching guns and seeing who was “range boss”, the best shooter on the range. After a while, though, it became pretty clear that Barbara was a hard match to beat.

  “I think you could probably go to Camp Perry,” Hjalmar admitted after watching her put five rounds in the black at fifty meters.

  “I wanted to go for the shooting team in college,” Barb admitted. “But then I met Mark. He… allows me to go shooting from time to time. But he doesn’t support it, strongly. Not strongly enough for me to consider something like that. And he is my husband, the master of the household. It is enough that God has granted me these gifts to use in His name.”

  “Now that I have a hard time handling,” Janea said, disgustedly. “How you can just let him dictate-”

  “We all come to God in our own way,” Barbara said, smiling at her.

  “Uh…” Janea said, her mouth open. And then she shut it and grinned. “Hoist on my own petard.”

  “By,” Barb corrected. “By your own petard. It was a name for a grenade. It means blown up by your own bomb. And… yes,” she added, grinning back.

  She noticed that the “Dartho” type was having a hard time with one of James’ automatic rifles, the CAR-15, and slid over to his position.

  “How are you doing?” Barbara asked.

  “Not as well as you,” the young man said, shamefaced.

  “Have you been shooting long?” Barb asked. “And I don’t think we’ve been introduced, I’m Barb Everette.”

  “Ghomo,” the young man said, nodding at her. “And, no, this is the first time I’ve been shooting. I always wanted to but my parents were death on guns.”

  “There’s more to it than just picking up a gun and shooting,” Barbara said, gently. “I got taught by my father as a girl and I’ve been doing it for years. There’s a lot to learn.”

  “I know,” Ghomo said, sighing and plinking another round downrange. “But…” He looked around at the others and shrugged, setting the gun down. “I guess I really don’t fit in here.”

  “Of course you do,” Barb said, angrily. “You are one of the Foundation. That is enough.” She looked over her own shoulder and sighed. “Okay, you’re probably right that people don’t immediately cotton to you. Dartho, I think, doesn’t have many friends outside his circle and you’re carrying that load with these people. But you don’t carry it with me. So why don’t we work on your shooting for a while. But let’s start with pistols.”

  She ran him through stance and breathing control, then trigger control and sight alignment. After that she had him fire a series, talking about what had happened with each of his “flyers.” He had a tendency to jerk the trigger, among other things.

  “You’re anticipating the recoil,” Barbara said, gently. “When you fire like this, you should try for a sort of Zen state of awareness. Do not anticipate, simply do.”

  “You’re pretty strange for a church lady,” Ghomo said, reeling out another target.

  “Not so strange,” Barb replied. “There are church ladies and church ladies. I have always refused to be Sister Bertha Better-Than-You.”

  “Who?” Ghomo asked, setting the pistol down. “I’m sorry, my arms are getting tired.”

  “Shooting is exercise,” Barbara said, nodding. “You should work out with barbells, working the muscles so that you can maintain accurate fire even after a long series. And one of the most important aspects of learning to shoot well is, well, shooting. Learning to fire properly and then drawing and firing over and over until what is called ‘muscle memory’ is developed. So that if you have to use your weapon, you do it in full alpha state, automatic actions like driving a car.”

  “You know,” Ghomo said, smiling, “if there had been more ladies like you in my home town, I might have stayed a Christian.”

  “I’m sorry that your experience of the faith was negative,” Barb said, honestly. “It happens. Especially to those who don’t quite fit in. Small town?”

  “Yeah,” Ghomo said. “I grew up in Alexandria, Alabama. It was getting bigger when I left, but it was still pretty small-town. I was always the weird kid in school, all twelve years and kindergarten. I’d ask the wrong questions, you know?
And my parents were real Bible-thumpers. One time they took me to one of those camps where the demons get cast out. All it did was make me angrier. And sadder, too. I just wanted to… fit in. But I never could.”

  “Believe it or not,” Barbara said, smiling, “I understand. But for me it was moving all the time. I never quite fit any mold people wanted to put around me. I… learned to wear a mask. To be the mask, in a way. But even now, people consider me strange in my own town. I’ve learned not to ask the wrong questions at the wrong time, who I can trust to show…” she waved around at the range. “This. My stranger side, to them. Even though I live in a very conservative area, where the men all go hunting in deer season, nice ladies aren’t supposed to pack. Or shoot, for that matter, unless it’s something ladylike like a twenty gauge for bird hunting.

