Will Power

by A. J. Hartley

  Still nothing.

  “Open the bloody door!” I yelled, losing patience and good humor at a stroke. “What the hell kind of pub is this? Should I have made an appointment? Do I need references? Come on, open the damn door.”

  And, with a heavy clang, the lock turned and the door creaked open. With it came the point of a fine silver rapier which came to rest about two inches from my windpipe. It was held by a tall, fair man. Others were behind him, weapons in hand and eyes fixed on me with undisguised hostility.

  “Hello?” I tried, leaning slightly away from the sword point.

  The others did not speak, but their eyes hardened and the sword moved steadily under my chin. Gasping wordlessly, I wondered if I had perhaps violated some sort of dress code.

  Farcical though such an instinct undoubtedly was, it wasn’t altogether wide of the mark. There was fear behind the menace in their eyes, and recognizing this, I guessed that the principal reason for this rather unwelcoming behavior lay in my appearance, since I was still caked from head to foot in a dark brown slime and the light in the inn was low. The truth struck me with sudden and comic force: They thought I was some sort of goblin. Imagining how I must appear to these quiet, law-abiding folk already spooked by tales of bear-riding demon assaults to have me banging on their door like a ravaging swamp troll, I laughed with relief. This was apparently the wrong thing to do and seemed, momentarily, to convince them of my hellish origins.

  “Strike!” hissed a young man peering round the doorjamb. He was addressing the rapier wielder and had one eye on me, the other on an axe he was raising.

  “Wait!” I spluttered, specks of mud exploding from my cracked lips unhelpfully. “I am Will Hawthorne, a traveler and friend of . . . of, what the hell is his name . . . ? You know!”

  “Strike quickly,” advised the young man spitefully. “Heed not the words of the enemy, for his tongue is foul.”

  Truer than you know, mate, I thought, spitting out more pond filth.

  “It called itself Lothar. It is surely some devil from the waters beneath the mountains.”

  “No,” I assured him. “That was just a bit of a joke. A sort of poem, you know. I was happy to see the tavern and . . .” This no longer seemed plausible even to me, so I reverted to my previous tactic. “I’m a friend of that blond-haired chap. You know . . . tall guy, pale, blond.” Since this brilliant description fit all four men I had glimpsed behind the door I added, “He’s got a spear with a kind of torch thing . . . a light. And he killed a bear with it. You know. Whatsisname. Mr? . . . Sorbet? Sor . . . did? No. Sorrail. SORRAIL!”

  There was a hesitant moment as the men exchanged glances. Clearly they recognized the name. That would keep my blood flowing internally for the moment. I grinned to myself, exultant, and then, unsure of what such a grin looked like through my new skin, scrapped it.

  They watched me warily, then the young man leaned round the door. His glance was both cautious and menacing. “We’ll see about that, goblin,” he said, a remark which, if it hadn’t been accompanied with that just-give-me-an-excuse-to-kill-you kind of hatred, would have struck me as riotously funny. He drew a long knife from his belt, put the flat of the blade against my throat (causing a little pattering of dried clay at my feet) and said, “Get Sorrail.”

  Someone inside moved away from the door. Then he caught hold of my arm and dragged me inside, never taking the pressure off the knife blade.

  “He’s here?” I exclaimed with relief as I stumbled into the barroom.

  “Silence, demon-vermin,” shouted the young man, pressing the knife a little harder. “You speak when you are spoken to and not before. Is that clear?”

  I emitted a little trickle of bubbling filth from the corner of my mouth, along with a sound designed to show just how clear it was.

  There were footsteps from the corridor outside, booted feet entering the room hastily. I tried to turn, but my captor demonstrated his dislike of this with the brilliant rhetorical strategy of pushing the blade against my windpipe till I coughed in nervous exasperation. The resulting spatter of brownish phlegm which caught him in the face might have ended my life right there and then if not for a familiar voice from my right.

  “Yes, it’s him,” said Renthrette, bored and thoroughly disinterested. “A little dirtier than usual, but otherwise the same, I’m sure.”

