The New Hero: Volume 1

by ed. Robin D. Laws

He still doesn’t see who he needs to see.

  The table in the back, that’s where he should be. But the table—a round table for eight ill-concealed behind a dark screen woven of bird bones and cat-gut—is empty.

  The boss isn’t here.

  The rest of the goblins are all over him. Like cats on a beached whale.

  He sees the maître-de crawling away—the gobbo’s back legs don’t work anymore since his spine met a flung chair. Wearing a coat of biting, clawing, hacking goblins (with blood now streaking his legs and pattering against the floor), Mookie reaches down and rescues the maître-de in a meaty grip, and holds the monster’s face close to his own. He smells the rank breath, breath born of old blood and rotting skin. It makes him want to throw up.

  But he chokes it back down.

  ‘The boss,’ Mookie says. A goblin bites off the bottom of his ear. He shakes his head like a dog with an infection and flings the goblin skyward. The maître-de squeals and belches and tries to wriggle free, but then Mookie uses that voice: ‘Where is the boss?’

  The goblin doesn’t answer him, but doesn’t have to. Its wide, round eyes—eyes ill-contained by their mushy sockets—dart for half-a-second toward the kitchen.

  That’s where they’re hiding him.

  That’s where Mookie will find the boss.

  He headbutts the maître-de into a putrescent pulp. Then Mookie ducks low, doing a squat thrust that grinds his bones against one another—when he rises again, he does so with great speed like a great white shark breeching, and he pivots hard, casting the carpet of goblins crawling all over him to the far shadows of the restaurant.

  Then, with heavy boots and a hateful heart, he stomps toward the kitchen.

  ***

  The boss is bigger than all the others. The gobbo bosses always are—they’re more than bosses. They’re fathers. (Like you, Mookie tells himself. Ugly monster poppas, don’t know how to keep track of their goddamn kids. Do their kids push them around, too? Like the old TV show asks: ‘Who’s the boss?’) Fat bellies pregnant with egg sacs and sulfur-stink placentas—this belly in particular stuffed into an faded green smoking jacket, the fabric eaten by moths. Like a tumor swaddled in patchy moss.

  The boss gurgles around Mookie’s fist: ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you hurt my daughter.’

  ‘I did no such thing!’ The monster’s words punctuated by burps and blorps.

  ‘One of you sold her poison.’

  ‘But not me!’

  ‘You’re all a tribe. You’re a pox. And you’re done in this city.’

  The thing’s noodle-tongue flails out of its mouth, licks the air. Mookie pulls his head away—that thing finds purchase, it’ll hurt. Could suck the eye right out of his head.

  ‘We’ll be back,’ the thing croons.

  ‘And I’ll be here,’ he says, not really sure if that’s true. He thinks the bullets stuck in his back might’ve hit something important. And he’s losing a lot of blood (though he has a lot of blood to lose, so that’s good.)

  He grabs the goblin boss’s whipping tongue, then pulls it taut. Mookie wraps it tight around the creature’s bulging throat and yanks hard.

  The creature’s gray skin goes blue, then purple.

  Its eyes go dead, then turn dry in their sockets. Like grapes off the vine, in the sun.

  ***

  By now, Mookie’s got that low-blood-sugar feeling—the Blue Blazes haven’t worn off, not yet, but they will in a couple hours. He’s on the tail-end of this thing. He’s also got that low-blood feeling, probably because a lot of it has leaked out.

  The nurses here in the hospital all look at him in his blood-streaked horror. Like they want to say something, like they want to get him into a bed, but are too afraid.

  He stomps past them, doesn’t give ’em a chance.

  In the hospital room, Bentley sleeps. Nora’s nowhere to be found. Mookie has a sinking feeling. He snaps his sausage fingers right by Bentley’s ear: it sounds like a stick breaking over someone’s knee. The kid’s eyelids flutter and shoot open.

  ‘Nora,’ Mookie says. ‘Where is she?’

  The kid tries to speak, but only croaks out a dry crackle.

  Mookie grabs a glass of water and shoves it against the kid’s mouth and dumps some into his foodhole. Bentley coughs, tries not to drown, spits some of it out.

  ‘Jesus!’ the kid cries.

  ‘Good. You can talk. Nora. Nora. I want to know where Nora is.’

  Bentley’s eyes go wide. Pupils telescope to tiny inkspots. He’s scared.

