Chapter 44: The Magic Crystal Hunting Rifle

The old dwarf noticed that Joan was fixated on his warhammer, a proud smile curling his lips. He raised the hammer high and said to Joan, "Young man, don't blink!"

No sooner had he spoken than the hammer was hurled from his grasp, whistling through the air for thirty feet until it struck a rock half the height of a man, shattering it with a thunderous crash.

"Come back!" With a gesture, the old dwarf summoned the hammer, which seemed drawn by an invisible cord, speeding back into Flint Ironforge's hand.

"Wow! That hammer is incredible—it flies like a boomerang!" Conti clapped in admiration, her eyes shining.

"A magical flying hammer, the Ironforge clan's heirloom," the old dwarf replied with pride, before his expression turned solemn. "It's getting late. We must set out at once, but before that, we need to hire a reliable guide."

Joan caught the hint in the old dwarf's words and exchanged a glance with Conti. Understanding, Conti nodded and ran to the waterwheel by the riverbank, calling out in the Woodfolk tongue for the Nixie siblings, inviting them to lead their little expedition.

"Two dwarves and a wolf... Sister Druid, you and the mage only have these helpers?" Cece looked over the group preparing on the shore, doubting whether such a small band was truly capable of confronting a horde of water demons—it seemed almost suicidal.

"With you and your brother guiding us, victory is assured," Conti replied, sounding even more confident than Flint.

"Is that so..." Cece nodded reluctantly. "Besides leading the way, what else can Jerry and I do to help?"

Conti pondered briefly and turned to her companions. "We'll likely have to wade into the water to fight the water demons. Can everyone swim?"

"A little, but not expertly. Jamie swims like a fish, though," Joan answered. Jamie nodded and whined, confirming his young master's praise.

"Um... sorry, I can't swim," Tom admitted awkwardly.

"We dwarves aren't much for swimming, just mind you don't let the water demons drag you into the lake," Flint said nonchalantly.

"No worries. We Nixies possess a supernatural ability that allows non-swimmers to temporarily breathe underwater. Even if you're dragged into the lake, there's no need to panic," Jerry said with a grin.

"Then there's nothing to fear!" Flint declared, waving his hand broadly. "Tom, bring the horses! Let's hit the road and reach the lake before dark!"

Tom led over four horses at once. With his nephew's help, Flint mounted the tallest and most imposing white steed. Tom chose a sturdy gray pony, short-legged like himself. The remaining two black horses, neither too tall nor too short, were given to Joan and Conti.

Conti, an Asa girl raised in the saddle, rode as easily as she walked. Joan, taught riding by his grandfather, managed well enough; after a bit of adjustment, he handled his mount with ease.

Flint led the way, followed closely by Joan, Conti, and Tom. The half-blood winter wolf Jamie kept pace right behind his master's horse, running as swiftly as any steed. Cece and the Nixie siblings swam rapidly in the river, guiding the riders along the bank.

The four galloped along the riverside, drawing curious glances from passersby. Near the town's entrance, a shout rang out behind them.

"Hey—wait up!"

Joan recognized the voice and quickly reined in his horse, turning to look back. In the distance, the Dindall brothers were riding hard to catch up.

"Joan, where are you all headed? Quite the procession!" Dick asked eagerly.

Before Joan could respond, Flint turned his horse and snapped, "Out of the way! We have business to attend to and no time for you two kids!"

"Mr. Flint, that's not fair. Joan and Conti are younger than us, and you take them along for business—why not us too?" Roger argued. "After all, Dick and I are your students. If the instructor has matters to handle, his students should help!"

"Hey, you little rascal, you do talk well!" The old dwarf laughed and shook his head. "It's not that I don't want to bring you two along, but this trip is very dangerous. If anything happens to you, I won't be able to answer to Jason."

"Don't worry, we can take care of ourselves!" Dick insisted impatiently. "Wherever you're going, you have to take Roger and me!"

"But neither of you has armor or weapons. You wouldn't be much help," Flint said, troubled.

"That's easily fixed. Just wait, we'll go home and get our gear!" Dick turned his horse and rode off. Roger hurried after him, urging the group not to leave—they'd be right back.

"Those two brats always love a bit of excitement," the old dwarf sighed, shaking his head as he watched his proud pupils depart.

"Uncle, bringing Dick and Roger might be a good idea. They're as capable as I am—maybe they'll be useful," Tom said with a smile.

Flint gave his nephew an exasperated glare, wondering where Tom found the confidence to think himself superior to Roger and Dick.

The Dindall brothers were soon back, barely a quarter hour later, galloping toward the group. Dick was now clad in shining breastplate, with a battle axe and a large shield hanging from his saddle. Roger wore studded leather armor, a short sword at his waist, and a short-barreled hunting rifle slung across his back.

"Hey! Roger, you even swiped your father's prized possession!" Tom whistled exaggeratedly when he saw Roger with the rifle.

"Guns," whether in the Old World or the New, were rare and expensive commodities. Most common folk could live their whole lives without ever touching one. In the world of Vares, only Feijin had adopted magical crystal rifles as standard equipment for elite infantry; no other nation had yet issued such weapons to their armies in any significant numbers. As for hunting rifles owned by civilians, most were costly custom pieces, usually possessed by nobles, gentlemen, or wealthy merchants to show off during fox hunts. For example, the short-barreled hunting rifle Roger carried was worth at least five hundred gold ducats—not counting the cost of replenishing magical crystals. Professional hunters, who made their living by hunting, could rarely afford such extravagant guns.

Joan had seen diagrams of hunting rifles in books, but this was his first time seeing one in person. Out of curiosity, he borrowed Roger's rifle for a closer look. The rosewood stock had a glossy patina, and its substantial weight felt comfortable in his grip. The brass-forged barrel had a loading slot on the left side. Roger explained that it could be loaded with standard lead bullets or shot shells—the latter packed with many tiny steel balls encased in lead, which sprayed out in a cone after firing, causing widespread damage within a sixty-foot range ahead.