Chương 61: 9 The Black Armory

I stepped into the Gravehold armory, eyes lighting as I took in the supply center. Feykin and Vampires worked behind desks, filing paperwork and checking locked cages.

"I don't get it," Drogo said.

"Why can't we use our guns?"

"It's a stealth op," I said, stepping in deeper and nodding to one of Elara's men.

"Too much noise."

"Our entire attack pattern is support-by-fire," Othess said, the only one without yellow-tinted goggles.

"Are you expecting us to run in with swords?" My eye fell on a line of bows, polished black wood glinting in the green witch lights.

"No," I said.

"That's my job." Needles sniffed as I glanced around the room, his eyes landing on a series of rifles and carbines secured behind a locked cage.

"What are those?" he asked, drifting over. I followed. The air chilled as we approached. Each weapon held a glass sphere fused to its core. The orbs caged a Paradox of arcane force—violet light undulated as it wrestled with inky shadow trapped behind the glass.

"Whoa," I said, stepping up to the rack.

"Excuse me, Sir." A Feykin hurried over. He wore a dark uniform with polished silver buttons.

"I'm afraid those are off limits to visiting warriors."

"You're an armorer here?" I guessed, examining the tunic.

"Yes, sir. I'm Riddlestan, keeper of the Black Armory."

"I appreciate an armorer who can keep a supply room so orderly," I said with a nod.

"I'm Tony."

"Yes, I know who you are," Riddlestan said, grey skin and white hair dimmed by Fel Rock's aura.

"What are they?" I asked, leaning over to glance between gaps in the cage's grid. Decorative dark iron wrapped the walnut butt stocks and fore grips. The barrels themselves appeared to be glass or crystal. Each of the shadow-based firearms came equipped with sophisticated scopes.

"The antimatter rifles and void carbines are very dangerous," Riddlestan said.

"They require years of training and carry considerable risk even to the most seasoned operators."

"Antimatter rifles?" Drogo gawked.

"Void carbines?" I said, voice climbing with excitement.

"Yes," Riddlestan said, pointing to one of the orbs caging an inky tempest.

"If the well on the weapon is damaged, it can unleash a localized inversion vortex, imploding the user."

"You're really just making me want one even more," I said, hand drifting to the cage. Frost coated the iron of the bars.

"Absolutely not," the Feykin said, shaking his head.

"Void weapons are sacred, relegated only to trained Crypt Keepers."

"C'mon," I said, pulling my fingers away from the chilled iron.

"Surely there's got to be a workaround."

"The fact that you don't seem to believe me shows me that you lack the maturity to even be considered."

"Relax," I said, dismissing the soft insult.

"I'm a warrior. Novel weapons excite me." Elara stood next to a rack of bows, directing a line of her marines. She marked the requisition numbers as they took the bows. Corin entered the armory, hurrying to a line of spears.

"What about your optics?" I asked, pointing to the scopes.

"Any way we could get a few of those?" The Feykin's lips puckered.

"I—actually, maybe."

"Look into that for me, would you?" I asked.

"My men are long-range suppressors. They aren't exactly trained on weapons so archaic." I nodded at the bows.

"Archaic?" The Feykin echoed in disbelief. He folded his arms as if I'd insulted his mother.

"Sir, these are Night-shroud composites. Rune braced limbs, void fortified strings. I assure you, you'll be hard-pressed to find one to compare across the entire Archipelago." I stepped closer, studying the curve of the limb.

"They're stored strung?"

"Half a century shelf life under tension."

"Draw weight?"

"Sixty-five pounds." I shrugged.

"Sounds conventional."

"For the draw weight," he corrected himself, "not the impact. The limb stores more tension than the muscle gives it. On release, the rune discharges the excess. It'll punch through any unenchanted steel breastplate like wet bark."

"That—defies natural law," I said.

"So does void," Riddlestan said.

"We simply encourage it to cooperate." I shifted to Othess, Drogo, and Needles.

"What do you think? Want to become archers?"

"I'll probably stick to flick knives," Drogo said. Othess shrugged.

"Sure. Not saying I'll be any good."

"A good bow doesn't make a true archer," Riddlestan said.

"That takes years of training."

"I've trained on the bow," I said.

"I'll take one." Riddlestan considered my men for a moment.

"If you're more familiar with rifles, I might have something that'll fit your style."