  “Renthrette! Thank God!” I exclaimed, pausing to rub my throat as the blade was withdrawn and pointedly wiped clean. I grinned widely and extended my hands to her, and to Sorrail, who was loitering at the door. His chiseled features were grave.

  “Spare me,” she muttered, turning on her heel and striding back out. “And if you can tell where the slime finishes and you begin, get a bath.”

  Sorrail eyed me cautiously for a moment and then followed her out. The rest returned to their seats by the fire and watched me suspiciously, in complete silence. A rank steam had begun to rise from my skin and clothes, touched with the scent of stagnant water, decayed plant life, and whatever other unspeakable slurry had collected in that pit. Though I had seriously doubted I would ever want to be immersed in fluid again, the bath was beginning to sound like a very good idea.

  In fact, I didn’t have a bath. I had five. The first time I stepped into the copper tub the water instantly turned an opaque and foul-smelling brown almost identical to the pond I had been lying in. I didn’t even get to sit down. Tipping the sluggish water out of the window I saw that it was raining hard now. I clutched an old washcloth to my mud-caked loins and went downstairs. There I asked a startled maid to refill the tub and went to stand in the courtyard, letting the chill downpour beat the mud from my body. Some of it, at least.

  A minute or two after the initial cold had worn off, it started to creep back over me and I decided to retreat to my hot bath. I removed a few strings of mossy pond weed, adjusted my makeshift loincloth for maximum coverage, and headed back inside, via the tavern’s sitting room. The same collection of faces turned from the fire to look me over.

  Grimy and bedraggled as I was, I had expected laughter at best or more hostility at worst. Instead, I got a stunned silence and then a series of pattering apologies as they each got to their feet.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” murmured the young man who had been so keen to examine my neck from the inside half an hour before. “You never can tell what might come in through that door, sir, we being so close to the mountains, and all. I seem to have made a terrible mistake. I’m so sorry. . . .”

  “Forget it,” I answered, echoing Renthrette from before while I tried to figure out what new strangeness this was.

  “It was a terrible misjudgment of you, sir. . . .” he went on.

  “Not at all. Really,” I interrupted, trying to sound sincere and nonchalant at the same time—not easy when one is clad in nothing but a damp, strategically positioned washcloth. “Don’t give it another thought.”

  He began again, his friends glum as whipped puppies in the background. Unable to bear any more of this bizarre exchange, I shook his hand and bolted for my bath, presenting my bare behind to them as I did so—though the realization of that last bit came after it was too late to do anything about it, so I just clambered back into my foaming kettle and considered drowning myself. Still, I thought, after a life like mine, why bother trying to salvage any personal dignity now? In this somewhat defeatist mood, I glanced hurriedly over all that had happened since that dinner in Stavis, thought better of it, and did my best to forget everything. Being warm and comfortable, if exhausted, for the first time in several days, I succeeded.

  An hour or so later I woke, rolled out of the frigid water, dried myself absently, and tumbled into bed, where I remained till morning. I dreamed of Orgos and Mithos and then lay awake for at least an hour till sleep, mercifully, took me again.

  It was still raining when I woke, and the chamber was positively icy. I blew a long breath, watched it billow across the room, and decided to stay where I was. I removed the dressing on my wri
st and was amazed to find the wound almost completely closed. Sorrail and his people might be annoying, but they seemed to know something about medicine. An hour later, just when I was dropping off again, the door burst open and Renthrette, unannounced, strode in. The air temperature seemed to drop. I moved the covers on one side of the bed, smiled suggestively, and gave the mattress an inviting pat.

  “Get up,” she said, “and spare me your suggestive remarks and all the usual garbage you spout. It should have become clear, even to one as insensitive, degenerate, and dull-witted as you that I will never—”

  “I am not dull-witted.”

  “—that I will never,” she continued pointedly, “be found in the same bed as you. I can barely stand being in the same room. The only way you would get me into bed with you is if I had been bound hand and foot. . . .”

  “Renthrette,” I said playfully, “I’d no idea . . .”

