Fan Fiction ❯ "I was born, six-gun in my hand . . ." ❯ Chapter 6

Gunslinger weapons are unique among all gun(wo)men. Size is one difference - our pieces are bigger and heavier than most - but mostly it's the grips. In the olden days, in the Time of the Grandfathers, they were made of sandalwood, but that kind of tree died out long ago. When I passed the trial, my own foreign keldar, they were made of ghostwood, a kind of hardwood that was a smoky gray and nearly translucent. Ghostwood is rare and very expensive, a luxury reserved only for the very rich, and Gunslingers of course.

 

Each Gunslinger's revolvers are unique. All the trainees submit their designs to the gun maker, and when challenge is cried the gunsmith is the first to know who it is. He stands by with the grips ready to install. Right after successfully passing the test, a new Gunslinger goes to claim her (or his) personally designed revolvers. This is a moment of ceremony, the moment those ghostwood grips touch skin solidifies (wo)manhood. It's mostly the symbolism that's important. Because they are so hastily finished, the guns usually require weeks of work to attain perfection in shooting.

 

Most of my fellow trainees chose designs like lightning or fire for their grips, typical male thinking, calling on forces they couldn't begin to control if they tried. My grips were simple ghostwood, smoothly polished with an image done in silver inlaid under the surface. There was a limn of a dream catcher, the symbol of Asran, and my personal atori, a running wolf. I had seen them once since completion to make sure the design was correct and ensure that I liked the feel of it. The rational part of my mind simply wanted the guns so I could get to work, but the part of my mind that was still a child wanted those grips, to have the nearest thing to an Asran atori I could get without going through the keldar, right of passage, demanded by my own people. My new atori was the gun, but it was made to carry my old atori as well.

 

When I got to the gunsmith, he held out my revolvers, but I refused to touch them. “Finish them,” I insisted. “I want them ready for a fight when I take them, kurasai. I can wait til they're done.”

 

The gunsmith didn't argue, just went back to work. For three hours I waited, listening to the thunder of my revolvers as he made sure they fired true. When he came back holding them, he looked happy. Maybe even a little awed. “Gunslinger,” he said, “I think these are my best work. There is something strong about these guns that I've never felt in any of the others I've created. Take care of them.”

 

I remember so well that first touch, gently running my fingers over the metal and ghostwood of my guns. They were every bit as beautiful and alluring as the Rainbow in that moment, probably more so since they hadn't yet acquired the feeling of being warped and evil, the last two pieces of the puzzle that was me. Even better yet, they were perfect. My practice guns which had seemed wonderful to me before were now reduced to clunky bits of lead-spewing machinery in my mind. Everything came down to those guns - and what I could do with them.

 

“Thank you kurasai. I will treat them well.” I turned to leave and stopped, my fingers straying across the fan still tucked in my belt. “Kurasai, could you make me some of these? With the same atori on them?”

 

Thoughtfully he took the fan from my hand and looked it over, opening and closing it slowly. “These are of fine craftsmanship Gunslinger, finer than I'm used to, but I think I could make them. It will take time however. Art always does.”

 

“Time makes no difference to me kurasai.”

 

“Then I will make them for you, one for each hand, blue as your eyes and emblazoned with your pagan atori. Until then, may you fare well Gunslinger.”

 

“Thank you kurasai.” I bowed deeply to the gunsmith and left the smithy, my guns in my hands. As I expected, Zeke and Merak were outside waiting for me. For a moment they simply marveled at me, then my guns.

 

“Gerava pistolera Vega,” Zeke whispered. “Demoi gerava pistolera k'ama ke chenu.”

 

Yes, just like we'd imagined as children, I was a Gunslinger. Only now the mystery and majesty was gone. Being a Gunslinger was being a trained killer waiting for a target. But there was no waiting for me, my target was already set. “Deinonych Erach,” I said and they nodded. Merak stepped aside first, then Zeke.

 

“I didn't mean to put this on you Vega,” Zeke said quietly, placing a hand on my shoulder. He didn't even bother speaking in the language of Asran anymore, not caring who understood. In a little while, everyone in Chrysler would know what I was going to do. “It just happened.”

 

“Doesn't matter Zeke,” I said, still gripped by that thrice-damned calm of battle haze. “It's done, so let me go.”

