Rohaan looked at the rifle that was as tall as he was and then gave a hesitant look to Berlin, who was encouraging him to take the weapon. Rohaan then looked back to Wheel with a betrayed expression—he wanted to train with a knife, not a rifle! Rohaan hated guns. They were his great nemesis and the memory of his recent encounter was a little too fresh. They had killed his parents. Destroyed his home.  To him, they were a blunderingly loud, skilless way to kill someone. Not that Rohaan was a stranger to killing—by ten, he’d killed more men than some soldiers do in a lifetime career. He never once had guilt for any of them. In some alternate universe, he might have. But at eight  years old, people came into his life and took from him all that was good and right in the world. Whatever childhood innocence he had then, it was stolen that night. And guns were the symbol of everything he hated. 

The captain strode over to the lad, putting his hand placatingly on his shoulder. “Rheoaan,” Berlin said coolly, seeing the look on the boy’s face and knowing his moods. “I’ve told you about the importance of knowing your enemy, aye?”
“Aye.”
“Right. The more familiar you are, the better off you’ll be.  Besides, if you can’t shift for whatever reason, I want you prepared.”
Rohaan looked horrified, like Berlin had just suggested barbecuing a baby. “Can’t shift...? Why couldn’t I..? Berlin...”
“I just mean nobody knows how sorcery can or can’t affect you. I question if even Hana knows—I don’t think that’s something they teach in schools anywhere. No harm in being prepared,” he said with a pat on the boy’s shoulder.
“Well then....” Rohaan hefted the gun; he was strong and wiry, but it was still quite big for him. “Can I shift bigger?”
Berlin thought for a moment then answered, “half, yes. The last half I want you to do in [i]khiv’tali,[/i], you hear?” The word was Vokurian for “true form”. Berlin figured there was no harm in a bit of a warm up before he really got to training, especially since the boy didn’t interact with guns if he could help it.

Rohaan nodded and changed to his older self, about the same age as Uban in his early twenties. He had the same hair tied back in a ponytail, the same flashing blue eyes, but he sported stubble and a few lines of wear on his face. Cleaned up, he might be described as roguishly handsome in a rough sort of way. And though his voice was deep and he had a confident smile to match Uban’s, there was something distinctly childlike about him. Perhaps it was his gait or his wandering gaze, or maybe just the expression on his face.  He now easily slung the rifle over his shoulder and followed the crew into the pines. “You’ll have to show me how to use it, then, Ca-mm,” the unfamiliar voice said. It would have been easy to mistake him for a stranger except for his use of the very distinct ‘ca-mm’ that was unique to Rohaan. “Ain’t never fired one before.”

And as the crew began their marksmanship training, he unsurprisingly did not turn out to be very talented with either a rifle or a pistol, no matter what his physical age was. His combat was all tooth nail and weapons were a foreign concept to him entirely. He did at least understand a knife, as it was merely an extension of the arm. But a gun? It was awkward to him.

Uban proved to be half decent—he had a steady hand and a good eye. Though he was a bit slow with a rifle, he was good with a pistol. Still, Berlin had much more experience than he did and blew him out of the water in both rate and accuracy, and Pieter beat him still. Pieter, after all, was a magnificent gunner. Both he and Berlin had naval experience ages ago and had been trained in marksmanship then. But if it came to it and Berlin was pressed into direct combat, he much preferred a good pair of cutlasses.

—

After they’d spent barrels of powder, Berlin scooped up a handful of very small pebbles and said, “Wheel, if you’ll excuse me, I have something to add before we move on.” He passed out the pebbles to everyone but Rohaan. “Rheoaan, my lad, I don’t doubt these men will be cooler under fire than the Yonin navy. They will be good marksmen. They WILL fire at you. I want to make sure you know what to do so we don’t have a repeat of last time. I almost lost you…would have if it weren’t for Hana.”
Rohaan scowled. “But I can’t stop a ball. An arrow, yeah, but not a ball.”
“I don’t expect you to. But you need to learn when to be on the offensive and when to defend.”
“But I just said I—“
“Defend or EVADE.” Berlin watched this roll around in Rohaan’s head for a moment before adding, “I’d like you to practice. Under fire.”
“What!? You’re gonna shoot me?”
“Easy lad. That’s what the pebbles are for. They’re little, see? Much smaller and lighter than a ball. They won’t pierce your cyradan hide, though they might sting just a little. Are you up for it?”
The boy scowled, deep in consideration and definitely more than a bit nervous. But eventually he nodded resolutely. “Aye, Ca-mm. They won’t get me again so easy.”
“Atta boy! Now up you go. Stay low, like you would if you were going to attack.”

Rohaan shifted and the sleek black dragon vaulted into the air, circled a few times, and then began doing sweeping fly-bys, one after the other. Each pass sent dirt and sand and dry pine needles following after him. Berlin looked at the crew and in all seriousness, raised his own rifle skyward and said, “Fire at will.” He had checked twice that his was loaded only with the little pea-sized pebble, so he took aim, fired, and earned a twitch of muscle and a high growl from the cyradan. “Dead, boy! Try again!” The crew fired, and Rohaan was attempting to use his superior maneuverability and speed to save him. But as his little growls became louder and more frustrated, it was clear that wasn’t working. This exercise served also as moving target practice for the crew.

Above, Rohaan could see Uban lifting his rifle and aiming, tracking him with the evil object, and in a burst of frustration Rohaan tried a different tactic. He waited for the crack of the gunpowder before shifting to a very small swallow. The shot went wide as Uban’s large target became suddenly immaterial and tiny. Berlin, who had been coaching him all the while, laughed and shouted, “Yes! That’s it! Once more!” Pieter fired next, his aim true. But once again, Rohaan had gone from cyradan to swallow the moment the gunshot rang out. Except this time, the little bird became even smaller and the boy all but disappeared, until he swept before them as a hummingbird, then became a cyradan again. It was as if he’d teleported. The dragon jutted his neck out and roared, the sound both deep and rumbling, but also with a discordant note of shrill sharpness. Berlin’s stray locks of hair that always seemed to escape his ponytail fluttered back in the wind of Rohaan’s hot breath, and the man laughed. 

Rohaan changed back, panting hard, looking a little fierce but triumphant. “Did I do good?”
Berlin stepped forward and embraced him, looking every bit the proud father. “Aye, Rheoaan. You were magnificent. That’s enough of that.  You get the idea, now?”
“Aye!”
“Keep that in mind next time we fight. You’ll need that skill.” He turned back to his master at arms. “Alright, Master Wheel. What next?”