It was all I could do to ignore him. He kept spewing out scattershot insults about everything and anything, regardless of whether it had any bearing on my life. He insulted my nonexistent wife, my deceased parents (as if they still lived), and my never-born offspring. Although, to be truthful, I was simply assuming that I had no offspring. It was entirely possible that somewhere out there, little Finns were running around who only had secondhand knowledge of their father courtesy of tales spun about me by their mothers. I suppose I could have checked back with all the women I’d slept with to see whether any of those trysts had borne fruit, but really, who has that kind of time?

Basically, he was just trying to get a rise out of me, and there was no way I was going to allow him to do so.

After several days of travel, I was feeling weary around midday and found a relatively secluded spot where I could grab a quick rest. I wasn’t the least concerned that something would sneak up on me and try to kill me. The gnome was having way too much fun hurling insults and he wasn’t about to allow the object of his dissection escape through the expedient of being slaughtered by a passing balverine or some such. I actually managed to fall asleep despite the harangues. When I awoke, the sun had moved a bit through the sky, indicating that at least a couple of hours had passed. I waited for the usual avalanche of snide comments from the gnome, but none were forthcoming.

“Maybe somebody shot it,” I said hopefully to the empty air.

I started walking, still braced for a flurry of insults.

Still nothing.

It seemed too good to be true, but after several more hours had passed, I was convinced. The gnome had tired of my lack of response and moved on to find more-easilyinflamed prey. My strategy had paid off.

Before I could celebrate my newfound freedom from the perpetual harassment of the gnome, I heard the thundering of hooves in the near distance, which surprised the hell out of me because it always seemed that there was never a horse in Albion when you needed one. Whoever it was was approaching very quickly. I had no idea who it could be, nor did I desire to find out. There were simply too many things that could go wrong in Albion to take for granted that someone wasn’t going to be out to get you.

To that end, I decided to dodge the issue entirely by heading into the woods themselves rather than sticking to the main road. It seemed a reasonable tactic to take. I could continue parallel to the road, especially if I stayed within sight of it, while at the same time making it impossible for casual passersby—not to mention would-be thieves or highwaymen—to spot me.

So I left the road, retreating into the woods until I could see the road but no one traveling it could spot me. The trees were far enough apart that passing between them posed no difficulties. It wasn’t as if I had to hack a path through them with my sword.

I watched from a safe distance as the riders I’d heard earlier rode past. They were cloaked in gray, their horses gorgeous white beasts. I didn’t know who they were or where they put their allegiance, but it didn’t matter. As long as they were no threat to me, I honestly didn’t care.

As the sounds of their mounts faded into the distance, I relaxed once more. Between my more secure way of traveling off the road and the absence of the gnome from my life, I began feeling as if a weight had been lifted from me. I walked with a new spring in my step. I even felt so jaunty that I startled to whistle. You would think that I would have known better than to draw attention to myself in that way, but no, apparently not.

Remember how I discussed just how distinctive the sound of a trigger being cocked is? How it can freeze you on the spot in anticipation of a shot being fired at you? As it so happens, I was no less vulnerable to such noises, especially when I heard it multiple times.

Such was the case on that occasion as at least half a dozen triggers were cocked into place from various points around me. Whoever it was, they were secure behind trees and bushes, and they clearly didn’t have my best interests at heart.

“Hello?” I called tentatively. I didn’t raise my hands because that was a bit too much of a defeatist posture for me to take. I had my pride, after all, as battered and shredded a thing as it might be. However, I took great care not to do anything even the slightest bit provocative. “May I help you?”

“Who goes there!” came a sharp voice, offering the traditional three-word question that was typical for military campsites and outposts. Hell, I’d uttered it enough times myself back when I was part of the Swift Brigade at Mourningwood Fort . . .

Then it came to me. The voice that had spoken sounded very familiar to me. Tentatively I called out, “Baron? Is that you?”

There was a brief and, I could tell, puzzled silence, and then the same voice came back to me, except far less formal and belligerent. “Finn? Ben Finn?”

“The very same.”

“I’ll be damned.” A young man emerged from the lengthening shadows of the forest. “God, Finn, I didn’t expect to see you here!” Then he raised his voice to his unseen companions. “Stand down, you idiots! It’s Ben Finn, Major Swift’s pride and joy, the gods rest his soul!”

