by Peter David
Not that I would keep that oath, mind you, but at least my heart would be in the right place even though other parts of me would invariably wander to exactly the wrong place.
I made sure not to drink too much since I had no desire to start off the following day with a hangover. Eventually, I stumbled back to my room although, truthfully, I don’t actually remember the trip, and collapsed into bed and a dreamless sleep. This was something of a relief because I’m certain that if I had dreamt, it would have been dreams of Page, and that was simply not something that I had any desire to revisit just then. I was moving on with my life, and if she wished to remain entrenched and unchanging in hers, that was her business, and I absolutely, positively did not wish to dwell on it.
Which is why I’m sure you’ll understand my aggravation over the fact that I continued to dwell on it even after I had left Bowerstone behind and commenced my journey along the eastern road out of town.
I had a pack with my few possessions slung on my back. Through a lifetime of practice I had developed the knack of traveling light. I had a few changes of clothes, a flintlock pistol stuck in one side of my belt, and a cutlass dangling from the other side. I was rather proud of the cutlass, having taken it off a pirate who attempted to attack me in my sleep. I’d wakened just in time to kick it away from him and gun him down with a single shot from my pistol. He died with a bullet in his brain, which is as good a way as any for a pirate to die.
I also had my flintlock rifle slung over my shoulder. It was a generally reliable weapon, and I’d had it for many a year, ever since lifting it off the body of a dead soldier whose aim had not done such a worthy weapon justice. Many in my line of work gave names to particularly favored armaments, and I was no exception. I had named it “Vanessa” after the first woman I’d ever slept with. It was certainly better than naming it “Prostitute,” which would have been just as accurate but a good deal less romantic.
The buildings of Bowerstone thinned out and eventually gave way to a small village with a name that I didn’t even bother to remember. A stench wafted from the south. One of Reaver’s factories, no doubt, belching out smoke and fouling the air. Granting Reaver the license for building it had been one of the actions that helped fill the Bowerstone treasury and had fueled Page with the sort of outrage and suspicion that kept her bound beneath the city streets. On the other hand, the money in the treasury had helped to shore up reserves so that, when terrifying times had befallen the city, our leader had had the money to spend on the resources—soldiers, weapons, and the like—that saved lives. Not as many lives as we all would have liked, of course; but still, there had been method to the madness.
Not that Page saw it that way. Clearly, she had no idea why people couldn’t make all the same morally uplifting decisions that she did without having to make sacrifices down the road that could have genuine life-and-death consequences. Gods knew that I had met many women in my life, and had it off with quite a few of them. But Page remained the single most infuriating female I had ever encountered.
So why the hell had it been so difficult for me to leave her behind? Why did I feel like her eyes were upon me, studying me, judging me, and finding me wanting the entire way?
How was it that she was able to annoy me even when she was nowhere near?
I passed my first night away from Bowerstone in a roadside inn that was little more than a ramshackle hut held together by the fervent desires of the owners. I spent the early part of the evening listening to the local townspeople discussing matters of state as if any of their opinions were informed or even mattered. They seemed quite divided on the subject of our noble leader, some singing praises while others chanted dirges. It was fascinating that what some people saw as steely resolve, others saw as stubbornness. What some described as being willing to make hard choices, others declared to be proof positive that our leader had lost touch with the common man. If anyone had ever required proof of the notion that you cannot please all of the people all of the time, all they would have needed to do was set foot in this place and spend five minutes to gather all the proof that could possibly be required.
The bar wench took the time to ask me conversationally where I was headed. I told her that I honestly had no idea. She winked at me and made it clear that if I had nothing in particular to do, she wouldn’t mind in the least taking on the task of keeping me occupied.
All I could think about was how I seemed to be a virtual magnet for the fairer sex, and that this night, at least, I simply wasn’t in the mood. The recollections of what I was leaving behind were too recent, and the future too uncertain, for me to truly enjoy myself. So I looked up at her and told her that I simply had no interest, sorry, check with someone else.
At least that was what I told her in my mind. What I said out loud was, “When do you go off duty?”
Don’t misunderstand. Page was a lovely young woman and I felt a good deal for her, but she had made her position clear, and so I figured, why not have another lovely young woman in an entirely different position?
Which was what I did. There’s no better way to bury your troubles than to bury yourself in someone else.
I crept out of the room the following morning, taking care not to awaken her. I saw no reason not to be stealthy. That way I not only didn’t disturb her slumber, but I also didn’t disturb the slumber of the innkeeper, who was expecting to be paid for my lodgings there. By the time he awoke, I would be off on my way and a safe distance. When you think about it, I really did the man a favor by letting him sleep. He gained some muchneeded rest, plus with any luck he would never know that I had bedded his daughter, the serving wench for the evening. And the cost for my discretion and consideration was equivalent to the cost of a room for the night. It all came out even if you ask me.
