A clerk of the quartermaster division came by. He asked questions and viewed the diagrams before scheduling us to be seen by the master of Rafdorek’s 3rd army, Fetan Ebonskar, in two weeks. Every minute went into preparing our demonstration.

With twine and sticks I built a dummy, filling a sack with carrots and potatoes to give it form. Kheta painted a scowling face on the construct’s head and gave me a wink as I tied it on. For a volunteer, we found a hobgoblin preparing to delve into the Warrens and offered him more money than he could make in a week under the city to assist us. I could tell by the sickening inward curve of his gut he would’ve let us do anything to him for that much coin. He seemed more confused than anything when I explained what we needed from him, but he agreed all the same.

Fetan Ebonskar arrived as scheduled at sunset. He wore the heavy black plate fashioned specifically for the Fetans; armor that was rumored to be impenetrable. His face was covered with his Geren-thal mask, featureless save for two eyeholes and the lines that marked his position in the ruling class: four diagonal slashes, three red, one black and jagged. A heavy falchion hung off his shoulder, locked in but always present.

He was flanked by his Fetanasi, though upon inspecting our workshop he realized he had to leave most of them outside. Three hobgoblins entered with him, his personal bodyguard, a Geren-jatt in the red silks and white armor of his station, spear in hand and sword at his hip, a young pyromancer wrapped in a black and red tunic with a contemptuous glint in his eye, and the Geren-thal’s master smith, responsible for the designs of the armor and weapons used by all the soldiers in Rafdorek.

Kheta and I bowed deeply. Ebonskar had us hold the position for a moment before waving it away. “Show me what you have.”

“Of course,” I said. I led them into the backroom of the shop which we had cleared save for our assistant, the dummy, and a table bearing our creations. I stepped over to the table and pulled the revolver from the surface. With a comfortable motion I slid the wheel free, baring its empty container to the spectators. Ebonskar accepted it as I approached. “This is our invention,” I said. “We call it a thundergun.”

“A thundergun?” asked Master-Smith Azren. “Why is that?”

“It goes boom,” Kheta offered with a smirk. The pyromancer snorted as the smith frowned. “And it uses thundersalt.”

Azren hummed in thought. “That explains the smell,” he said. Ebonskar eyed the smith, then handed him the revolver. His fingers ran along every inch of the weapon – the steel tubing, the treated wooden stock. He gave the wheel a tentative spin and cooed in admiration. “An interesting device,” he muttered. I felt my chest expand at the praise and saw the same reaction in Kheta’s eyes. He offered it down the line. The pyromancer gave it a cursory glance; the spearman wasn’t interested.

“What can it do?” Ebonskar asked, his gravelly voice slicing away any further preamble.

“It can protect Rafdorek,” Kheta said with pride. “A man with one of these atop the walls will be worth a dozen crossbowmen.”

I held out my hand and the pyromancer returned the gun to me. With rehearsed steps I returned to the table and loaded the gun. I’d spent hours practicing, to ensure Kheta and I put the best foot forward. It took me no more than six seconds to load the cartridges and fix the copper caps onto the gun. With a confident smile and an indulgent flourish, I handed it to our assistant.

“You’re giving it to this tunnel-rat?” asked the spearman through a disgusted scowl.

“I am,” I said. As we’d told him, he lifted the gun with his bone-thin scabby arm and pointed the barrel at the dummy across the room. “Cover your ears,” I advised. Ebonskar and his spearmen did not heed the words. I nodded to the man.

Crack! The delver flinched as the gun jumped in his hand. Across the room, the dummy’s head had burst apart, potato mush slopping onto the stone floor. I looked to Ebonskar. He blinked once, twice, then his hands rose to cover his ears. “Again,” he said.

Our assistant didn’t hesitate. He fired at the dummy, unloading the last of the bullets in rapid succession. Shattered carrots and other vegetable viscera clattered to the ground, and he grinned with glee, with power. I pried the gun from his hand and set it into the holster at my belt. Kheta came to my side. “Our invention, Fetan Ebonskar,” she said, and we bowed as one.

