Lee had already collapsed into the thin mattress of his bed. “What kept you?”
“There was some hot water left in the boiler. Gave myself a sponge bath.” He glanced at Lee. “But thanks for letting me use the washroom first.”
“Sure thing. Haven’t had a roommate since college.” Lee drew a deep breath.
“There’s still a little hot water left if you wanted one.”
“Tomorrow. Don’t think I could lift a sponge right now.” Lee prodded a couple of nicely developing bruises along his upper arm. “Gnebnik really kicked my ass.”
“At least you’re making progress.” Sam was wearing only his long underwear: mercerized cotton fleece, camel hair in color. He hung his trousers and flannel work shirt on pegs, sniffing them first for good measure. He grimaced. “Uugh. A month here. I wonder if we can pick up a spare set of clothes.”
“Ask Tillie tomorrow. There’s a chest of stuff travelers have left behind. Might be some spare clothes.” Lee lifted his knee and prodded along his shin. “Ouch! Doesn’t feel like I’m making progress. I haven’t been this beat-up since my first rugby tournament.”
Sam blew out the single candle. “Still, you seem to be adapting a lot better than I am.”
Lee paused a moment. “I’m the worst telegrapher on this world.”
“They don’t have telegraphs on this world.”
“Exactly. Just as they don’t have electric transformer shops. But you’re handier at repairing armor than I am. Gnebnik may not say so, but I can tell he thinks it.”
“Repairing armor won’t save me if we have to go up against moerko again.”
“You’ll figure out something that will. It’s not easy for me either. I may have been bigger and stronger than most folks on Earth, but here? I feel like a pantywaist. I can’t rely on strength like I did back home.”
“I never could.”
“The point is, we’ve both had a lifetime preparing us for a different world. Literally a different world. Don’t expect to adapt in a few days.”
“Yeah. Goodnight, Lee.”
“G’night Sam.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Morning training was suspended to sort through a few pieces of scavenged gear that Shin had brought back, mostly greaves. Which thankfully did not contain the legs of their former owners.
“Good job sorting out those greaves,” said Gnebnik. “You two may be rubbish with yer weapons, but yer finally making decent assistants. We’ll spend a little extra time on our lunchtime session. Lee, I’ll try you out with a sword today.”
“A sword? Outstanding! Say, do you name your swords on this world?”
“Aye. Some do at least.” Gnebnik fished through a weapons rack. “Though I’ve personally always thought people who name their weapons ta be a wee bit suspicious.”
“Who could say no to Excalibur,” said Lee. “And a fine steed named Llamrei. Hmm, though that name may not be quite fitting for those reptilian… things.”
“They’re called ospherants.” Sam grumbled under his breath. He grabbed the sparring spear, a weapon he was by now convinced existed solely for the purpose of humiliating him.
Gnebnik handed Lee a wooden sword. “Here. And start with the static dummy today until you get the feel for it.”
Sam snorked. Giggled. Finally broke into all-out laughter, pointing at the ‘sword’ Lee had been given. “Hahaha. I’m thinking that will not be named Excalibur.”
Lee glared at the bizarre implement a moment before trotting behind the other two on the way to the training ground. Though he was fairly certain Gnebnik did possess a sense of humor beneath his grizzled gnomish exterior, this seemed an odd moment to show it. “Is today weapons training, or are we gonna join a circus act?”
Gnebnik didn’t reply, leading them instead to the small assembly square before barking, “Stand at the ready.”
Lee stood straight, right foot forward, left back at an angle, knees slightly bent.
“Left side of the blade is red, right side is green,” said Gnebnik, pointing at a garishly painted wooden sword that would have looked right at home in a puppet rendition of Pirates of Penzance. “Makes it easier for me ta see if you’re holdin’ it properly. Which yer not.”
Sam allowed himself a final smirk before throwing himself at the mercy of the “tipsy troll” training dummy.
Which, as it turned out, had very little mercy.
