“Are you a wizard, Chief Milo?” he finally asked. “Could you make more of my bullets?”

“Me?” Milo Morai chuckled. “No. Hardly.” He shrugged. “I talked too much last night, eh? It matters little. Just leave it there’s ... a road down which humanity has traveled before, and one of the important way stations leads to things like that piece of iron on your hip—and to things far worse, as much more dangerous that that as that is more dangerous than a bee sting.”

Morai spoke as though he’d given the speech several thousands of times before, but hardly expected to be believed. “You’re the last of your ilk, Sheriff—whoa, there.”

The big man suddenly reined in his horse and vaulted lightly to the trail, retrieving the core of an apple, which he held in the palm of his hand. It was dirty and browned, and the flies swarming over it had yet to carry off much. “What do you make of this, Sheriff Lehvee?”

Dunkahn shrugged. “There’s someone on this trail not far ahead of us, and that’s for certain,” he said. “And they don’t know that we’re following them, or—”

“Not necesssarily,” a harsh voice snarled from the woods. “If ye don’t move, we might let ye live—for a while.” From behind the bulk of an old oak a short, grimy man in a dirtman’s ragged tunic stepped, followed by two others, who were even filthier, if such a thing were possible. “Although we’ll pro’ly havta kill the big ’un quickly,” he added in a clear afterthought. “Ye both know what these are, eh?”

Each of the three held a pistol clutched awkwardly in his hand. “Tol’ ya, I did,” the second dirtman said, “that if’n we killed a couple of ’em and lef a trail they’d havta send the sheriff after us.”

“And here ’e is, eh?”

“Be still, Dunkahn. They’re not going to shoot.” Milo Morai stood easily, the weight on the balls of his feet.

“Oh?” The third dirtman gestured threateningly with his pistol. “And what makes ye say that?”

“You’re after the magic of gunpowder, aren’t you? And you think that the sheriff here has that.”

The man gave a gap-toothed smile. “And aren’t ye the clever one? He’ll tell us, after he sees ye roasting over a slow fire. If not, we’ll start on his own toes.”

Finally, it had started to make sense.

They had heard about the one Horseclansman who had an ancient magic weapon, and assumed that he had the ability to make more. Actually, that made sense; a man knew how to make a bow or lance, and most knew something of smithing, although only few were expert enough to be swordmakers. Somehow or other, they must have stumbled across an ancient cache of the weapons; they wanted more ammunition and thought that the sheriff was the way to it.

“Be still, Dunkahn,” the big man repeated. “They’re not going to shoot you because they think that you know how to make more bullets. And they’re not going to shoot me, either.” The taller of the three men nudged his neighbor again. “A bright one, he is. And why should we let you live?”

The big man smiled. “Because you just think that the boy knows the secret. I do know it.”

One snickered, while another gestured Morai to silence. “Shaddap. I think he be serious, even if ye don’t. And what does it hurt to wait awhile?”

Morai nodded. “And I’ll be happy to tell you-—now, Dunkahn."

The big man drew his sword and lunged for the nearest of the three.

Time seemed to slow.

There is a last time for everything, he thought, as he clawed at the strap holding his pistol in its holster.

His vision narrowed, until the whole universe was the smallest of the three dirtmen, the one swinging his gun to bear on Dunkahn.

As he had done ten thousand times in practice, Dunkahn gripped the handle of the pistol smoothly, drawing it from his holster, his thumb pulling the hammer back as he brought it into line.

Trained reflexes took over; left hand clamped around and steadying his right, he brought the pistol up and centered the smaller man’s chests in his sights as he jerked on the trigger, twice.

The sound of the pistol firing was a thunderclap that echoed through his body, but the only effect was twin explosions of bark and splinters from the tree next to the small man, which jerked his arm up and sent his own shot wild.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dunkahn could see Morai, moving with a grace that belied his bulk, his sword drawn and held out in front of him, ducking under the shot of the second man; Milo Morai speared him through the chest and kicked the man from his wet blade as the third dirtman brought his gun in line.

Squeeze, don’t pull, he could hear his father say as he brought the gun up and pulled hard on the trigger, just as the other fired, dumping Morai to the ground with wounded arm and a muffled moan, just as a red flower appeared in the dirtman’s chest, instantly turning into a gout of blood, and Dunkahn followed up with another shot that knocked the dirtman off his feet.

A gun-wielding hand peeked out from behind the tree; Dunkahn took aim and fired at it, once, twice, three times, until the gun clicked empty.

The familiar snick of the hammer on an empty chamber sent his left hand clawing for his belt pouch while his right thumbed the cylinder open and sent the empty brass tumbling.

There is a last time for everything, the last gunfighter thought as his trembling fingers fitted the last round into the chamber. The dirtman walked around from behind the tree, his gun held lightly, smiling.

“No more bullets, eh?” he said, smiling happily as he brought his own gun up. “Well, I’ve only got one more me’self,” he said, bringing up his own weapon and aiming it at the boy’s face.

There is a last time for everything, Dunkahn Lehvee thought, as he brought up his own pistol, took careful aim, and fired, just as thunder tore his own chest apart.

His second-to-last thought was that Milo Morai had not been lying—that for whatever reason, the big man could have brought guns and powder back into the world, but had decided not to; Morai really meant that he didn’t want the world traveling down the same route as it had last time, that guns, powder, and the skills to make them led to far worse than this.

His last tortured thought was to wonder how Milo Morai could possibly be right.

High Road of the Lost Men

by Brad Linaweaver

Brad Linaweaver began his career as a professional writer in the areas of journalism and political opinion, but soon found that he preferred more honest forms of fantasy. In 1983, he was a Nebula finalist for his first work of fiction, “Moon of Ice,” that ran in Amazing Magazine. He is currently expanding the tale into his first novel for Arbor House. He has also appeared in Magic in Ithkar. While awaiting several other anthology appearances, he lives in Georgia with his wife, Cari; stepdaughter, Morgan; and a miniature prairiecat named Puff.

During the time of the cracking of the plateau, there were many who were cast down, and others crushed by a rain of boulders. The fortunate ones escaped the Night of Fire. Among these were Kindred, Confederation nobles, Ehleenee, Free-fighters, prairiecats, Moon Maidens, Soormehlyuhn, and Ahrmehnee, as well as sundry wild animals, birds, and even Ganiks, who lived to see a red sun hanging, as a distant torch, above the dust-shrouded crags of what remained. One survivor was the traveling bard Noplis, who sang of the Day of Doom thereafter.

He had not been the most popular of raconteurs before this time. The night before the disaster, he had been in the camp of Von, a chieftain in the mighty army that was Sir Geros’ to command, where the storyteller was recounting deeds of the High Lord Milo. The largest prairiecat in camp, Flatear—so called because his left ear had been broken since birth—had little patience with the artificial means by which humans entertain themselves. Unable to restrain himself, he mindspoke thus: