“The Nologies lost. This place has been forbidden. The Conjurers stole all the swords so they could melt them into their ink. A few weapons were scavenged by Sand Killers.” Haldon Sy’s boot tumbles a dirt clot into the trench.
“They only procured edged weapons with the mineral. No rifles?” Reynard mumbles to himself. He grabs the Springfield rifle from the Doughboy. Reynard yanks the mechanism. Frozen from years of neglect, the bolt won’t slide open.
“Those clubs are everywhere. They are useless against the Sandmen.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t understand what happened here or why all those warriors are from different histories, but—” The bolt gives. The shell ejects, and Reynard snatches it from the air. He glares at the azure tip. A cocky smile fills his face.
“Catch!” he tosses the bullet to Haldon Sy. “Will it harm a Sandman?”
Haldon Sy nods in confirmation of Reynard’s speculation. “The tip will.” He grips it like a stubby dagger.
Reynard pockets the remaining bullets. He snags the future rifle and runs his finger over the layers of collected dirt. It’s constructed from a plastic alloy that time has failed to ravage. The smell of oil hangs on the firing mechanism. He opens the chamber and removes the shell. A shiny metal unknown to him comprises the casing, but the shell’s made of the same blue ore.
“It’s too small to work as a dagger.” Haldon Sy turns the bullet over and over in his fingers.
“Give it to the witch.” Reynard works his way down the trench toward a man in a Vietnam-era uniform complete with a white-piece emblem scrawled on the helmet. The M16 brings him as close to his home world as he’s been since being thawed.
Eymaxin investigates the round. “I don’t know what this is, but the tip’s made of the same mineral that our tattoo powder is ground.” She waves the shell over her arm, and it gives off a soft glow. “I’ve seen men with less brag loudly.” Eymaxin caresses the tip with her thumb.
Concentrated as a shell, Reynard spots the resemblance to the opal the wizard sported who shot down the Dragon.
“This will hurt them.”
“It seems ineffective. So many holes compared to a single sword thrust,” Haldon Sy says.
“They just fired. I don’t think it takes more than a few rounds.” Reynard drops the clip into the same pocket as the energy pack. He works the side to get the last round free, but the oil has dissipated, and the weapon no longer functions.
“Now guns I understand. Your Nologies used projectile weapons to fight the Sandmen. These bullets have the same effect as your magic on a Sandman.” Reynard adds, “We should gather up these rifles.”
“I’ve no such need for these…bul-lets,” Eymaxin says, being stubborn.
“Fine. Despite what you think, I know how to remove the mineral from the rifles. More tattoo ink.”
Eymaxin’s eyes widen. “It will be dark within the hour.”
“A witch should not fear the dark,” Haldon Sy says.
“I don’t fear the dark, Sand Killer, only what’s in it. There were dozens of Sandmen children on our tail, and—” Eymaxin’s pause leaves a haunting chill within Reynard. “This place is forbidden.”
“If a witch can use those…bul-lets, what about me?” Haldon Sy asks, having been quite content to study what Reynard was doing to the weapon.
“I’ll teach you how to use these weapons if they still work.” Reynard tosses a rifle to him. “You will become a powerful Sand Killer.” He picks up another rifle. “One of them has to still work.”
••••••
REYNARD SLIPS INSIDE a sandbagged bunker created as a command post inside the trench. The dead WWII officer inside has failed to dry. Juicy chunks of flesh drip off the bone. Reynard gags, reaching for a rotten map crumbling on the table. He examines it. The trenches stretch for miles toward a central pyramidal structure.
Reynard glances at the star on the helmet. “Well, General, don’t think you’ll be up for an interrogation—” He tosses the room, discovering nothing but rotten items. He slams the General’s foot locker onto the table. He throws out papers, blankets, and a spare uniform before pulling out a wooden box.
In his best game show host voice, Reynard says, “I’ll take what’s in box number one.” He snaps the decrepit lock. Peeking beneath the lid, he says, “Well, it’s not the Alaskan cruise, but looks like we’re going to the bonus round.” He salutes the General and sprints from the bunker, box in hand.
••••••
EYMAXIN SPARKS ENERGY to ignite the dry wood she stacked in a log cabin formation. The wood flickers with a haunting blue taper. The horses pick at grass around where they are tied, content to be resting.
Haldon Sy dumps an armload of rifles next to the fire. “Expecting unholy spirits, Witch?”
“Pretend you don’t fear this place. The Sandmen rule here and your blade won’t destroy them all.”
Reynard tosses up his own armload of rifles from the trench. “What brought all these soldiers together?” He forgoes asking for an explanation of why American Civil War soldiers lay next to Roman Centurion and even why the blue and the gray died as brothers in the trench.
“The Conjurers of the Blue Flame are forbidden—” Eymaxin stumbles with her response. “Only those reaching the rank of the Thaumaturge know.”
“Those serving the grand witch get tattoos. They tell the story.” Haldon Sy rats on her the way a younger brother does when report cards come out. “She has the scar on her ass to show she belongs to him.”
Reynard cracks the wooden box. His eyes never made it to Eymaxin’s bottom when she was swimming. He is not sure what scar Haldon Sy speaks of. The ivory-handled revolver’s curves are more attractive to him right now.
Eymaxin plays with the bullet. “How can such a strange object destroy a Sandman?”
“It smells freshly oiled.” He raises the revolver and peers