  “And I’ve had my problems with churches. Not with my Faith, understand, but with the social expression of it. Sister Bertha Better-Than-You is a character in a song by Ray Stevens. But he was a good judge of character and knew the characters to be found in small towns. Every town has the Sister Berthas, the ladies who sit in the front pew and look down on those who sit in the back, who bite and scratch in their ladylike way to get the best social position. And the reverends that support them in that, for the funding they bring in and the weak power that being mean gives them. Small towns are small towns. They want everyone to fit in a nice neat little mold. And if you don’t fit in the mold, they try to break you. Because you challenge their image of what is fit and right. I’m sorry that it drove you away from the Faith, though.”

  “You are really strange,” Ghomo said, sighing. “And you really get your power from… Jesus?”

  “From God,” Barb said, nodding. “The power, I suppose, of the Holy Spirit working through my faith in the saving power of the Lord Jesus.”

  “I can channel,” Ghomo said. “A little. I get my power from Qua-Lin. I give of my essence and he returns it at need. But…” He paused and shrugged, looking a bit ashamed. “It always feels… a little sick, you know? It doesn’t feel right. We of the faith of Qua-Lin work for good, don’t get me wrong. But…”

  “Each of us comes to our Faith in our own way,” Barbara said. “Just remember, whatever sacrifice you give to your god returns to you manifold. He is your armor and your sword, as you are his. Hold hard to faith, whatever that faith may be, and you will be a warrior of the Light.”

  “Okay,” Ghomo said, nodding. “But… I think I might explore some other faiths. It happens. I’m just not… comfortable with Qua-Lin.”

  “Do as you must,” Barb said. “But if your forearms are rested, perhaps we should continue with your shooting lesson.”

  They shot through another series and then Hjalmar called a break.

  “James,” Hjalmar said, causing an outburst of “baaaa”s. “Cut that out. James, I was wondering, anything new in the demon killing line?”

  “Oh, not that,” Julie said, hiding her face in her hands. “James, tell me that’s not what’s in the other bag.”

  “Well, as it happens,” James said, grinning, “I just happen to have brought along…”

  “You always do this to me,” Julie said, throwing up her hands in mock horror as James dipped into the still unopened rucksack.

  What came out was the most bastard weapon Barbara had ever seen. An airtank backpack hooked up to… well, it had three magazines and a big barrel… She finally admitted she couldn’t make head or tails of it.

  “James is our resident Q,” Janea said, grinning. “Let’s see what he’s got this time.”

  “Well,” James said, laying out the weapon and extracting one of the obviously homemade magazines. “Barb doesn’t have much of the background here…”

  “Ever since James joined us,” Hjalmar said, picking up the magazine and looking in it, “he’s been hoping for what we call a Hellmouth incident.”

  “See, generally what we deal with is one minor entity, or a necromancer gathering power to summon one, at a time,” Janea interjected. “But sometimes… when was the last real outbreak?”

  “1954,” James said, promptly. “It was dealt with by Steve Reeves, who used to play roles like Hercules and Tarzan. He had, quietly, converted to Zoroastrianism and had been drawn into the Foundation. There was a full outbreak in the Hollywood Hills and he and another actor…” He paused and frowned.

  “Tyrone Power?” Janea asked.

  “Somebody like that,” James said. “Anyway, there was a manifestation of Tiamat who began spawning her brood, as she is wont to do. And they had to fight the brood and her.”

  “Fortunately,” Hjalmar said, “Tiamat’s got more enemies than Satan, if that’s possible. Reeves is supposed to have channeled an avatar of Gilgamesh, or maybe Enkidu, nobody was certain which it was. Real derring-do time. Lots of half-formed monsters, vampires and werewolves by the score, Hercules so filled with the power of multiple gods he was hyped up like, well, Hercules…”

  “Not the score,” James said. “There weren’t more than three or four of each. And they attacked in daylight, during the dark time of the moon, so both weren’t at their best.”

