Chapter 03
Tucked neatly between hills at what could possibly be the base of the mountain he'd just sled down sat something he did not expect to find in these corners of the world: a shop.
Constructed entirely from old, dark wooden timbers that groaned with historical fatigue, it seemed utterly unfit for its surroundings.
The fact it stood there alone was one reason.
The fact it didn't look like a house built for this climate was another.
It was the kind of shop that belonged in some western movie.
Yet here it was. Hanging crookedly outside the building was a weathered signboard, on which were written words he, despite his amnesia, could read: Nazim's Workshop.
Curiosity, paired with an eagerness to find people to interact with, drove him to push the heavy wooden door open.
Stepping inside, the first thing that hit him wasn't a smell but a feeling. A strange, heavy static washed over his skin. He felt strangely safe. I've been here before, he realized, looking around. As he did, he noticed something that could hardly be ignored.
The interior of the workshop was overwhelmingly and tragically empty. Multiple bare shelves lined every corner of the room, to his left, to his right, and directly behind the entrance. It gave the distinct impression that the establishment hadn't managed to sell a single item in several decade.
Just as he came to the tragic assessment that this place might have been abandoned, a voice proved him wrong. "Going to stand there breathing all my clean air, tall thing, or are we going to do business?" a high-pitched, raspy voice snapped.
He jumped back.
The voice belonged to a sight that would make anyone jump back and wonder what exactly they were looking at. A tiny, reptilian creature about the size of a medium dog popped up from behind the counter. He smiled, the kind of smile a friend gives an old friend, he imagined.
"You... I know you. Don't I?" He approached the thing, which he now saw standing atop a stool close to the counter. "Which means you know me, right!"
"Ew," it barked, squinting its slit-pupiled eyes. "You're spitting in my face, awa... no, what even to call you."
"Call me? My name? What's my name, man. Tell me, I need to know."
"How am I supposed to know that? And don't call me man. I'm a kobold, so you'll refer to me as such, like he did."
"You know me."
"I don't know you."
"You..."
"I'll admit I've known someone who looks like you, but as far as I can tell, it's not you."
"You're talking about me before I forgot my memories, aren't you?"
The kobold didn't answer, and rather than insist, which he felt would yield bad results, he chose to back away instead. "I'm sorry, mister... kobold," he froze a little at that, as finally the overall absurdity of the circumstance seemed to hit him.
Do kobolds, which as far as he could recall were something mythological, actually exist?
The answer was yes. Was this normal? He felt like the answer to that would reasonably be no. But there was a kobold, standing right in front of him.
"Do you have a name?" he asked.
"Nazim," it replied.
"Nazim... Nazim the Kobold."
"Yes, it is I. Nazim the Kobold, trader of oddities, buyer of junk, finder of treasures, and occasional miracle worker when properly motivated.
Whatever scrap, relic, fang, or cursed nonsense you bring into this place, I'll barter for it.
Potions, ropes, monster bait, anti-slime grease, emergency socks, probably even things better left unnamed.
Pretty much whatever you need to stay alive a while longer out there, there's a decent chance I've got it buried somewhere in the back. So, what'll it be for you?"
"Erm," faced with an introduction that didn't quite match the persona the kobold had displayed thus far, he stood there awkwardly.
"Don't look at me like that. That's the line I was given and am expected to use. Don't expect to see me go all happy-go-lucky again."
"Erm. I kinda loved the performance though. It really hit the jackpot on the vibe of 'a passionate shop owner.'”
The kobold glared at him. "Tch. Some things just never change, I guess," the kobold said, shaking his head as if in defeat.
The words made him immediately ask, "What do you—" only to be cut off.
"I'm not an old lady for you to swoon with sweet words," the kobold said, before adding, "I am Nazim. I barter things, that is all I do. So what'll it be for you?"
Remembering what he'd resolved to ask, he said immediately, "I want my name, my past, anything about me really, to fill the gap that's missing from my memory. I'll barter for it." He looked at himself, patting his body for something to trade, and found the gems.
From his speech, the kobold liked trade. He'd give him trade.
"I barter for and barter anything, but I can't barter for something that abstract."
"I'm bartering for your knowledge. Nothing abstract about that."
"And if I have no such knowledge?"
"Come on—"
"Don't get me wrong, I'll gladly barter. But I'm fair enough to warn you that for the rocks you're offering, you'll be disappointed by what you learn from me."
He glanced at the gem and asked, "How valuable are these?"
"At their current state, not much."
That "not much" felt a little too vague for his taste, which prompted him to ask, "What can I barter for one of these?"
"There are many answers. What do you want?" As if seeing the question coming, the kobold added, "What's something tangible you want?"
He took a moment to come up with an answer.
His goal here was to gauge the relative value of these gems. Clearly they would cost a fortune, he could imagine rich people being interested in something so shiny, so what could he trade one for?
Strangely, remembering his earlier empty-handed standoff with the giant goat, he thought of something that could have been easier.
"That's what I want. A gun," he said, before adding, from the way the kobold looked at him, "What, is it too cheap or too expensive for what I'm asking, or you just don't have one?"
"That's for us to see," the kobold answered, something like a smile crossing his face. "But a gun. It's a surprisingly good choice, all things considered."
Nazim reached into his robes and produced a tarnished steel cup and a set of bone dice, rattling them with an aggressive, rhythmic clatter.
He rolled the dice inside the cup, then slammed it face-down on the counter, trapping them beneath.
"Now, let's see," he said, lifting the cup to reveal a five and a six.
"I have something for you," Nazim said.
"Did... the dice tell you that?"
