The Walker

13 years ago...

The market was busy; people bustled in and around stalls and shops as the sun beat down overhead. Walker had removed his cloak and rolled his sleeves up, enjoying the heat on his bare forearms. He had taken off his hat, too, which he carried. The boy was ahead, haggling with one of the merchants, trying to trade some tobacco for the honey they had found in an old, abandoned shop a while back.

Walker smiled as he watched the boy at work. He smiled and laughed, setting the merchant at ease with the right body language, the right kind of speech, mimicking the midlands accent perfectly. He certainly knew how to read people now; it seemed natural to him. Walker felt a certain pride; the boy had come such a long way. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as the boy loped back to him.

“Managed to get this.” He offered the wraps of tobacco, but Walker waved him away.

“Keep them, you earned it.”

The boy raised an eyebrow quizzically, but pocketed one of the wraps, handing the remaining two to Walker. “For you.”

Walker smiled and took the tobacco. “Thanks, boy. What else did we need?”

The boy rolled himself a cigarette, pulling apart a clump and thumbing it smooth like Walker had shown him.

Without looking up, he replied, “We need to go to the artificers, repair the joints on your back lifting plate,” he glanced up, smirking, “Can’t have you falling apart on me old man, I might need you to carry something important.”

Walker laughed as the boy lit his cigarette. “This is true.” He began to roll his own. “Anything else?”

The boy exhaled, looking up at the sun, squinting at its glare. He rubbed at the soft stubble growing at his chin, before turning to Walker. We could do with some food, the bread’s gone old. And my boots are running thin on the soles.”

Walker struck a match, nodding. “All good, but I think there’s one place we should go first. This way.”

Walker turned from the main street and headed towards the mouth of the shaded alley that marked the beginning of the tools district.

“Walker, what do we need down here?”

Walker smiled to himself. “Just follow, lad, you’ll see soon enough.”

The sounds and smells of metal work greeted their nostrils; hot coals, steaming water baths, sweating beasts, oxen and mules moving loads, or powering mills. Bright sparks flashed orange and yellow from the shadows of the shops lining the alley, men and women shouted to one another; masters scolded apprentices and customers haggled over prices.

Walker glanced back at the boy, and noted with pleasure his vetted interest; he was examining every stall, talking to the craftspeople, asking and learning. Walker allowed this; they were in no real rush, not today. He ambled easily down the widening street, looking.

There, he thought. Towards the end of the street, where the road turned right and led back to the main road, was the shop.

A rusted gun hung from the wall above the door, a revolver, similar to Walker’s. He nodded and turned to find the boy, who was bent examining a man who seemed to be building a large cylinder, tubes and piping covered its surface

“Here, lad; come now, let’s go.”

The boy looked up, patted the worker on the shoulder, and jogged over to Walker. “They were building a new fuel system, it melts plastics and rubbish down into petrol, really clever stuff, they said that—“

Walker waved him quiet, “I’m sure, lad, I’m sure. But this is better.”

He put his hand amiably on the boy’s shoulder and gestured up at the shop.

“A gunsmith?” the boy asked.

Walker nodded, giving him a friendly pat. “Indeed it is, my lad. It’s time for you to have your own.”

He led the way into the smoky interior, the heat blasting out as he opened the door. They entered into a wide, high ceilinged room, cluttered with tools. The floor immediately ahead was occupied by a counter, almost as long as the room was wide, but only a couple of feet wide itself.

The counter, and almost every wall of the room, was covered with parts; springs, catches, firing pins, hammers; it seemed as though every part from every gun was somewhere in the shop. There were no bare walls, although there was a furnace, its hood covered with ornate carvings, intricate details lit by the glow from the fires below.

From somewhere in the shop the faint strains of violins and other strings could be heard, barely audible over the hungry grumble of the furnace. Walker smiled, she hadn’t lost her keen tastes, then.