“The gods rest his soul,” I repeated. I hated saying it because even after all this time, I despised the idea that Swift was dead; gunned down by the tyrannical Logan while I had stood there helpless to do anything to avert it.

Baron was a young soldier whom I had encountered in my travels. I’d first run into him during a bar brawl in Bloodstone. Some fool was coming in behind me, ready to crack my skull open with a bottle, and Baron had taken him down with a swift blow to the side of the head. “Not much for seeing people hit from behind,” said Baron, which wasn’t his actual name, by the way. It was just a nickname he’d picked up because he had a curious code of ethics that prompted many to liken him to a nobleman.

Thanks to his saving my skull, he’d earned my gratitude. Last time I’d seen him, we’d served together at Mourningwood Fort. Major Swift had dispatched Baron to try to bring up reinforcements from Silverpines, and I’d never seen him after that. I’d assumed that he’d been killed on the way, but obviously not. Turned out that by the time he’d gotten back, the battle with the hollow men was long over, and most of the remains of the Swift Brigade had decamped. “I was too little, too late,” Baron told me. “Sorry to have missed it. I bet it was a hell of a fight.”

“It was sure a hell of something,” I assured him, remembering the sight of monsters trying to overwhelm the Fort through sheer, terrifying numbers. It was there at Mourningwood Fort that I had first encountered the noble Hero who would become our ruler, and I—along with other members of the Brigade—had agreed to fight by our ruler’s side in the quest to rid Albion of Logan.

My obligations to the ruler had wound up separating me from most members of the Swift Brigade although I had caught glimpses of them in pitched battle against the dark forces that tried to overrun Bowerstone that fearsome day.

Now I was seeing more of them as, like Baron, they came out of the shadows and regarded me with a mixture of interest, suspicion, and even some hostility. I had no idea where such hostility might be coming from, but sometimes it seemed as if people needed no excuse to take a dislike to me. Hard to understand, I know. I’m normally such an utterly charming fellow.

“What’re the lot of you doing out here?” I said.

“Making camp. Come.” He gestured for me to follow. “We have a lot to talk about.”

We do? I thought, but saw no reason to say that aloud.

The rest of them had eased up the hammers on their weapons, so that was a positive thing. They weren’t planning to fill me with holes, or at least not yet they weren’t. Baron moved toward me and draped a friendly arm around my shoulder, telling me that it was good to see me and that I shouldn’t at all take offense at the fact that they’d all been pointing weapons at me earlier.

In short order, we arrived at an encampment. There were tents pitched and more soldiers, at least a dozen or so, cooking up food and throwing back drinks. A few of them afforded me brief, disinterested glances before returning to whatever they were doing.

I also saw several horses there as well. Most of them were old, tired-looking, and seemed as if they wanted nothing more than to get some rest. There was one, though, that was quite striking, and I remembered him from my time at the Fort. He was a proud, brown stallion named Clash, and there had been times where I stepped in to help with his grooming just because he was that magnificent an animal. I stared at Clash, and he looked back at me with what appeared to be full recognition. I might have been imagining it, but Clash seemed genuinely happy to see me.

“So these are the men you fetched back from Silverpines?” I said.

“Some of them are,” said Baron. “There were more; you’re looking at what remains after the battle of Bowerstone. Truth to tell, we’re really not much in the way of soldiers anymore.”

“Mercenaries, then?” I supposed I had no business sitting in judgment on someone else. Certainly I had done far more scurrilous things than being a mercenary in my time. Still, I was always something of a right bastard. I hated to see trained soldiers falling into disorganization and becoming swords and guns for hire. On the other hand, I suppose there are worse things that they could become and, as I said, who am I to judge?

“More or less.” Baron regarded me cautiously. “You disapprove?”

“Not for me to approve or disapprove. Although I don’t understand why you can’t simply join up with the soldiers who serve our leader. There’s always need for finely trained men-at-arms.”

“Funny you would mention arms,” came a gruff voice from nearby.

I looked over and was amazed. Considering I lived in a world populated by creatures of evil and darkness, it took quite a bit to amaze me, and yet there I was, amazed.