“I’ve had it with this stupid weapon!” grumbled Sam, after his sixth admonishment—this time comparing his stance to that of an inebriated ballerina. “This is pointless. Lee’s using a new weapon. Give me something else. I told you I’m good at archery.”
Gnebnik glowered at Sam several long seconds before cracking an impish grin. “Ya want to be an archer, do ya?”
“Yes. This would be much easier if I picked something I already know how to do.”
“Come with me.” Gnebnik left Lee to hack at a training dummy, leading Sam the hundred paces from the militia assembly square back to his workshop.
Shin busied himself making adjustments to one of the internal compartments of Sally’s enormous saddle.
Gnebnik disappeared into a small storage room, returning a few moments later with a long piece of carved wood. It was the color of charcoal, grained with pale yellow streaks, polished to a deep luster.
“String it,” he said, handing him the bow and string.
Sam hefted the bow, inspecting it a moment long. “Interesting wood.” He wound the string through one end, placed the tip on the toe of his boot to avoid scuffing the bow on the cobblestone ground, and pulled at the other end, which was about chest height.
The bow didn’t budge.
Sam grunted, trying again.
The bow didn’t budge.
He put his knee against the grip, grunting some more, yet the only visible result of his efforts were the beads of sweat forming on his brow.
Gnebnik crossed his thick arms in front of him in feigned impatience. Shin glanced up from his work on the saddle, shook his head subtly before going back to work.
“Come now, lad,” said Gnebnik. “You’ll need to get it strung if you’re going to show me those legendary archery skills.”
Sam relaxed his grip on the bow, panting in exhaustion. “Is this some sort of jest? This isn’t a bow! It’s an artifact carved from a petrified tree.”
“That, lad,” said Gnebnik, “Is an apprentice bow. Common lemonwood. A warbow is much stiffer.”
Gnebnik strode back to the assembly square, leaving Sam to prod at the bow, still unconvinced that it was a real bow, and not a novelty intended to exasperate apprentices.
Shin glanced up from his work on the saddle. “Training not going well, I take it?” He flashed a grin, intended to be friendly, but the effect of his oversized canines made the result ambiguous at best.
Sam stepped to the opposite side of the workbench. “Lee takes to it all like an overzealous puppy. It’s all just a game to him. And he loves his games.”
“Nobody learned weapon skills overnight. Most folks take years. You’ll get it eventually. Just gotta find what you’re good at. But you won’t learn that until you try. Really try, I mean.”
Sam traced his hand along the profile of the saddle, which housed numerous small compartments and a few external mounting points within its sleek form. “Interesting leather. I am good at things. Just things that don’t seem to matter here. Can you wield one of those bows?”
“Wield yes, but a standard warbow is at the limit of my strength. I have to strain too much, and am not that accurate with it as a result. That’s why I use this,” he said, motioning to his crossbow.
Sam picked up the weapon: an elongated metal box with a stout steel lathe—the bow portion—and deep walnut stock and foregrip. “Nice workmanship. Still a little heavy for me, but I could probably manage it. May I try it out?”
Shin furrowed his brow as he glanced at Sam. “Sure. Be careful with it, though. Cost me 900 silver oaks in Arania.
You cock it by winding that lever on the—”
“This lever here, right?” Sam cranked a subtly curved lever which folded flush into the contoured main body when not in use. “Then it looks like there is a ratchet mechanism to store the tension. Oooh, and this catch holds the bolt in place—this is a very clever design.”
“Target’s against the back wall, please don’t miss and hit anything breaka—”
Fooomp
A bolt slammed into the middle concentric target ring at the eleven o'clock position.
“Not bad,” said Shin.
“May I try again,” said Sam, already cranking the winding lever.
“Sure.”
Sam took a dozen steps further back from the target, spun and shot.
Fooomp
The bolt hit at about 10:30 and a fraction nearer the bullseye.
Shin cocked his head as he gazed at Sam. “If you could shoot half that well at a moving target, there may be hope for you.”
Sam failed to hear this comment, as he was fidgeting with a sliding metallic bar at the front of the crossbow. “Oooh, now this is nifty. This popup sight looks adjustable.”