The boy’s eyes widened, trying to take everything in at once; he moved about the store as if in a trance, touching things, picking up parts and examining them. He probably could’ve continued forever if not for the stern tone from the back of the shop.

“I hope you aren’t thinking of taking that, young man?”

The boy started and dropped the part he was looking at; it hit the floor and came apart with the merry tinkling only heard when a lot of hard work comes undone. He immediately dropped to the floor, attempting to pick up and reassemble it, but Walker touched his arm.

“Stand up boy, we can sort that later. Meet Sasha.”

He waved an arm to where the voice had come from, indicating the woman standing there. She hadn’t changed at all, Walker thought to himself. Originally an instructor with the Order, she was one of the few who had left peacefully during Father’s reign, choosing a life of practical knowledge; her ability to fashion and maintain weapons was second to none.

She descended the stairs leading down into the shop, radiating stern serenity. She was dark and ghostlike in the gloom of the shop, her face angular in the sullen glow from the furnace, square shoulders lit from behind. The music was louder now that the back door was open.

“Walker,” she nodded to him.

Walker nodded his response, speaking solemnly. “This young man is in need of a weapon suitable of his skills.”

“This is the boy that was at the meeting?”

Walker nodded.

“He has not grown much,” she looked critically at the boy, who was still holding one of the broken pieces, “And does this one not have a name? This... boy?”

Walker felt a familiar pang of regret as he looked at the boy.

Sasha pressed on, her sharp accent picking her words out, “Well? Or shall I call you the boy with no name?”

The boy’s face glowed red in the light, his embarrassment hidden by the embers in the furnace. “Just boy, will do.”

Walker watched Sasha, who shrugged. She came around the long counter, and they could see her properly. Her hair had gone grey, Walker noticed, and she now kept it tied up in a bun atop her head.

She was wearing leathers, loose fitting, to protect her from stray embers and blasting heat. Her furnace goggles hung from her neck, and her hands were heavily gauntleted. Embers had smudged across her face, darker motes of black against the ebony of her skin.

She stopped in front of the boy and eyed him up. He smiled as the boy tried to straighten up; Sasha was still easily a head taller than even Walker.

“This one is of age, Walker?” she peered over at him, “Surely not?”

The boy’s chest swelled and he spoke for himself. “I’m seventeen.”

Sasha looked sternly down at him. “And this means that you are old enough?”

The boy’s face hardened as he frowned slightly. “It does.”

Sasha folded her arms. “Well,” she said, “He is certainly confident enough, for a boy with no name. On your head be it, Walker.” She headed back to her side of the counter and pulled up a low stool, indicating that they should do the same.

Walker seated himself opposite her, his fractured armour squealing protest.

Sasha’s face screwed up, as if in pain, “Mój Boże, Walker! You know the sound of machinery being tortured makes a mockery of what I do.

“There is an armourer three shops down. Selly is a good man.”

Walker nodded his agreement.

Sasha took a deep breath, eyes closed, apparently concentrating on the music behind her. Her eyes slowly opened, and she continued. “Now, boy, I will ask questions, and you will answer.” She threw a sharp look at Walker, “Truthfully. Mark my words and be honest, if you lie, you will not receive the correct weapon, and will never master it. Understand?”

The boy nodded, looking nervous but less red than he had before.

“Which is more important, speed and agility, or brute strength and power?”

The boy answered immediately, “It depends on the situation. A hare is faster than a dog, but the dog is stronger than the hare. But, a man could outthink them, and beat them both.”

Sasha’s face remained impassive as she continued. “If one has the ability to act in a given situation, should they always do so? Are they obliged to act, regardless of their personal motives?”

Again, the boy’s answer was fast. “If the action worsens a situation, then inaction is always preferable.”

Sasha tilted her head slightly, “I will give you an example. There is a man drowning in a river, the current of which is powerful and strong, and surely able to drown even the strongest swimmer. It is thought that he is a thief, and may also be a murderer. But,” she held up a leather clad finger, “You cannot know until he is rescued whether he is guilty or not. Do you risk your life to save a potential murderer, or allow a possibly innocent person to their fate?”