"Sure," I said.

"Please wait," he hurried away. I met Elara's gaze across the room, and she pointedly looked away.

"What's wrong with Captain Stormsong?" Drogo asked.

"No idea," I said.

"I think she's mad at me."

"What'd you do?" I didn't have an answer. I turned to Othess.

"How are you okay without the goggles?" He shrugged.

"I don't feel any different." When I'd taken my goggles off for mere seconds, I'd nearly drowned in elemental despair. What did Othess' baseline look like if it didn't faze him at all?

"Captain," Othess said.

"Why didn't you bring the fodder?"

"Kobolds," I corrected. He shrugged.

"They exist to distract and take fire. They're fodder."

"They're not fodder," I said.

"Don't call them that."

"So why aren't they here?" I pinched my lip in consideration.

"You're right about one thing—they aren't heavy enough hitters to contribute here." I glanced at each of these three in turn.

"You guys are better suited for this kind of work." Riddlestan returned carrying what looked like two massive carbines.

"Bane-Seven Repeaters," he said, setting them on the counter.

"Legacy models of the Slayer Spit line."

"Repeaters?" I said, suddenly very interested.

"Slayer Spits were crossbows."

"So are these, sir." My brow climbed.

"Pretty sure a crossbow requires a cross and a bow."

"Yes, sir. These have one; it's simply housed." He tapped the reinforced fore end.

"Split-end assembly folded into the frame. Torsion bundle and string run along internal rails. Self-indexing cam resets on cycle." I whistled, picking one up. It balanced better than it had any right to.

"So no exposed limbs?"

"Nothing to catch in a tunnel. Nothing to snag on a sail. They cock themselves on recoil. You get an eight-bolt magazine before needing to reload."

"Where have you been all my life?" I handed it to Drogo.

"So basically, a carbine that fires bolts."

"Quicker rate of fire, lower learning curve, and only slightly louder than the Night-shroud composites."

"Oh yeah," he said, glancing down the irons.

"That'll do." I glanced at the caged void weapons.

"Could we get some optics mounted on them?" Riddlestan tilted his head.

"A low-profile tube scope, nothing that'll knock your cheek weld loose. Yes, I can arrange it. You'll need to get them zeroed before moving out." Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Riddlestan, you're my new best friend," I said. Othess shouldered the other Bane-Seven Repeater and worked the charging lever once. A clean mechanical shifting of gears answered him. He nodded in approval.

"Got something smaller?" Needles asked, glancing up. The Bane-Sevens were longer than he was tall.

"Yes, I'll find something." Riddlestan produced a long walnut box.

"Additionally, I have a special requisition for you, sir."

"What?" I asked, head tilting. He slid the box across the counter.

"A gift from Lord Bloodshackle." My guard went up at once. Why did this feel like a bribe? Gingerly, I lifted the lid. A rapier lay within, its walnut sheath set with decorative bronze wrappings. A gold tassel dangled from the end. I swallowed.

"The Bane Thesis," Riddlestan said, motioning for me to take it. I gripped the handle, then metal whispered across wood as I drew. A black polished blade came free, the edge silver.

"Cold iron blade, silvered edge, masterwork grade. The Bane Thesis is the answer to any Spirit, Fae, or Lycanthrope threat. This is as fine as they come, short of permanent enchantment." I instantly forgot my preference for curved swords. I touched the black iron, my finger leaving a warm impression on the cold metal. If it were a bribe, Lord Bloodshackle had done his homework.

"Wow," I whispered, angling the blade. The balance was perfect. Reluctantly, I returned the blade to the sheath.

"You'll convey my gratitude to Lord Bloodshackle?"

"Of course, sir."

"—You think something's funny?" Needles demanded, drawing my attention away from the weapon. The Goblin stood glaring up at one of Elara's marines, small fists clenched tight to his sides.

"Oh, no," Drogo said. I hurried over.

"I didn't realize they cleared operators who need a stool to see over the counter," the marine said. One of his squadmates snickered behind him.

"Say that again," Needles said flatly, hand drifting, not for his dagger, but the clockwork charge tucked in a pouch on his belt.

"Stand down, Needles," I said, stepping between them.

"Oh, I'm calm," the Goblin said, hand slipping into his pouch. My teeth clenched tight.