“There’s a setting for elevation and windage,” said Shin.
“And a box magazine on the left side to hold spare bolts. And a semi-automatic… Hmmm. You know the winding lever seems stiff. Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Sure.” Shin rolled the ‘r’ several seconds, his expression not quite indicating a confidence that Sam would not turn his primary weapon into an expensive paperweight.
Sam flipped the crossbow over and set it atop the workbench. “Looks like an enameled brass access panel held on with machine screws.” The screwdriver from Gnebnik’s tool chest fell into his hands as naturally as Lee had hoped a longsword would fall into his.
Three minutes later, the panel was off, and Sam began scrutinizing the ratchet mechanism the way a veterinarian might examine an injured puppy. Shin did a remarkably solid impression of said puppy’s six-year-old owner.
“The housing’s lined with felt. That’s curious,” said Sam.
“Supposed to keep the mechanics quiet,” said Shin.
“Ah. I suppose that would make sense. Goes along with ‘not attracting unwanted attention in the wilderness.’ Say, what are you? I mean, do you have one of those adventurer ranks Gnebnik keeps talking about?”
“Ranger. Level two. Sort of half fighter, half scout. At home in the wilderness, move like a shadow. At least that’s what I was. I’ve spent the last year as a scavenger.”
“Now that’s a catchy adventurer class. Ranger. Much better than thief. That’s what Gnebnik seems to think I’m suited for. Pick one lock and suddenly you’re typecast… here’s your problem! Gears are misaligned. They’re binding.”
“Can you fix it?”
Sam tipped the crossbow on its side, biting his lip as he gazed up and down the matte-finished, contoured metal box that formed the body of the crossbow. “Ah. Another access panel.” He removed six more screws, and the slender side-panel popped off.
“Looks like there are some adjustment screws. But one of the bearings has been ovaled out. I’d have to regrind it, and I haven’t seen any precision tools around the shop.”
“I know the gunsmith, Corene. She might have something more precise.”
“It might take a while. Gnebnik will be back any minute, then we’ve got to get to work riveting that armor back together. Perhaps tonight.”
“I’ll talk to Gnebnik. Work on this for me and you’ll have the afternoon off armor-repairing duty.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Orange light of the dusk sky beamed through the multi-pane rear windows of the gunsmith’s workshop, as Sam tightened the last screw on the crossbow.
A cold draft accompanied the ringing of the shop’s front bell as Shin stepped through the front door. “I covered for you with Gnebnik. Were you able to do anything about my crossbow?”
Sam hefted the weapon, extending it to Shin. “Wish I could say good as new, but that wouldn’t be an accurate statement. It was worn in a number of places. Though the machining and workmanship are impressive. Even by Earth standards. Let’s say ‘greatly improved.”
Shin worked the winding lever a couple times, nodding approvingly. “Could have fooled me. Feels perfect.”
“Perhaps 90 percent perfect,” said Sam.
Shin set the crossbow on the workbench, glancing back at Sam. “Your friend Lee. Have you two known each other long?”
“Acquaintance,” said Sam. “Oh, I suppose he’s a friend. And I dunno, maybe a year. Why?”
“I was just curious why he refers to you as…”
“Oh! That. Because he’s about as perceptive as an unripe turnip.”
“Such distinctions are important on your world?”
Sam grumbled and nodded at the crossbow. “You said it cost you 900 silver oaks in that city Arania?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t have any local currency anyway, I suppose.”
Shin set a leather bag on the countertop, fishing out a second crossbow wrapped in linen rags. “This one here is my backup.”
The weapon was similar in design, but about a third smaller, with a pistol grip. Sam hefted it. “Is it in need of a tune-up as well?”
“Probably. But I thought I could lend it to you for the time being. Until you return to your world. Or are able to buy one of your own.”
“Really?” Sam’s face brightened.
Shin fastened the buckle on his bag. “If the four of us have to go on any more rescue missions, the party would be better served with it in your hands rather than in my saddlebag.”