 

Hesitantly he did as I said, and I was on the run.

 

I didn't know where the wizard's quarters were, didn't have the vaguest idea where Maerlin himself was, but I didn't need to. My atori was the wolf, the wind and the runner, and so long as I held to that I would be doing as Ka willed.

 

With one look at my ghostwood revolvers, the guards of the castle stood aside. It was a pointless gesture really; if I wanted past, I was getting past, but that first bullet in the heat of battle was special, and I wanted it for Maerlin. Gunslinger training revolved around one credo: aim with the hand, shoot with the mind, kill with the heart. My heart was the loudest thing in my head, ever and always.

 

The run through the castle was a blur, still is - Oh how the Chief would have punished me if he'd known that - but everything became clear when I entered the Dark Tower, Maerlin's place of worship and wizardry. The thunder of my heart was still in my ears as I padded silently up those steps. Outside the door of the top room I stopped and listened, heard the shrill voice of that thrice-damned wizard, and grinned. Gun in hand, I pushed open the unlatched door and slid into the room, crept up behind the entranced wizard and put my revolver against his head.

 

It was maddening! I knew I'd caught him by surprise, somehow felt it come off of him in a wave, but the deimo vikai turok didn't allow me the pleasure of seeing it. He didn't jump, didn't turn to see who or what I was, didn't even have a hitch in his voice. In fact, he sounded bored! “Ah, the girl from that Ilead village I presume. Asern was it?”

 

“Asran,” I growled, thumbing back the hammer. “The village of Asran, in the northern part of the Crescent of the Sky in the Land of Ilead.”

 

“That's right,” he said absently, as if I'd only given him directions to the local grain seller. And perhaps it meant as little to him as that, but to me it was everything. Home, the Land of the Eagle and the Bear, the Crescent of Sky where the mountains touched Valar itself, a place of infinite beauty and power, and this bastard didn't care! “You were the one I saw earlier today, correct? When that boy had his unfortunate accident? I was so sorry to hear his spirit was lost. Kemo evai ven yamé a demoi turo in your language, correct?”

 

If not for years of training under the most infuriating Kesh'ikai spawned from Ekken I would have lost control right then, but I managed to hold back. I glanced away from the back of his head and caught sight of what he'd been doing before I entered. The Wizard's Rainbow was laid out in front of him and to his left. Thirteen velvet lined boxes, each a different color, most empty. The purple orb was there, as well as the green, but three others I'd never seen before were there also: red, gold and pink, and each one shone brightly from the fresh polishing it had just received. In Maerlin's hands another orb was hidden by his polishing cloth, and nervously I looked at the row of boxes. Two boxes stood close to him, doubtless one of them had to house the orb he now held in his hands. Either the White Twelve of fabled power, generally thought to be good, or the Black Thirteen. Looking at the orbs, I saw the wizard's grin reflected at me in five differently colored reflections. He knew what I had guessed - and feared.

 

“Was I correct, daughter?” he asked. “I tried to learn your backwards language once, devoted an age to it, but so few rules apply. Everything about it seemed rather two-faced.” Then he laughed heartily, as if he'd made an enormous joke.

 

“Your words are true, sai,” I managed to bite out, my voice surprisingly calm. “But I would appreciate getting to the matter at hand.”

 

“My execution for heinous crimes committed. Yes.”

 

“Did one of these thrice-curséd glams tell you what was coming?”

 

“Only in pictures. I'm afraid no sound comes out of them. Except the Screamer.”

 

I was tempted to look at the Rainbow again, to find out which one was the Screamer, but I knew I would lose focus if I let myself fall into that trap. Instead I focused on the wizard again, trying to block out the persistent buzz of the Rainbow. “Then allow me to provide that raché-sai. In your age devoted to learning the language of the Il'duri-”

 

“Arsan'duri actually. I knew it would be important someday.”

 

“Asran'duri then, did you happen upon the words deinon erach?”

 

“Never, but I must say it sounds much harsher than most words in your language. For the most part I could listen to you speak your language all day. The musical quality of it suits your beautiful face. You look very much like your mother you know. She always liked using your language.”

 

He was rambling, trying to lead me astray, but I ignored it, strangely growing as immune to his words as I was to the Wizard's Rainbow on the table calling me.

