The Everburning City

Act 1, Part 4, Chapter 12

Gwendolyn

They had been outnumbered over ten to one. Gwendolyn didn't realize it, until she started counting the bodies. A hundred Gloamtaken had burst out from the enshrouded path they followed. They were the nightmares of bedtime stories, the terror of any crew building the walls the City huddled behind.

And her squad had cut through them like fire through dry grass.

It helped that they were spearheaded by Rhavin Dremora; Captain of the storied Cadavalan Rangers, and regarded by anyone who deserved an opinion on the subject to be the City's preeminent soldier. Valen, as she had already seen, was a savant with the sword, and Mackaroy a killer so practiced he made even the other two men wary. But her own battle group — Hendricks, Cameron and Fauth — had held the captain's left, and the bodies piled at their feet outnumbered the entire platoon.

"First squad," Captain Dremora shouted. "To the fore. Second squad, rear-guard. Third squad, get some water and look over your equipment as we march."

Every drink of water Gwendolyn had taken since the Golem had first appeared, looming over a hundred foot wall like it was a picket-fence at a train station, tasted better than it had any right to. She knew it shouldn't, it was tepid and so laden with minerals it was almost acidic, but with each sip came a near-euphoric relief.

Most of what she drank, lately, was taken at the end of a fight.

She was only just screwing the cap of the glass bottle back into place when she heard Valen shout, "ammo count. And look over your swords and knives if you used them."

Gwendolyn took the chance to look over her gun. Not a Salamander, the strange weapon in her hands was still cool to the touch, despite having fired over a dozen shots. Others in the second rank — particularly Mildred, who was re-oiling the pad on her right shoulder where the barrel rested — all had seen their barrels heat up, warping the air around the barrels much as the Crafters had when they made their protective barriers.

But she knew it worked. It fired thin streams of bright blue fire, narrower and brighter than what came out of the guns her companions carried. It spat out spent shots, flicking them out of the barrel as soon as she twisted it open, as if hungry for more.

"Interesting weapon," someone said from behind Gwendolyn. She turned her head, not recognizing the voice, and not recognizing the man who spoke. White scarf, two bars, with a design between the two bars of a stylized explosion, and brown eyes as cold as the soil around a grave. The right side of his face was speckled with scars, and his right eyebrow was considerably smaller than his left.

"It works," Gwendolyn said, lacking a better response.

"It lengthens your shot out a little. It might punch a little further than a regulation Salamander, and it might be easier to twist your shots a little," the man reflected, with a frown.

He looked Gwendolyn in the eyes, and saw she didn't understand. "Salamander shot doesn't come out all at once. Most spread it out for about as long as it takes to say 'one'. Yours spreads it a bit longer. Not much, about as long as it takes to say 'three'. So if your barrel is sweeping left or right, you'll spread the shot out in a line."

"Huh. Does it still penetrate?"

"Not fully. But a regular shot can punch through three feet of flesh. You don't need all of that to bring down a Golem. Basic training doesn't teach the Salamander all that well."

"I wouldn't know. I think I've been in the army for a whole half-day now."

"We're going to have to re-think basic training once we wrap up this invasion," the man said. "Not an insult to you and yours, but none of you should be good enough to be plucked from the regular army into the Rangers. The army should be better than this. We need to change that."