The last vestiges of the village thinned to nonexistence, and soon I was walking a pit-filled road that was likely traveled by either merchants moving from town to town peddling their wares, or else vagabonds such as myself who had really no particular destination in mind. Wandering about in Albion isn’t quite as commonplace as you might think. There are people who live in Mistpeak Valley, for instance, who will never in their lifetimes set foot in Brightwall, despite their proximity. There is a vast amount of regionalism in Albion, and many live lives of great isolation. Familiarity may breed contempt for some, but for most others, it provides security. Why leave home and take the risk of something’s attacking you, robbing you, or devouring you? Not that people’s homes were necessarily safer, but at least it was the monster they knew versus the monster they didn’t.
I was passing through Mourningwood, an area that fairly cried out for the need to pay attention to the world around you. You generally knew when you’d entered Mourningwood. There was a ghastly amount of swamp and marsh, and so the entire area had an overall aroma of dead and rotting vegetation hanging over it. You got used to it if you stayed long enough, as I knew from personal experience, having served a tour of duty at an outpost that had once housed King Logan’s army. You also managed to adjust to the constant onslaught of hobbes and hollow men that routinely stalked the area. The latter in particular were in endless supply since apparently the residents of Bowerstone had filled up their own cemeteries to overflowing. So they’d taken to thinking of Mourningwood as their personal graveyard. Dumping bodies in rivers just causes them to come rolling in on the next high tide. Toss them into a swamp, and they’re gone for good. At least that was the thinking; hence the many dead who wound up calling Mourningwood their new home. Unfortunately, that caused a severe jump in the number of hollow men and dissatisfied spirits stalking Mourningwood. Not that anyone in Bowerstone gave a damn.
Long story short: One needs to pay attention in Mourningwood since you never know when something nasty is going to go for you.
Despite my best efforts, I found my thoughts returning to Page. I felt there were things she wasn’t telling me, things that I needed to know. Clearly, though, she wanted to keep them to he
rself. Well . . . so what if she did? It was of no consequence to me how she lived her life or what aspects of it she elected to keep under wraps.
On and on I went around in my own head until I was well and truly sick of it, and yet I couldn’t turn my attention away from her. Here I was, a full day’s journey from Bowerstone with more days to come, plus I had bedded a comely wench the night before, which you’d think would give me some emotional distance. But no. Page wouldn’t get out of my head. I started to wonder if she weren’t actually practicing some manner of witchery on the side, and I was simply a pathetic victim of her magics.
Had I been paying the least bit of attention to my surroundings, as I damned well should have been, I would never have been in any danger. As it was, though, I was so preoccupied that a brass band could have come up behind me, and I would have been oblivious to its presence. Imagine, then, when something was approaching me stealthily and I was busy with my head securely up my own ass, all lost in thought.
All things considered, it would have been a monumentally stupid way to die. And the reason I know that is because of the words I heard just before it nearly happened :
“Hey! This is really going to be a stupid way to die!”
The voice was flat and harsh, dripping with sarcasm like leaves dripping rain after a storm. It penetrated even my thickheaded reverie. I stopped in my tracks and looked around in confusion, trying to discern the voice’s origin. It was impossible to determine, but the words continued to be clear enough: “How do you not see them sneaking up on you? Instead of contemplating your navel, why not contemplate your death? It’s about to pay you a visit!”
Immediately, I no longer sought the origins of the voice. Instead, I looked around, desperate to see if the unknown individual was speaking truly or if he was simply harassing me for no good reason.
Turned out to be the former.
The two hobbes had been sneaking up on me, attempting to be as stealthy as any of those disgusting creatures ever managed to be. When they saw that I had noticed them . . . hell, “noticed” was far too generous, let us say instead that I had my attention drawn to them . . . they could have retreated into the woods and perhaps awaited a more opportune time. They chose not to. Rather than do that, they embarked upon the time-honored hobbe tradition of simply charging into battle and hoping that luck turned in their favor.
These were not the diminutive, goblinesque creatures that most people encountered on the occasions that they ran into hobbes; these bastards were clearly soldiers, even warriors of a type. More like elite versions of the standard hobbes. To start with, they were bigger than typical hobbes. Much bigger. They were also reasonably well armed. One was coming at me with a club, the other with what appeared to be a large war hammer. Having tossed aside any caution since my focus had been placed squarely upon them, they howled battle cries and snarled in outrage; although what they had to be outraged about, I really couldn’t say.
Their faces were red, as if they’d been left out in the sun too long, and twisted into frightful snarls that might well have paralyzed average individuals with fear. I, on the other hand, had been in plenty of situations where life and limb were being threatened, and it took a bit more than a couple of outraged hobbes charging me to throw me off my game.
The hobbes were heavily armored, but I wasn’t concerned. Neither of them was wearing helmets, so I didn’t expect their attack to pose a good deal of difficulty. As they charged, I simply unslung my rifle and took aim at the one who was closer, the one swinging the war hammer. I targeted him effortlessly, took a breath reflexively to steady my aim, then exhaled as I gently squeezed the trigger. The rifle spat out a report, and the hobbe’s head snapped back. His cries of outrage transformed from animalistic snarls to a single screech of pain and protest, then he fell in his tracks.
