Little was said among the caravan on the remainder of our journey. Each of us had our own demons to struggle against.
Guardian.
The title seemed to hang off me like a noose. You could call it a coincidence the first time I faced off against one of the ancient creatures. Now, with two notches in my gun belt, I had a feeling more Firsts would show up in my life. More monsters. More death.
What could one man do against the titanic forces of long dead monsters? The idea seemed ludicrous.
I stood along the last stretch and watched my column pass. Jagged peaks of the mountains rose from behind us. To the north the Kulshan volcano dominated the skyline, smoke rising from its crater.
Samantha pulled aside the gearwain and descended to stand next to me and watch the refugees from Methow move past. Smiles now occupied faces that had stared out hopelessly on our initial arrival.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said.
I smiled. “I’ve been thinking.”
“About?” Samantha asked.
“Curwen calling me ‘Guardian’ and what that means—what that really means. When Black gave me the title it had seemed a curse. Dictated by his screwed up ritual. Those around me were destined to become victims. I think Curwen was using it in the same way.”
“But you aren’t,” Samantha said, her voice sharp and pleasing in the cool morning air. “In both cases you brought about the destruction of the creatures who tried to use you. You were willing to sacrifice yourself to stop them.”
“I don’t know any other way…” I admitted.
“That's clear. You rush into things. You don’t listen to others. You’re lucky you escaped with only a few more scars this time.”
I frowned.
“It scares me, Wal. It scares me so much, my only option is pull away. I can’t see you waltzing into danger every chance it presents itself.”
She looked me in the eye. “I know… how you feel. How you have always felt. But you need to know that I can’t respond in kind. I’ve been down that path. I won’t do it again.”
“I…”
…had nothing.
I closed my mouth. Samantha was right. She gave me a sad smile and rubbed my upper arm.
My stomach interrupted, growling loudly and Samantha laughed. The tension eased. I smiled a sad smile.
“I was wondering when the famous ravenous hunger of Waldo Emerson Bell would rear its head.”
Smiling, I said, “I need to inspect some of the Methow refugees’ wains. Save a spot for me at the laager? Taft says she’s making something special for our last night on the trail.”
“You got it,” said Samantha, standing on her toes to give me a friendly peck on the cheek. A promise—I hoped—that things between us could get back to normal.
But her words haunted me.
I watched her climb back atop the gearwain and glide on with the narrow column. Her dark hair shone in the sunlight and swayed with the roll of the road as the gearwain clattered along.
When she disappeared among the crowd I turned back to my vigil. Could I promise things would be okay? That if the opportunity presented itself I wouldn’t rush in—heedless of the advice of friends—to stop what I felt needed to be stopped?
Along the hillside, a gargoyle stood observing the column. A scratch of black among the verdant greens of the trees and the slate grays of granite. I had been seeing them for a few days now, their tall hoods appearing among the hills and ridges as the column passed, silently observing us as they carried their messages.
If they were still active that meant more Firsts had returned. More of those creatures, so hungry for destruction. Moving along the surface of the world. The stage.
Wensem, Hannah and I had decided to say nothing to the rest of the caravan about the gargoyles. We were two days from Lovat, its spires clear and bright to the south. Besides, the messengers were helpless, impotent, weren’t they? It was their masters we needed to be worried about.
As I watched the gargoyle something else stirred inside of my chest. The Broken Road was coming to its end. Tonight would be our last laager, the refugees would disperse and Bell Caravans would return to its caravansara in Lovat.
For me, battle lines were beginning to be laid down. Unseen forces were maneuvering into place and it was very clear which side of the line I stood on.
There, on the last few miles of the old Broken Road, I realized, I had a long way to go before the end.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing, much like caravan travel, is a journey. You don’t set out alone. Just like Wal, there is a whole company of folks I need to thank.
First, my partner in all this, my wife, Kari-Lise. She is there to read every draft of every chapter immediately after I finish, to give great feedback, and to push me to be better every damn day. I could not do this without you, and these books would suffer without your input, encouragement, and advice.
Next, I’d like to thank my long-suffering editor Lola Landekic who has made this book what it is. Your patience, perseverance, and sheer will in dealing with my shoddy drafts should earn you a medal, or many medals. All the medals.
A huge thanks to Jon Contino, yet again. Without your skills, the cover of Old Broken Road would feature some freeware chalkboard font, and no one wants that. Your attention to detail, care, and professionalism shows through. I’m glad to work with you.
One more time, special thanks in particular to my friend Josh Montreuil who listens to my raving. I couldn’t have written book one without you, and the same goes for book two.
Obviously, I need to thank my caravan, my crew of beta-roaders who offer insight, feedback, and opinions as I work though those first—and very rough—drafts: Ben Vanik, Brittany Bintliff, J. Rushing, Kelcey Rushing, Lauren Sapala, Sky Bintliff, and Sarah Steininger. I can’t thank you enough. Thanks for giving me your time and energy.
And of course, a big thank you to my readers. I do this for you. All you amazing folks who read The Stars Were Right and now Old Broken Road. I hope it lived up to your expectations. Thanks for your support. Thanks for taking a chance on an indie author. Thanks for loving these stories as much as I do. You make it worth it.
Finally, B3S. Magna voce ridere æterna. We do this together.
K. M. ALEXANDER is a Pacific Northwest native and novelist living and working in Seattle, Washington with his wife and two dogs. Old Broken Road is his second novel. You can follow his exploits at blog.kmalexander.com.
The Guardian will return in:
Red Litten World
Coming Soon
Old Broken Road Page 27