“Trevor?” I said.

Trevor it was, or at least a considerable portion of him. Trevor had been one of the soldiers at the Fort and had fought as valiantly as any man against the onslaught of the hollow men. He was a big bear of a man who favored using a battle hammer. I had thought he died in the course of the battle, but obviously that wasn’t the case, for there he was.

Unfortunately, the toll that the battle had taken upon him was obvious for all to see. He wouldn’t be wielding a hammer anytime soon, for he was absent his left arm. All that remained was a burned-away stump. It looked like someone had used an iron snatched out of a blacksmith’s furnace to cauterize the wound.

“Finn,” he replied, with a slight nod of his head and a growl in his voice. “So you’re still alive.”

“Not for lack of people trying to kill me.”

“Tell me about it,” he said ruefully. Another man would have inclined his head toward the missing limb by way of emphasis. Trevor did not do so. “So what the hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for something to keep me occupied. Any thoughts on the matter?”

Trevor didn’t respond immediately. Actually, he didn’t respond at all beyond staring at me as if I had just robbed his sister of her virginity. Then he turned away from me, strode over to the other side of the camp, and dropped down in front of a pot of what smelled like beans cooking.

I looked at Baron questioningly. He shrugged in response. “Trevor’s not the happiest of individuals.”

“I noticed that. Can’t say as I blame him.”

Evening fell, and I joined the mercenaries (I cannot even now find it within me to refer to them as “soldiers”) for their evening meal. The hunting had not been plentiful, but it hadn’t been scarce either. A wild boar was sizzling on the main spit, with a couple of rabbits that I suppose would have served as appetizers cooking on other fires. Ale was also flowing freely. I had no idea from where they’d acquired it although I suspected that it was not through what one might call honest means.

Conversation naturally turned to stories about Major Swift, who became bigger and bigger in the retelling. It wasn’t as if the real man wasn’t formidable enough, but there had never been the anecdote told that couldn’t be deftly exaggerated until the subject of it was near godlike in proportions.

“And so he just, calm as anything, takes his insignias off his uniform,” I was saying, “and lays them aside and says to this brute, who had to be drunk off his ass and about seven feet tall, the major, he says, ‘Okay. Now it’s not an officer and an enlisted man. Now it’s just man to man. Let’s see what you’ve got.’”

“How long did it take him to put the man down?” said Baron, leaning eagerly forward while chewing on a piece of overcooked boar meat. “Thirty seconds?”

“Eleven,” I said.

There were howls of doubt and more of laughter, and I put up a hand, and said, “I swear. I was there, and I timed it. Eleven seconds. And that was only because the major was toying with him.”

Trevor had been watching me the entire time, not having said a word to me since I first arrived. But by then, with the shadows embracing him and the ale loosening his tongue a bit, he finally spoke. “And why, exactly, should we listen to anything you have to say about Major Swift?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, the soldiers looking around at each other uncertainly. “Because I was there, Trevor,” I said.

“Yeah. You were. And you know when else you were there?” His voice was starting to rise. “When that bastard Logan killed him. You were there, and our ‘heroic’ ruler was there as well. And you both just stood there, the both of you utterly useless. Logan shot down the major, like a damned dog, just shot him down. And then”—and Trevor took another swig of his ale—“when there was an actual chance to get some vengeance—when Logan was called to account for his misdeeds—was there any real justice? No. Our beloved ruler gave him a free pass.”

“You think I was happy about that?” I said. “I was in favor of seeing Logan get the same treatment that he gave the major!”

“Yeah, but he didn’t. And what did you do? You continued to serve our bloody ruler, that’s what. That’s how much you cared about the major.”

“There were things that needed to be done, including defending Albion, in case you’ve forgotten,” I said.

He regarded me with open disdain, and said, “Some of us managed to accomplish that deed without tossing the major to the vultures.”

“Look, maybe we should just agree to disagree about this,” said Baron. He’d always fancied himself the peacemaker and a big believer in allies working together seamlessly instead of having disagreements. I appreciated the hopefulness of his thinking, but unfortunately it wasn’t always possible for the world to be that way.