Sam lifted the weapon to a firing stance. “It’s light. Lighter than yours. If I could craft a stock to the frame, It’d be perfect.”
“Just return it in the condition I gave it to you.”
“Or better?” said Sam.
“That works too.”
Chapter 8
A rosy warmth and the scent of hickory smoke and grilled reptilian meat radiated from the massive central hearth of the Dancing Dryad.
Lee raised a wooden mug, Gnebnik, Sam, and Shin following suit. “Here’s to surviving three weeks.”
The mugs thudded together, a froth of nut brown ale, imported from Nagdyre, sloshing between them.
“Aye,” said Gnebnik.
“Another week without getting chomped on by any of these nasty beasts, and we can get back to our own world,” said Sam.
“I have half a mind to stay a bit longer,” said Lee.
“What? Are you crazy? You can get killed here,” said Sam.
“We can get killed back in Toledo.”
“But it’s a lot less probable.”
“Maybe.” Lee muddled a clay bowl full of mashed sweet potatoes with a wooden spoon. “OK, definitely. But at least here it’s likely to happen doing something worthwhile. Rescuing helpless children from the clutches of a vicious dragon.”
“That was no dragon we fought.”
“A gang of vicious murder monkeys!” said Lee. “Oooh, murder monkeys. That has a nice ring.”
Sam glared at him. “Murder monkeys?”
“Fine. But the point is, back home we’re likely to die in an industrial accident. Or worse, lose a limb, then starve to death because we’re unable to work.”
“Your weapon skill is almost at level one,” said Gnebnik. “Keep at it, and you might make it before the month is out.”
“Really? Do I get some kind of badge?”
Gnebnik demonstrated that the concept of a ‘facepalm,’ was in fact common to both worlds.
Sam glowered at him. “Lee, you idiot, it’s been three weeks and you still think this is some kind of boy scout expedition.”
Shin nodded at Sam. “Your presence would be welcome as well. Your repair of my crossbow was skillful and meticulous. You’re adapting to the materials and mechanics of this world exceptionally quickly. Quite a fair shot as well. I bet you could make
level one thief quicker than Lee could make level one fighter.” He swirled the dregs of his ale around the mug. “Though I understand your wanting to return home. Hazelhearth is vulnerable. Very vulnerable. If I had the option to go someplace safe I might do so as well.”
“As interesting as some of these materials are, the working conditions leave a lot to be desired. And I don’t like the term thief. It sounds so—”
The heavy timber front door swung open, a draft of icy air blasting through the tavern, leaving a trail of grumbles and shivers in its wake. A cloaked figure standing a head taller than even Lee glanced about the main room, took a pair of steps toward Tillie the barkeep, barking, “Where are the stable boys? It’s just an hour past dusk, and I had to tie up my own horse!”
“Aren’t any in town,” said Tillie. “What can I getcha?”
The figure took two more steps, flipped the hood of a taupe cloak down, revealing a mane of golden hair held back with an elaborate hair clip. She had a strikingly beautiful face, save for a severe expression. And pointy ears. “The guard at the main gate, if you can call him a guard, said this was the best tavern in town.”
Tillie nodded. “Most folks seem to think so.”
The figure grimaced, took a slow breath, measuring her words this time. “I hoped he was wrong, since a guard with a peg leg seemed rather farcical to begin with.”
Tillie shrugged.
“My name is Lady Isylnoir.”
Tillie nodded, dipping her head just low enough as to leave it ambiguous if the gesture was intended as a bow.
Lady Isylnoir drew herself up, managing to transform an already stiff posture even stiffer. “Please confirm the following,” she said, enunciating each syllable with cold precision.
Tillie nodded.
“This is the fortified town of Hazelhearth.”
“It is.”
“There is no manor for the imperial magistrate.”
“No imperial magistrate, no manor,” said Tillie.
“No proper inn within the city?”
“There are two inns. Drooling Drake doesn’t normally serve supper. Coachman’s Rest is closed. Trying to exterminate a nasty case of fur beetles.”
Hazelhearth Hires Heroes Page 6