  ‘Nora,’ Bentley whispers.

  ‘What about her?’

  Then he says something that chills Mookie’s bones. Something Mookie doesn’t understand. Not yet.

  ‘Keep her away from me!’ the kid says, almost gibbering. ‘She’s not here, is she? Oh, god. Oh, god. Don’t tell her where I am.’

  Mookie staggers away from the bed. He feels thunderstruck but still doesn’t know why. He can’t put it together.

  Bentley feels at his head, feels the fresh bandage there.

  ‘She did this!’ he cries. ‘She did this to me! Oh, God, I loved her…’

  ***

  Back at the bar.

  Mookie wants a drink, and he wants some meat. He thinks—shot of Tito’s vodka, some slices of Prosciutto de Parma, then maybe back into the freezer to hack some of the mold off some pig flesh. Just to clear his head. Just to think this through.

  But someone’s already inside.

  Werth. Sitting at the same table they were earlier.

  ‘Goddamnit,’ Mookie says, storming over. ‘I didn’t give you keys which means you broke in, which means I’m going to have to break you—’

  ‘I didn’t break in,’ Werth says, turning a slow head toward the rampaging bull, and as Mookie reaches in to grab Werth by the face, he sees—

  The old goat—literally, he’s an old goat, a chin-whiskered satyr with that milky cataract and the gray tooth, but that’s not the surprising part as Mookie has long known who Werth was—has been gut-shot. His lap is soaked with blood. His hands weakly hold onto the table’s edge as if, were he to let go, he might spiral off into death’s hungry maw.

  ‘Werth. Christ.’

  ‘I told you somebody new was in town,’ Werth says with a dry chuckle. He taps a goat’s hoof against the concrete floor. ‘I just didn’t know it was her.’

  ‘Her,’ Mookie says, still not getting it until she comes out of the kitchen, into the bar.

  Nora.

  No.

  No.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  She shrugs, then says, ‘Yes, actually. Me.’ Her voice isn’t her own—except, truthfully, Mookie realizes it is her own. The voice before, the mouse squeak, the bird’s peep, that was the lie. He remembers something said about a school play. I wasn’t good at acting. Itself an act. No. A lie. She played him. Again.

  Nora points the gun—a .38 snubnose—and cocks the hammer.

  ‘You’re a loser,’ Nora says. ‘Always were, dear old Daddy.’

  He shrugs. ‘Can’t argue with you there. So shoot me.’

  ‘You’re like this… this meat,’ she says, ignoring his command and instead gesturing toward an old cutting board of left-out sausages. ‘You are truly an acquired taste. Did you know that?’

  ‘Thought you loved me.’

  ‘You left us. And you were never nice.’

  ‘Not nice. But I was good to you. And you didn’t care.’

  She laughs. A sound without mirth. ‘Is that what you call it? I do what I have to do to survive. Like you. I just happen to be a lot smarter is all.’

  ‘I love you, Nora.’

  ‘And I love you, too.’ A long sigh. ‘It’s why I’m not going to kill you.’

  He puffs out his prodigious chest. He slaps at it: it sounds like he’s punching a side of beef. ‘Shoot me. Just do it. I deserve it, probably.’

  ‘Probably. Still, no. You did me a solid today. You’re like this gun. I p
ointed you toward my enemies and you wiped them clean: one brutish arm across the table and suddenly the path is clear. See, I’m in the business. I’m the new girl in town. I got a supply of Blue Blazes and I’m ready to sell. The gobbos had risen up of late. Increased numbers. The gray-skins were in my way. They and your old masters had the market share. I knew Daddy would do anything for his baby’s love and so… here we are.’ She shrugs, then assures him: ‘You did a good thing. Ended their uprising. And now the goblins know my strength. Sure, they’ll be back. Except this time, they’ll work for me.’

  ‘I can’t let that happen.’

  ‘You will. This is an old pattern, Daddy Dearest. You’re my dancing bear.’

  He snarled. ‘I’ll kill every last gobbo that does your bidding.’

  ‘I know. And I don’t care because you won’t kill me and the world will always make more monsters.’ She emerges from behind the bar. ‘All you do is destroy.’

  ‘Not true. I cook.’

  Snort. ‘I’d rather eat at Sgradevole’s, thanks.’

  This hurts him most of all.