The boy looked back, thinking. “It depends on the situation, again. Are there others there to help me? If so, what tools and equipment do we have? And who claimed him to be a thief? The question has too many variables. I don’t think there is an answer.”

Walker held back a smile as Sasha frowned.

“That is an answer in itself, boy,“ she replied. “Final question: do those with the power to act have the right to do so?”

The boy raised his eyebrow. “I... don’t think I understand.”

Sasha clucked and leaned in. “Come, boy, you were doing well. I will rephrase it, more specifically, just for you. If one has the power to take life, do they also have the right?”

The boy glanced over at Walker. “I...”

Sasha interjected. “No! You must answer. Not him.”

Walker remained passive, and the boy looked away. “It depends on… If they…,” He cleared his throat and looked the woman in the face. “Yes.”

Sasha nodded, seemingly satisfied with these answers. “You take after your master, boy. Speed and power matter equally to men who not only act, but think, and not only think, but think accordingly.”

She rose from her stool and headed towards the back wall, where a series of drawers were padlocked into the wall. Selecting a key from the chain at her waist, she unlocked one of these drawers and retrieved the weapon.

As she brought it to the table, the furnace shone darkly from its oiled surface; a pistol, lighter and newer than Walker’s own, with a revolving chamber. Walker saw how the boy watched it, calmly, almost serenely, but noted the hunger in his eyes. Sasha beckoned to him, “Come around, boy” she commanded.

The boy did as he was told, joining her on the opposite side of the table. The shadows rose about him, darkening his face. Walker could see the fiery orange glow reflected from the gun shining in the boy’s eyes.

“Take it; hold it and feel the weight.”

He did so, lifting the gun reverently, pointing and sighting along the length of the room.

“How is it?” The smith answered.

The boy continued to look down the sight. “It feels... good.”

Sasha shook her head, plucking the gun from his grasp. “Tools are not good, nor bad. They perform a task. They do a job. The owner is ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Never the tool. You understand, or has this man failed to teach you anything?” She scoffed, “Good and bad. Pfft.”

The boy frowned at Sasha, but Walker intervened. “He knows, Smith. He is learning, and learning well.”

Sasha eyed Walker’s visor for some time, before shrugging. “Niech tak będzie. ’Tis not the place of some lowly master gunsmith to tell the Walker himself what is, and what should be.”

She gave the gun back to the boy, and leaned under the table to fetch a holster, which she also handed over.

“What do you say, boy?” asked Walker.

The boy stood and attached the holster at his waist, and slid the gun into it. “My thanks, ma’am.”

Sasha waved a gauntleted hand at him dismissively. “I do not want your thanks boy. Walker, what do you have for me this time?”

Walker stood, tucking the stool back into its place under the table. He reached into his satchel and drew out the gifts; a book on fine arts and a disc, usable in some old world tech items. This one played music when inserted into the device Sasha was listening to now.

Sasha smiled as she took them from him, the first time she had done so since they had arrived, and examined the book. “You never cease to surprise me, Walker. My thanks.”

Walker nodded, closing the clasps on his satchel. “Come, boy. Time we left.”

The boy nodded and made his way from the shop, hand resting on the weapon slung at his hip. As Walker went to follow, Sasha called to him.

“Walker, one more thing. He was here, looking for you. He’s not happy. Idris has already paid the price. Be careful.”

Walker turned from the doorway and looked at Sasha. “I heard, Smith. Idris was a good walker.”

Sasha shook her head. “It’s a fool’s errand you find yourself on, Richard.”

Despite her cold outwards appearance, he knew she hid a softer side; her first love was of fine arts, music, and history. Her skill with metals and tools was unmatched by any man he had ever met. The dying embers of the furnace cast shadows over her face, blacking out her eyes, causing her hair to shine a dim crimson.

Walker nodded and left the shop, stepping into the sunlight of the outside world.