"Don't," I hissed. The Goblin had left an entire taproom of Orcs concussed over snide commentary in the past. Finally, Needles met my eyes, lips in a straight line.

"Don't," I whispered again. He met my gaze for a long moment, then his hand slipped back from the pouch.

"Good boy," the marine said. This time, I flinched. I slowly turned to the corpsman.

"Do you have any idea who that is?"

"What, the Goblin?" Others turned, murmured conversations dying as other marines stared at us.

"What were you doing while Puppetmaster was drilling holes in the sky, marine?" His young face tightened as he met my eyes. He didn't answer.

"Because Needles was on the deck of a stolen Scorched Fleet warship, ramming it into a dam to stop Puppetmaster from ending the world. So I'd take the base out of your voice and put your heels together when you're talking to him."

"Corporal De La Cruz was at his station, Antonio." Elara, stepping forward, needle-like tusks peeked from her frown.

"He was where he belonged, doing his duty." Unlike you, her tone said.

"My men fight for Paradise," I said.

"They're professionals. I'd expect yours to show some respect."

"Who's speaking right now?" she asked.

"Antonio, the rogue, or Cousin Moretti? I know you like to pick and choose when it suits you."

"Whatever I need to be to get results," I said, leaning in.

"No accountability or responsibility," she shrugged.

"Must be nice."

"It is," I said, tone pinching.

"Just ask the Exploits I've buried." My hand tightened around the Bane Thesis' sheath.

"Great," she said.

"Can't wait for you to disappear when it matters."

"If I leave, it'll be to get real results."

"You didn't leave for results. You left because you couldn't live with it." Heat flushed through my face, then drained as quickly as it came. Bane Thesis vanished into my inventory, and my hand went to the scar on my wrist. The armory was dead silent.

"Yes," I said at length. Then I looked up, meeting her eyes. The witch lights hummed softly over racks of black iron and polished wood. I held her gaze. A hand clapped down on my shoulder.

"Well, everyone," Corin said.

"I'm sure we all have a lot of work to do before we deploy, so what do you say we get to it?" The silence held a moment longer, then marines turned back to their tasks. Elara's lip twitched. Corin guided me away. He pulled me closer to the locked void cages.

"How are you doing?" I shrugged his hand off.

"Fine," I said.

"Don't let it get to you," he said.

"She's just an old officer with fixed ideas about how the world's supposed to be."

"She isn't wrong," I murmured, a knot writhing in my gut.

"No," Corin agreed.

"She isn't." Riddlestan started towards us, thought better of it, and slipped back behind the counter.

"You know, you're not the only one who's lost someone." I didn't have the energy to conjure irritation. He watched me for a long moment.

"But you came back. That's what matters."

"I'm not back," I said.

"I'm here for Naomi."

"But you're here." My thumb traced the scar on my wrist. Paradise healing potions would have healed the scar. I still had one in my inventory. Lance gave it to me. There was a reason I only used troll and Bloodwake potions.

"Are you good enough to operate?" I glanced up, lip twitching.

"Please, this is when I do my best work." Guilt was a weapon more potent than motivation or conviction. I pushed past, plucking a night-shroud composite and a quiver off the wall. Riddlestan set two scopes on the counter, and Drogo and Othess collected them.

"Let's go zero those optics," I said, pointedly not looking at Elara or Corin.

"Meet me out on the range." Lying on his belly, Drogo pulled the trigger on his Bane-Seven. The internal crossbow jerked, launching a bolt across the range. The projectile hissed as it impacted the target at the far end.

"Low left," Othess said, squinting.

"Go up two inches and to the right one." The Hobgoblin pulled out a focus key and made the micro-adjustments on his scope. All down the line, trajectory shafts arched across the range, arrows snapping down the beams of light. I drew my shoulder blades together, pulling the bowstring with my back as much as my arms. I didn't peer down the shaft as I should have; I just lined up the trajectory line with the target. Getting on target was easy. It was the smooth release that affected my accuracy.

A low exhale pressed from my lungs, and my fingers slowly loosened. The string snapped forward. The runes on the shaft darkened for an eye blink, shadows drawing tight. The arrow blurred faster than it had any right to as it struck just right of center.

"Not bad," a voice said.

"For a beginner." I shifted to find a male Feykin leaning on his bow. A new arrow scraped against the quiver as I drew.