He looked me straight in the eyes. “How many do you have?”

“Three models,” I answered. “One of each.”

“How fast can you make them?”

“I … I’m not sure, Your Excellence,” I said.

“Share your designs with Azren,” he said. “Disseminate the knowledge to all the smithies and workshops in Rafdorek. I want everyone making these ‘thunderguns.’”

“How … how many can we need?” Kheta asked.

“As many as we can make. I want one of these weapons in the hands of every soldier.”

Kheta’s brow arched. “That seems excessive, Your Excellence. Defending the walls wouldn’t require—”

“Defending the walls?” Ebonskar’s eyes thinned with a hidden smile. Words dripped from his lips like tar. “You misunderstand, smith. We will not use these to merely defend Rafdorek. We will reinstate the order that was lost. It is time we returned to our role as the rulers of this world. With an army of soldiers armed with your thunderguns, we will take Kros Ebb back, and the humans, the jerrath, the deregal – all will answer to our rule once more.”

I felt my lips twitch and my brows twist with a sudden fear. Conquering Kros Ebb? That wasn’t … that wasn’t what we wanted. Was it? I eyed Kheta and saw the same suppressed horror in her gaze.

“Gather your notes and deliver them to Azren. We will wait,” Ebonskar said, ignorant of our terror. My teeth ground together, locked fiercely tight as my hand curled around the revolver’s stock.

Kheta was quicker than I, thankfully. “We will need time,” she said. “Our notes are jumbled and written in cipher to protect our work. We will need to create a set for Azren to use.”

The air turned tense. Ebonskar watched us, his expression a mystery behind the perfect white mask marred only by four lines. Azren’s eyes darted to the Fetan and back to us, sweat beading on his brow. Heat began to flicker into life as the pyromancer drew upon his power. The spearman was ready to pounce at the first implication of a command.

“Very well,” said Ebonskar, dispelling the thickened air with a careless wave. “You have two days. Deliver the notes to Azren or we will come take them and you will receive no compensation or recognition for your discovery.”

“Of course, Fetan Ebonskar,” I said, dipping into a deep bow. Kheta shadowed the motion a half-second later.

“Come,” he said to his entourage. Azren hurried after him, clearly thankful a battle hadn’t come. The pyromancer affected ease as he let his power slip away and slinked out of the room. The spearman watched us with narrowed eyes until he too left without comment.

We gave the delver his coin and he scampered out of the workshop. Night came, the moon rising bright and golden. Stars swayed overhead, then my dinner came rushing out of my mouth and into the street. Kheta helped me to my feet and pulled me inside. I stumbled across the room, leaned on the desk as Kheta locked the door.

“We can’t give him the guns,” she said.

“No,” I agreed, wiping my mouth. My breathing grew rapid as I thought of the world pressed under the Geren-thal’s thumb, cold sweat streaming down my face. “They … they’ll kill us.”

“Better us than the world,” she whispered.

A shiver coursed up my spine. I bobbed a nod. “What do we do?” I asked.

“We run. We run until we die.”

“We should destroy them,” I said.

“We will,” she agreed. “Once we’re far away from here. Somewhere they’ll never find the scraps.”

Something didn’t sit right with me. “What about Azren?” I asked. “Do you think he could replicate it from holding it?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know.” Her fist found the desk. “Fuck. We have to kill him.”

I winced. “I’ll do it,” I said. I’d served under Fetan Blackwall’s rangers for nearly a decade. Interior defense. Most threats to Rafdorek were from within rather than out. Odd how that was.

Either way, I had the training to get into places quietly. I could work with a knife better than most. I could do it.

Kheta nodded. “Alright,” she said. “Alright. I’ll get supplies. We’ll meet at home, then we’ll take care of everything here.”

 “Okay,” I said. I pulled the revolver from the holster and placed it in her hand. “Just in case.” She accepted it without a word. Then she pulled me close and pressed her head to mine. “I love you,” I said.

“More than anything,” she replied.                 I squeezed her hand and hurried away.