  Nora looks her father over. ‘You should really go to a doctor. I assume you have one. I know this isn’t the first time you’ve been worked over like this.’

  ‘No. But this is pretty bad.’ He feels sad. Confused. ‘But I got a guy. Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, Daddy. You know, you could work for me. Forget the Old Goat—I don’t even think he’s going to survive. I’ll pay. Even better than whatever that old goat was giving you.’

  His hands curl into fists. ‘I could punch the head off your shoulders, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. Smiling sweetly. ‘But you won’t. Because I’m your little girl and because inside that scarred-up crater-marked fat-and-gristle chest of yours is a heart as sweet and tart as a cranberry. I am me and you are you and nothing changes.’

  She reaches up on her tippy-toes and kisses his chin (she cannot manage to stand any taller than that without a step ladder.)

  With that, she leaves. Disappearing into darkness. Door closing gently behind.

  Mookie staggers over to the bar, sits down. He pours himself a vodka and eats some old meat. The Blazes fade, now. The electric fire at the edges of his eyes gutters and goes out. He feels deflated. He sucks down the vodka and keeps him going: fire for the furnace.

  Werth groans. ‘You gonna call me a doctor?’

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘I’m fucking bleeding like a twice-stuck pig over here.’

  ‘So am I.’ Blood is wet on the floor. ‘You’re a tough old goat.’

  For a little while, Werth is quiet. Except for the gurgling wheezes. And the occasional sniffle as he sucks a blood bubble back up his nose. ‘So you gonna do it, then? Go work for her?’

  ‘Nope.’ He doesn’t have to think about it.

  ‘But she’s your daughter.’

  ‘And you’re my boss. I got gobbos, and God only knows what else, to kill. No matter who they work for.’

  Werth coughs. It’s wet. Rattling. ‘So. The same ol’, same ol’, then.’

  ‘Mm,’ Mookie says, and pulls the cutting board closer.

  Sundown in Sorrow’s Hollow

  Monte Cook

  Duncan’s ears perked up. He growled at the sorcerer. A good length of Eradian rope bound Nihilan’s hands, ensuring that he could work none of his necromancy, but that did not keep the stalwart canine from watching the prisoner with a suspicious eye.

  ‘Easy, boy,’ Iona said. ‘He won’t cause any more trouble. Isn’t that right?’ The last remark was aimed at Nihilan, but she of course expected no answer, due to the gag in his mouth.

  You can never be too careful with his kind, thought Iona.

  Iona sat astride her roan, Lotus, with Nihilan’s rope lashed to the saddle. She pushed her brimmed hat back so that it dangled behind her neck by its leather cord. Long, reddish brown tresses spilled from her head. She heard Duncan through the psilence, but didn’t bother to answer him directly. Instead she just smiled. A normal dog wouldn’t be able to interpret such a gesture, but Duncan was a soulbound companion, far from a normal animal.

  And as a Soulbound Knight, Iona was no ordinary woman.

  Iona and Duncan escorted Nihilan to the nearby city of Duralo. The Imperial Marshals there could put the criminal sorcerer on an airship for his trial in the capital for demon trafficking. Their destination was still days away. Already the man had tried to escape twice.

  Nihilan was fair skinned, but he dyed his hair and beard as black as the depths of the vast glacial lake they now circumvented. His clothes were tattered and dusty from the road, but once were black as well. Inappropriate silks and thick velvets that Iona knew must have been warm and uncomfortable as he walked behind her horse.

  She didn’t smile at the thought, but she almost did.

  Nihilan’s people, the Uquanath, might show up at any time to stage a rescue, so Iona knew they had to keep a steady pace. With Duncan watching over their charge, she pressed onward.

  The thick deciduous woods around the glassy lake grew dark as the sun settled behind the western mountains. With only its pale glow showing over the peaks, Iona figured they had about an hour of usable light left, maybe a little less. She wanted to get at least three miles behind them, and the road was rough.

  Their path took them away from the lake’s edge and down into a shallow ravine. A weathered signpost read ‘Sorrow’s Hollow’. She’d never heard of it, and didn’t remember seeing it on the map. Little towns out here on the frontier were like seeds blowing in the wind: some survived, and some disappeared without anyone’s knowledge. Sorrow’s Hollow, if it was a settlement at all, was as likely as not a small collection of long-abandoned buildings filled with nothing more than cobwebs and nesting birds. She’d seen such places before.