I hoped that seeing his companion fall would be enough for the remaining hobbe to turn tail and run.
No such luck. His companion didn’t slow down or cast so much as a glance toward the other hobbe. Chances were he didn’t give a damn about him. All he wanted was to get to me and bash me to bits. Backpedaling the entire time, I hastily reloaded, then swung the rifle toward him and once again squeezed the trigger, figuring that I would be able to end this quickly and cleanly.
Instead of the expected and comforting explosion from the rifle, however, all I heard was a hollow click. The hobbe actually paused, automatically bracing itself against the expected impact from the bullet. That was more brains than I would have thought a hobbe would have displayed, to say nothing of sense of self-preservation.
I fired again, and was again rewarded with nothing but a click. I knew I’d rushed the reloading, and I was paying for it. Vanessa had jammed.
The hobbe, newly emboldened, came right at me with more speed than I would have credited it with.
Instantly, I assessed the situation with the new difficulties that had been presented me. Factoring in the speed with which the hobbe was moving, I immediately realized I had no time to toss aside the rifle and draw either my pistol or my sword.
So I did the only thing I could. I took a step back, reversed the rifle, and used it as a bludgeon. I swung it around as hard as I could, catching the creature on the side of the head with the rifle stock. The hobbe went down with a screech, hitting the ground, its eyes crossing as it looked up at me, dazed.
I swept the rifle around and down, hoping to split the thing’s head open. Instead, it moved quickly, and the rifle struck the ground, sending a shiver of pain up my arms as it did so. The hobbe then swung its arm around and knocked the rifle out of my hands with its club, sending my weapon clattering across the ground.
Because the hobbe was on its back, that gave me the precious seconds I needed to yank my sword from its sheath. The hobbe made a sound deep in its throat that came across like a combination of a growl and a snort of derisive laughter as it swung its club. It was a bludgeon against my cutlass. The cutlass was fairly useless when it came to stabbing; it was more effective for slashing attacks, and that was the use to which I put it. I came at the hobbe, slashing back and forth like a berserk windmill. Repeatedly, I deflected its club, sometimes through design and at least twice, I hate to admit, through sheer dumb luck. I had to be careful, though. For the most part I was batting aside the club, but if the hobbe managed to land a direct blow with it, it would likely shatter my sword.
Hobbes weren’t designed for sustained battle. They were used to attacking quickly and overwhelming opponents almost immediately. Even though this was a larger hobbe, its endurance wasn’t on a par with mine. In moments I heard it grunting and huffing. As its lunges became clumsier, I sidestepped it and slashed quickly. I came within inches of chopping the thing’s head off. As it was, my cutlass opened up the side of its face, and whatever the thick, dark liquid was that passed for blood in its veins started to gush down the side of its face. The hobbe let out a screech of pain and backpedaled hurriedly. It seemed that its taste for battle had left it all at once.
“Wait! I’m not done with you!” I called, but it seemed in no mood to listen. Instead, it turned its back on me and sprinted toward the protective trees. I reached for my pistol and withdrew it, cocking the trigger and taking aim all in one movement. But the hobbe darted behind a tree so that I no longer had a clear shot at it. I stepped to one side, tried to find it again. It was too late. I heard the rustling of trees and branches, then it was gone, having disappeared into the woods.
For a moment I thought it might try to circle around and come at me from a different direction, but then I dismissed the notion. It seemed most unlikely. Hobbes weren’t traditionally big fans of fair fights. They generally liked to outnumber their opponents at least two to one, and preferably five times that. When I had whittled down the odds to one-on-one, I had only needed to inflict the most minimal amount of damage on the hobbe to sour it on continuing the battle.
Still, it would have been nice to be able to kill the thing and have one less hob
be running around Albion. On the other hand, even if I had managed to accomplish it, what did it really matter in the long run? No matter how many of the damned creatures that harassed the good (and even not-so-good) citizens of Albion were killed, there always seemed to be more ready to replace them. I didn’t know where these monstrosities came from. Whatever their origin, there certainly seemed to be an endless supply of them.
Shoving the pistol back into my belt and the sword into its sheath, I promptly started checking through the flintlock rifle to make sure that another misfire didn’t occur. As I did so, checking over every moving piece, I remembered my unexpected, if acerbic, savior.
“He’s gone!” I called. “You can come out!”
“You think I’m hiding because I was afraid of a hobbe? You’re the one who’s more dangerous. The way you shoot, you would have hit me while trying to shoot the hobbe!”
“Well, I think you’re doing me a disservice.” Whoever was taunting me from hiding, he clearly had a good deal of hostility. I needed to let him know that he had no reason to vent it toward me. “Actually, I’m quite a good shot.”
“Then the last thing I need is to present you a target!”
“Why would I consider you a target? You saved my life!”
“Not sure there’s anything there worth saving!”
“Then why did you warn me?”
“Wasn’t my intent. Just observing that the way you were about to die was a bloody stupid one. I wasn’t out to prevent it. Simply comment on it.”