  “No, scratch that,” she said, “the only way is if I was already dead.”

  “There I draw the line,” I said with mock indignation. “I have been accused of various fascinations in the past, but there is a limit. Rob the cradle, I might, but the grave? Never. And before you get indignant, robbing the cradle is a figure of speech. I have no interest in or sympathy for . . .”

  “Do you ever tire of hearing yourself talk?”

  “Not often. I am both a good listener and a lively raconteur. For someone as self-centered as me, the combination is quite magical.”

  “Just get up and save your witty banter for someone who doesn’t get nauseated by the sound of your voice,” she spat.

  “Now you’re getting it,” I encouraged. “But next time . . .”

  I stopped suddenly. Something was odd. She had been spirited since she came in—confrontational, admittedly, but spirited nonetheless. Moreover, at that last little jibe there had been a flicker of a smile. I had various ways of dealing with sadness and loss, ways which rarely allowed me to experience either for long. She did not.

  “They’re alive, aren’t they,” I said.

  “Who?” she said, not bothering to conceal the twitch of her thin, pale lips.

  “Mithos and Orgos. They’re alive, damn them! After all the effort I’ve put into not grieving . . . Where are they?”

  “Come downstairs,” she said, turning for the door.

  “They’re here?!” I exclaimed, leaping out of bed, depressingly safe in the knowledge that she wouldn’t turn to catch me naked.

  “Of course not,” she said. “But they are alive.”

  I grabbed my breeches and stepped hurriedly into them.

  “How do you know?” I said, trying to keep my balance as I tottered about the room pulling up my pants.

  “A spy was taken late last night from a company of goblins which has moved out of the mountains to raid the surrounding villages. If the creature is to be believed, Mithos and Orgos are alive, and being held in their mountain stronghold.”

  “So what are you so bloody happy about?” I said, fastening my belt and turning her to face me.

  “Sorrail knows a way in,” she said, unsuppressable excitement breaking through her veneer of calm dignity.

  “What?”

  “We can rescue them!”

  “Did you see how many of them there were? Or the bears, or the . . .”

  “It won’t be a battle, idiot,” she laughed. “It will be a small party breaking in unseen and getting them out.”

  “Wishful thinking, if you ask me,” I snorted.

  “Fortunately, I’m not asking you,” she riposted. “A two-man party will do just fine. One man and one woman, that is.”

  “You and your friend Sorrail are going to get yourselves killed. And that,” I said, “is a promise. A guarantee. If I had a farm, I’d bet it. This is the most harebrained exercise in self-annihilation I ever . . .”

  “It’s not Sorrail,” she said. “He has to go on to the White City to report on the goblin movements, and the other men will be defending their own homes. It’s you, Hawthorne. You’re coming with me, so you’d better hope the odds improve. Good thing you don’t have that farm, huh?”

  I just stared at her with my mouth open. For once I could think of nothing to say.

  SCENE VII

  Hawthorne to the Rescue

  Given that my general dislike for wild animals had recently taken an alarming new turn, and that creatures which had always seemed dodgy even in folktales had turned out to be real and meaner than reports had suggested; and given that the word of a goblin spy who assured us that our friends were alive was about as reliable as mine; and given that the mountains bristled with sinister troops and our mission was therefore destined for death (ours) and destruction (ditto); and given (finally, I promise) that Renthrette was a maniac only content when poised for slaughter, and that she valued my skin a good deal less than that of her horse, the fact that I had agreed to go with her on this sortie into the Abyss made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

  Still, what the hell.

  I am not, alas, without feeling, nor (and this was the real spear in the buttock) without principle. Not utterly. I had fallen victim to a rising sense of guilt which I had been beating into silence every step of the way from Stavis. Now, with Renthrette’s careful prompting, it leaped to its feet and started roaring about talking to Empire guards, throwing stones at wolves, and generally laying the fate of our trusty comrades squarely at my door like an unwanted child. In short, she had me where she wanted me. As we trekked back into the reedy grasslands which I had fled through the day before, I couldn’t help considering how wildly different this was from where I wanted her.