  The illused path down into the vale confirmed her suspicions. No one had come this way in quite some time. Nihilan mumbled something behind his gag. She ignored him.

  Duncan growled. He perked his ears and the light brown fur on the back of his neck rose.

  Eventually, she could see a few buildings ahead in the fading light. To her surprise, a few people milled about as well, finishing the day’s tasks and heading for their homes.

  Sorrow’s Hollow still lived.

  Iona rode straight into town with the confidence befitting her station. The men and women within sight stopped where they stood and stared. A young boy ran off into one of the houses.

  Like so many frontier towns, Sorrow’s Hollow appeared to be centered about a large wooden church. Atypically, however, it appeared to be the building in town in the state of least repair.

  Iona dismounted and shot Nilihan a warning look. The man said nothing. He barely moved. But his stare conveyed a lifetime’s worth of contempt.

  Watch him, Iona told Duncan.

  I will.

  None of the folk of Sorrow’s Hollow made any attempt at a greeting. Iona didn’t hesitate, however. ‘My name is Iona. I belong to the Order of Soulbound Knights. I need to speak with the local reeve.’

  No one stirred.

  ‘Please don’t make me repeat myself,’ she said, wondering if maybe these were settlers of some ethnic group who didn’t speak Navarene. It was rare, but it happened. It might even explain the town’s isolation.

  Finally, a woman in a work dress faded into gray and a floppy brown hat took a few steps forward. ‘Ain’t got no reeve. Ain’t needed one.’

  Iona nodded. ‘All right, then. Who’s in charge here?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Ain’t got no mayor or headman here, neither. Ain’t to our liking. When decidin’ what need be done, we all take an equal hand.’

  ‘All right then,’ Iona repeated. ‘Then all of you that can hear, listen to me. This man is a dangerous criminal. I need a place to tie him down. I need food for my horse and a place to sleep. I won’t ask you for anything else. But I do and truly need your aid in this, in the name of the T
welve Immortal Navarene Emperors.’

  Now a man stepped forward. He wore denim and flannel. His veinous nose dominated his worn face. ‘Don’t have many come here and toss around names and such. Not for many a year. We ain’t strangers to hospitality, I suppose, but what kind of man have you brung into our midst?’

  ‘Don’t concern yourselves with that,’ Iona replied. ‘I’ll see to him. So will Duncan.’ She nodded toward the hound. ‘Can I assume that you’ve heard of soulbound companions out here?’

  Many of those listening to her looked to the dog, and then back to her. A smattering of them nodded, a few with a touch of respect in their eyes. Even in the most remote corners of the frontier, most had heard of the Soulbound Knights, their prowess, and the capabilities and intelligence of their psychically linked canine companions.

  The woman said, ‘We’ll find you a place, some food, and some water. Can’t offer you much more.’

  Iona nodded. ‘I’m grateful. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m called Claris.’

  The man added, ‘You’ll be leaving in morn’s light, though?’

  ‘I will.’

  The folk of Sorrow’s Hollow provided Iona, Duncan, and their charge a shed of gray boards half-filled with grain. Lotus remained outside. Duncan told the horse not to stray far and, like all normal animals, it understood his psilent speech and did as it was told.

  Iona tethered Nihilan to a post in the middle of the shack. After gulping down some of the bread, cheese, and sliced pork they’d been provided, Duncan volunteered to take first shift keeping watch over the captive. Iona didn’t bother with her bedroll. She instead just made a surprisingly comfortable bed in the grain.

  She kicked off her boots, placed her gunbelt next to her and waited for sleep. Iona mused to herself what Justan, her mentor, would have said about the importance of her pistols as opposed to say, her boots. You are a knight, Iona, he would say. Your weapon is a sword, no matter what shape it appears to have. A holy blade, always pointing to the future.

  Iona awoke to the sound of Duncan’s barks. Even as she briefly passed through that region between sleep and wakefulness, she realized that the barking was coming from far too far away.

  White moonlight filtered in between the boards in the roof and walls. Nihilan wasn’t there. She leapt instantly out of her makeshift bed. The door to the shed hung open, and she ran out without even putting on her boots or belt. Both of her Karrath-Ultcher pistols were in her hands, however. The silver of their long barrels glinted in the light.