A weapon was merely a building tool that delivered striking force at a sped up speed.
In the lower clockwork armory of Haven-Hold, Giles Croft stood beside the master assembly bench.
On the clean oiled timber lay an eight-foot drafting linen stamped with Giles’s official town seal. Beside the parchment sat a four-and-a-half-foot seamless steel tube, fitted with a shoulder rest, dual wooden handgrips, a clockwork trigger gearwork, and a compact sight bracket.
Around the bench stood Captain Kenneth Drake, Master Borin Bronze-Lung, Corbin Cross, and Toby Karr.
Kenneth picked up the steel tube, resting the curved padded bracket against his right shoulder. He brought his eye to the rubber eyecup of the sight aiming cross, sighting across the workshop toward a chalk target drawn on the stone wall.
“Balance is exceptional,” Kenneth murmured, his fingers resting naturally on the trigger lever. “Weight is barely fourteen pounds.
Lord Giles... What is the official title of this rig?”
Giles adjusted his glasses, pointing to the title block on the blueprint.