"My slow shots are good," I said.

"Close ones, too. It's firing under pressure that needs work." Without waiting for an invitation, the Feykin snapped off a pair of shots. Both arrows buried deep in the center, the second broadhead carving a splinter from the first's shaft. I knocked my arrow.

"Not bad at all. Personally, I prefer a rifle, or better yet, a cannon." The Feykin laughed and offered a hand.

"Serevian Myrkrath." I trapped my arrow with my forefinger, releasing the string to accept the hand.

"Myrkrath? Any relation?"

"Naomi's my second cousin," he said.

"Tony," I said, fingers returning to my bow.

"Oh, I know who you are, Mongoose." A squad of Vampires sent a rapid barrage of arrows downrange, losing precision but still filling their targets with shafts.

"Are you going on the op?" I asked, drawing again. I lifted my trajectory arc, spotlighting the target's center. Serevian didn't answer, allowing me the quiet to focus. The string thrummed. The arrow hissed. The target jerked as my shot severed the shafts of one of Serevian's arrows.

"I was supposed to be in Prince Lucian's strike team, but his majesty is getting on my nerves," he shifted to me.

"I was wondering if you'd be open to accepting me onto your team." Drogo fired thrice, each one a slow, controlled shot. His impact grouping had closed considerably as he grew accustomed to the weapon. My thumb caressed the shaft of my bow. Who had sent him to surveil me? Lord Bloodshackle? The Queen?

"You can follow orders?"

"If they're not dumb." A smile spread across my face.

"I think we'll get along quite nicely." I drew another arrow.

"What can you tell me about the burrows?"

"Infested with Ghoul nests," Serevian said.

"They're the largest disputed territory on the island."

"What can I expect with ghouls?"

"They're savages, but also intelligent. Carnivores with jaws meant to tear flesh. If they latch down on you, whatever's between the jaws is as good as gone." I loosed another arrow. It hit a few inches right. I had gripped too tightly.

"Don't snap the string. Let it slip free." I knew that. I just hadn't practiced with a bow in a while.

"Do they wear armor?" I asked.

"No, they're stone age. When you have tusks and talons, you don't need to develop many tools."

"Tactics?"

"Hit and run. They fight in packs when they can. They'll bring their tunnels down on your head. Expect traps."

"Magic?"

"Shaman spiritualism. No mages." I loosed, sinking an arrow dead center. I smirked.

"I have a question," he said. I rubbed my thumb over my sore fingers. I didn't have a bowman's calluses. Serevian knocked but didn't draw.

"I haven't seen my cousin in many years. She wears the mantle of Cousin well. How will she wear a crown?" There it was. He hadn't come to talk about tunnels or ghouls. This was about succession. The overcast sky's melancholy competed with my bright yellow lenses. What was Fel Rock without an agenda?

"Fortunately for everyone, her time as a Cousin will serve her in the Fel Court," I said.

"Hmm, true," he said dismissively.

"But she's been away from home for a long time. Makes one wonder if she remembers her blood."

"I'd be more appreciative of her competence than her lineage."

"Oh, I am, Tony. But my opinion hardly matters. Some of her peers might feel abandoned by her extended departure." I placed the iron-capped bottom of the bow on the ground.

"She didn't leave, she developed." Serevian chewed his tongue as he considered.

"If you're wondering whether she's for Fel Rock or the High Family, you don't have to worry," I said, getting to the point. He glanced up.

"Like her mother, she's aligned with both."

"Of course," he said, a forced smile surfacing. Drogo picked himself up, the scope of his Bane-Seven now fully dialed in.

"Range closed!" A Vampire called.

"Weapons down!" Serevian sent his bow across the table. Mine simply vanished.

"Recover your ammunition!" the range master called, and soldiers started across the gap. I met Serevian's gaze levelly.

"Hey."

"Hmm?"

"If you're rolling with my crew, we're going to kill Ghouls. No politics." The edge of his eye wrinkled.

"Of course," he agreed.

"That isn't going to be a problem, is it?" I asked.

"No," he assured me.

"No problem."

"Great," I extended my hand.

"Welcome to the team. Let's go flush some burrows." He clasped my forearm rather than my hand.

"After you, Mongoose." <<Time to Seal Collapse: 02: 00: 06: 12: 29: 58>>