"They have," he nodded, climbing down from his stool and vanishing into the back of the shop. He returned struggling with a large box, and it was with absolute confusion that he watched the kobold curse at him, "Screw you!" as he set the heavy thing on the table.
"What did I do wrong?" he asked, baffled.
Nazim only sighed, then went to the back again and returned with another box, which he began unpacking on the counter. Inside were two weapons, both massive handguns, both revolver-like, though one leaned into a typical design while the other looked almost alien.
"Can I?" he asked Nazim, who surprisingly nodded, giving him permission to pick it up. The thing was a piece of steel so heavy it felt like it wasn't meant to be a handgun at all, despite the design.
"Don't look at it like that," Nazim snapped. "It's not a sidearm. It's a Goliath-Pattern Single. Pocket-sized emplacement rifle, if 'pocket' meant a hundred and twenty pounds. One shell, one Eight-Gauge Ironbreaker, straight into the breech. No cylinder, no ramp, nothing fancy."
"A hundred and twenty pounds?"
"Dry. And don't get cute with your stance either, or the venting cooks both your arms and the kick turns your whole spine to gravel. Simple as that."
"Sounds friendly."
"It's not meant to be friendly, it's meant to end things, permanently, and preferably everything standing near it too.
Plating, stone, a pair of steam engines, a man's ribs times whatever's behind him, doesn't care.
Whatever's in front of it stops existing in a hurry.
" Nazim tapped the box. "Ten shells. That's it, that's all you get, because nobody mints Ironbreakers this size for a man who isn't defending two fortresses at once.
Miss once and you're swinging a twenty-four-pound club at whatever's still coming.
So it's a gun for someone who only expects to need one miracle. Ten times over."
"If I take this, I have to choose?" he said, eyeing the other weapon.
"Obviously. What, did you think you were walking out of here with both?"
Well, yes, he thought, and said nothing.
The other weapon was a long-barreled, dark iron revolver. It was massive, but modest next to the one still aching in his arms. Four bullets sat in the box with it, one from each casing.
"Vanguard Five-Chamber," Nazim said. "Cylinder doesn't care about length, takes any of these in any order, no fussing with pins."
He looked at the four lonely bullets in the box, then back at the Goliath's ten shells, and frowned. "That's it? Four bullets?"
"Don't insult me," Nazim scoffed. "Those four are a sample, dumbass. One of each so you know what you're picking from. I'm not sending you off into the wild with exactly four bullets to your name."
"So how many do I actually get?"
"Depends what you want. You tell me the composition, I fill the order.
All one type, mixed, whatever you like, the count changes with what you pick.
Heavier casing, fewer you get. Lighter casing, I can stuff your pockets full.
That's what these are for," he said, tapping the sample box, "not what you walk out with. "
He flicked a claw at the first casing. "Dreadnought-Load. Double powder, double lead, still flat as a frozen pond. Drops a charging beast at four hundred paces, goes through double steel plate like it's parchment. Kicks like it's furious with you, but it works."
"Trench-Spike," he went on, tapping the second. "Hardened steel core twice over, slower than the Dreadnought, hits like an anvil off a two-story hayloft. Digs twice as deep. Good for putting a hole clean through a wagon door, the man behind it, and whatever he was hiding behind too."
"Standard-Sentry," he said, moving onto the third casing.
"A boring thing, I'll concede. But where it's from, generations of soldiers have been using this for two hundred winters. Why? Because it just works, twice as reliably as anything fancier. Unless you hold it like a purse, it won’t kick your hand off, or ask too much of you.
This is the perfect round for a man who likes habits. "
"And last but not least, Short-Scout." He shoved the last one forward.
"Light charge, light casing, easy recovery.
So light you could fill a saddlebag with these and barely notice the weight.
Good if you actually plan on pulling the trigger twice as often as with a Standard-Sentry.
This will kill anything without a defense above 100.
In other words, it'll still bypass the defense of anything that isn't a monster. "
"Pick your poison and I'll pick your count.
All Dreadnoughts, and you're carrying a light stack because they're not cheap to make.
All Short-Scouts, and I'll load you down until your belt creaks.
Mix them, and it's somewhere in between.
Toolbox, or one tool, your call, but either way you're not walking out with four bullets to your name. "
For a moment he thought it over. With the single-shot, he'd have one heavy answer to one heavy problem. With the Vanguard, he'd have a plan that could change as the day did, or a plan he could commit to from the start.
Hm, decisions, decisions, he mused, and it was somewhere in that musing that it suddenly hit him.
He wasn't supposed to care about the guns. That wasn't his goal. His goal was to gauge the value of these gems, which, judging by what the kobold was offering in exchange, seemed reasonably high. So how had he ended up here?
"You said I could barter this gem for what you know, but that it wouldn't be worth it," he said.
"I did. And I stand my ground."
"Just tell me," he said, sliding the gem toward Nazim as a show of good faith, though he had no intention of parting with it just yet.
"I'll take the Vanguard, and all the ammo.
I'll allow you to subtract the worth of that information from the ammo.
The information can't be worth more than the gun, can it? "
The kobold glared at him for a moment, then sighed. "Alright, if you insist. Here's what I can tell you. The person you're thinking about, the person you think you used to be, is called Hiro."
"Hiro..." he echoed. "That is my na—"
"That is not," the kobold corrected. "That person has been a repeat customer of mine. I would recognize him if I saw him. You are not him. And no, this isn't just a question of you forgetting your memories. You simply are not him."
"What?! Then who am I?!"
"How am I supposed to answer that?" The kobold shrugged before sinking into silence.
"Hold on,” he couldn’t help but scoff indignantly, noting the silence the kobold sank into. “That's it?"
"Yes, that's it," the kobold said. "So, which one of these bullets do you want me to deduct the price of that information from?"