  “They went in with a group of stuntmen and such, fought their way through the brood, killed Tiamat by cutting off her heads, one by one, and burning them with fire, then killed her earthly body,” Hjalmar continued. “Lost a goodly number of the red shirts in the process, started a fire in the scrub that covered up the battle and got out. But ever since James joined us…” he said, waving at the weapon.

  “Well, just in case,” James said, grinning. “I’ve been working on the ultimate Hellmouth weapon. This is the Mark Six…”

  “Wait,” Janea said. “You showed us the Mark Three last time. What happened to Four and Five… ?”

  “Don’t ask,” Julie snapped. “The dog’s never been the same since…”

  “As I was saying,” James interjected, loudly. “This is the Mark Six. Based around a paintball system, it is a much superior weapon to the Mark Three…”

  “Not to mention Four and Five,” Julie muttered. “Goddess, that was a lot of trouble to clean up…”

  “In magazine one,” James continued, ignoring the commentary and inserting the magazine in Hjalmar’s hand, “you have your basic wooden stake.” He aimed at a human silhouette target and let fly. The stake managed to hit the target, at ten meters, in the right shoulder, just about out of the silhouette. But it was there for all to see, a wooden stake, stuck in a thin cardboard target.

  “Not much penetration,” Hjalmar said, laughing.

  “I’m working on that,” James shot back. “And then in magazine two, you have your general purpose stake.” He adjusted a series of controls and let fly again, hitting the target closer to the center. This time, however, whatever had flown through the air went right through the target.

  “Not bad,” Hjalmar said. “But what was it?”

  “This,” James said, stooping to the rucksack and pulling out what looked like a thick crossbow bolt with a wicked barbed head. “The bolt is ash wood, which is reported to be effective against most Northern European vampires. The head is steel plated with silver. Good against general targets or werewolves and other entities that are affected by silver. And last but not least,” he said, pushing back on the head and exposing an ampoule. “Holy water ampoule with silver nitrate suspended in it.”

  “Wow,” Hjalmar said, grinning. “That’ll do a number on quite a few beasties. Fluffy bunny huggers strike again!” he shouted, raising a laugh.

  “Okay,” Barbara said, holding up her hand. “That sounds like another in-joke.”

  “Do the acronym,” Julie said. “Foundation for Love and Universal Faith. FLUF. A few years back, one of the FBI agents who was being supported called the Wiccan operative a ‘fluffy bunny hugger.’ Which she was, but very good at what she did. The rest of us, though, find it hilarious.”

  Barbara looked over at Hjalmar admiring the bastardized paintball gun and had to admit he
was anything but a “fluffy bunny hugger.”

  “What’s in magazine three?” Ghomo asked, diffidently.

  “Paintball rounds,” James said, adjusting more controls and firing a burst of blue rounds that splattered all over the target. “I like paintballing. And I’m trying to figure out how to manufacture them with holy water instead of paint.”

  “I’ll take one with just the all purpose stake,” Hjalmar said.

  “That will be the Mark Seven,” James admitted.

  “Nine,” Julie said, shaking her head. “And what you did to the poor cat should be illegal…”

  * * *

  After a weapons cleaning party at the spacious longhouse most of the Asatru used, Barb took a shower and put on a “dressy dress” for dinner. It was the end of the conference and most of the members were going to be either going back to their regular lives or on to assignments. Barbara was in a bit of a limbo; nobody had assigned her to the mentioned mission but on the other hand nobody had suggested she go home.

  She put on her duster and made her way across the compound towards the Philosophy House. However, as she crossed the bridge to it, making a mental note that running water was anathema to various malignant entities, she saw Dartho striding towards her with an angry set to his shoulders.

  “Do not woo my acolytes,” he shouted at her as he approached. He pointed a finger in her face and continued in a near scream. “Do not shove your Christian mythology down the throat of my people, do you understand me?”

  “I understand that you have three seconds to get that finger out of my face or I’m going to break it off and feed it to you,” Barbara replied, calmly. “As to wooing your acolytes, you probably should do that yourself. I take it you’re discussing Ghomo?”

  “I don’t have enough male subs as it is!” Dartho shouted angrily, but withdrew the offending digit. “I can’t afford to lose one to your damned God!”