  This playing on my sense of responsibility had been accompanied by that hint of a threat which her family relied so heavily on with varying degrees of subtlety. While his sister talked wistfully of how sad it would be if something unpleasant befell me, Garnet preferred the grab-him-by-the-throat-and-shout-about-cutting-his-liver-out approach. This difference in form belied the basic similarity between them, an endearing little detail of sibling character which made me glad I had never met their parents.

  Of course, all threats aside, it was the thought of my friends that made me agree to this little excursion. We weren’t exactly popular at the Refuge (I suggested they consider renaming the inn to something more suitable: the Hostile, perhaps, or the Surprisingly Unwelcoming) and Sorrail looked at me like he was wondering if I might be part goblin after all. I felt more comfortable with Renthrette, however distant she was currently being. But it was the thought of other friends—Orgos in particular—that made me steel myself for another encounter in the mountains.

  And it wasn’t like we were going to knock on the front door and then fight our way in. This was a stealth mission, one which—if it went right—wouldn’t involve any fighting at all. I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of Heroic Deeds, but if they came disguised as sneaking about and going home quickly if anyone spotted us, I’d consider it. Factor in my sense of responsibility and genuine desire to be back with people I actually liked, and I was in.

  So as the inn emptied of its clientele, all beetling off home to bar their doors and windows against rampaging goblins, and Sorrail galloped off to the White City carrying his lance and Renthrette’s all-too-sincere good wishes, I got what little money I had together and tried to drum up a few basic weapons. The innkeeper wasn’t thrilled with the idea of parting with anything that might help him against the demonic attackers which would soon come howling out of the night, but Sorrail had had a word with him, and a few extras had been found and set on the bar. Renthrette had got herself a hunting bow, a quiver of arrows, and a small shield to supplement her sword, but she was making do with a leather hood and corselet. What little metal armor there was in the area was being held onto, and our few silver pieces couldn’t loosen the owners’ grasps. I got a large round shield, about a yard across. It was oak, covered with reddish hide, and rimmed with copper. It was also heavy and old. With it came a one-handed axe
: not a weapon I was used to, but my skill with a sword was so meager it made little difference. The one real find was, inevitably, a crossbow: a two-handed thing bigger than the Cherrati toy I had wielded in Stavis, though nothing like the massive Scorpions we had mounted on the wagon back in Shale. It was slow and difficult to load, but had a hefty punch which might save my neck if I could aim the thing straight. It would, more importantly, keep the enemy at a distance. Briefly.

  I had, in a crazed moment, thought that a regular bow might be better, it being lighter and faster than the crossbow, but after an embarrassing experiment with Renthrette’s bow in which I came close to blinding several of the innkeeper’s family members, I decided to stick to what I knew. All these tales of marksmanship with a bow, splitting arrows at five hundred yards and such, are a lot of old horse manure. Renthrette could hang a plate on a barn and hit it at a hundred yards if she was composed and there was no wind. On a good day, I could hit the barn. The beauty of a crossbow is that, unlike with a regular bow, the stretching of the string, the aiming, and the firing are all quite separate actions. You bend over, brace the thing against the ground, and use your body weight to pull back and latch the cord. After that, casually and whenever the mood takes you, you slip an arrow in. Then, when you’re well rested and at one with the universe, you point it at something, put a little pressure on the trigger with one finger, and there you are: the hero of the hour. With the kind of bow Renthrette used, all those actions were pretty much simultaneous. I could do each one by itself, but put them all together and I turn into some kind of random death machine. That anyone can hold one of those things steady when it’s bent tight, let alone aim it, is a mystery to me. But I digress.

  The inn also boasted a two-handed sword with a hilt almost a yard across. It hung on a wall over the fireplace. I lifted it down and hefted it thoughtfully. It was a weighty piece, and the blade was as long as a spear and broad as my hand. I couldn’t see myself using anything so unwieldy, since I figured you’d need arms like tree trunks to brandish it effectively, but it had a kind of powerful menace and I wondered if a warrior who could carry such a terrifying weapon ever had to actually use it.