 

“Deinon erach is a question sometimes asked upon death in my village. It has no direct translation, but basically asks whether a person's life and death are settled, and whether or not something will be done to settle it. The response can be no, or Deinonych Erach, where someone lays claim to the dead person's Ka-rueda and puts it back into round. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes.” No joking, no disrespect, no stupid small talk, just “Yes.” And that damn grin.

 

“That boy you murdered, the one you made fall, his rueda is out of round, and I claimed Deinonych Erach to set it right. For that reason alone you deserve to die, but there are things I would know as well. First, however, do you understand I am going to kill you and wherefore?”

 

“Ne,” he answered smartly, and I fired into the wall, putting the hot muzzle back against his skull before the echo of the round had died away.

 

“No need to make this easier for my sake Sai Raché, my conscience is quite clear. Now, tell me, I implore you, why did you take my friends from our home nigh on eight years ago?”

 

“They were to be taken when you were Sai Gunslinger . . . what is your name please? I should very much like to know the name of my executioner.”

 

“Please don't skip ahead sai. I have another question. When the time comes for names, you'll know it.” The wizard swallowed hard and nodded, all a play for my sake as we both knew. His chances of killing me were better than mine of killing him if he really wanted to escape, something else we both knew, but the fact that he wasn't fighting for his life - and what that implied - meant nothing to me. “Why did you take me? All the others were at least four years older, so why me? Why then, when I was so young?”

 

Again I heard that dead man's cackle, and it chilled me to the core. If he already laughed like a dead man, what would he sound like when he really was dead? “You Il'duri are so precious,” he crooned, as if comforting a puppy. “There are no other people in the world so strong yet so naive. Maybe even a little stupid.”

 

“Tread lightly sai. I can live without answers.”

 

“I collected you because it was time. Your father was our most impressive Gunslinger in centuries, and we were sorry to lose him when his tour of duty was finished. His son, your brother,” he said, as if the revelation of a brother should have startled me, “was disappointing. We should have known when he had those green eyes, but we'd hoped nonetheless. Unfortunately, he barely succeeded in surviving commando training. What a sub-par Il'duri. But you . . .” He trailed off and laughed again. “Tell me, with your mastery of the language, didn't you wonder why the Children of the Land of the Eagle and the Bear are called `Il'duri' and not `Ilead'duri'?”

 

“No.”

 

Yet again he laughed. “With those blue bombardier eyes I thought you would catch on. I thought you had when you first met Arturius Eld,” he said, that name dripping with disdain. “Surely you were looking for something familiar in those watery eyes of his.”

 

“Il'duri, Eld'duri,” I said quietly. “Eld's line, in Ilead?”

 

“Yes!” he cried, as if I'd just granted him victory. The flames in his eyes grew larger and he positively giggled, like a teenage girl revealing secrets to her friends. I assume. “The Il'duri have eyes of green and brown, but only Eld'duri have eyes of blue in all the world. Most of the Il'duri-Eld'duri wore out within a few generations, but one line made it through to today, and it all began with a blue-eyed daughter of Eld a millennia ago. The only daughter of that particular line - until now.”

 

Now I was afraid. My whole life had been built upon knowing what I was. I was an Il'duri, a child from the Clan of Asran. I knew my parents, had a stable family (at least I did), and was confident that while I didn't know my exact role in the grand scheme of things, it would revolve around that. Now came this wizard, telling me I was of the line of Eld, and if that was true my whole perception of myself, and the world, was off. To be here as a daughter of Eld was something I was totally unprepared for. Even more frightening was the fact that this deimo wizard knew. He knew more about my roots than I did, possibly more than my father, and had his own plans set upon this unknown hub.

 

The wolf, the wind and the runner.

 

“The time for names has come sai. I, Vega Katan, daughter of Ziel Katan and Kain Evermore, hold to Deinonych Erach in the name of Muso Idaj, son of Era Idaj and Yeer Endale. The wheel will be set round again. Kemo turokia di sori pen ki kharyou, wizard. You are Turok, Forgetful, the flat spot on Muso's Ka-rueda. Do you deny it?”

 

“How can I deny what I don't understand?”

 

“It's not fair is it? Just like being torn away from your home as a child without being allowed to say goodbye. Deinonych Erach.” My finger tightened on the trigger and the revolver went off like a clap of thunder.