“Do you think it was an easy decision for our ruler to make, sparing Logan?” I said.

“Royalty sticking together, covering each other’s backsides. Yeah, that’s never happened before,” said Trevor. Much to my annoyance, there was acknowledging laughter from some of the others.

“It had nothing to do with backside covering and everything to do with the fact that Logan had plenty of troops at his command. Troops who fought alongside ours when the land was overrun by the darkness. If Logan had been killed, do you think any of his soldiers would have fallen in line? No,” I said, before Trevor or anyone else could interrupt. “They would have dispersed. They would have been useless as a fighting force. Killing Logan would have done nothing to bring back the major, but it would have ensured that thousands more would have died.”

“Thousands of people that I don’t give a damn about,” said Trevor.

“Our ruler didn’t have the luxury of not caring about thousands of people. And maybe if it had been you who had become ruler, you might be seeing things a bit differently. Walking out in the public, under the eyes of all the people who depend on you. Yes. Yes, I think you might indeed see things differently.”

Trevor regarded me for a good, long time. The only sound to be heard in the encampment was the crackling of the cook fires. And then, finally, to my astonishment, he lowered his gaze and shrugged. “Perhaps.”

You have to understand that Trevor in an argument was like a dog with a bone in its mouth. Short of shooting him, he wasn’t inclined to let anything go. So for him to make such an admission was one hell of a concession. Rather than give voice to my astonishment, I just inclined my head slightly, and said, “All right, then.”

“All right, then,” said Trevor.

Baron was visibly relieved although a few of the men around looked disappointed. Perhaps they’d been interested in easing their boredom by watching an all-out brawl erupt. How tragic that they were destined for disappointment.

Eager to turn conversation in another direction before someone else took up the spear and threatened more trouble, I turned quickly to Baron, and said, “So do you have anything in particular you’re heading for at the moment? Anyplace that is in need of such an obviously formidable band as this?”

“Well,” said Baron, “there’s the problem at Black-holm . . .”

Immediately there were moans from the other soldiers, and shouts of, “Not that again!” and “Don’t start!”

I felt like I had wandered into the middle of a conversation that had been going on for some time. “Black-holm? I’m not sure I . . .”

Baron was clearly about to answer, but Trevor cut him off. “It’s a nothing town, situated about midway between Millfields and Silverpines. They’re having problems with some land grabber . . .”

“He’s not just a land grabber,” Baron said. “Droogan is anything but a land grabber. He’s a warlord—”

“A self-styled warlord,” Trevor shot back. “Just because you’ve got some men following you and you go around conquering towns that are too pitiful to stand up to you, that doesn’t make you a warlord. Droogan is a spoiled nobleman who is busy burning through his inheritance while playing at soldiering. He’s nothing. He’s no one. He’s not worth our time. It would be slumming for soldiers like us to bother with someone like him.”

I was able to read between the lines fairly easily. “Let me guess: The people of Blackholm don’t have much in the way of money. Specifically, money to pay for defenders.”

“That’s pretty much it,” said Baron, making no attempt to hide his annoyance with his fellow soldiers. “The fine gentlemen here don’t seem to feel that the residents of Blackholm are worth our time.”

“This isn’t a matter of opinion,” said Trevor. “They aren’t worth our time because our time costs money, and it’s money they don’t have.” He turned to me as if it was pointless to address Baron, and continued, “They’ve sent runners in all directions, asking for mercenaries to come and aid them in their fight against this Droogan idiot who wants to take over their town, take their land, take their animals and women and whatever else they might have. Mostly he’s been threatening to do it unless they give it over voluntarily. You know what that says to me?”

“That he’s weak?”

“That he’s weak!” Trevor said readily, and he thumped me on the shoulder in what he doubtless imagined was camaraderie. Me, I could practically feel the bruise forming already. “Yes, exactly. If he had the resources to take what he wanted, then he would just do it. So basically you’ve got a town with extremely limited financial resources in a battle against an arrogant poseur whose blood isn’t even worth spilling.” He turned toward Baron and addressed the comment to him since Baron had clearly been advocating that they take up the challenge. “You see why we’re not bothering with them?”

My mouth had been open, ready to reply, but those had not been my words. It was, however, an uncanny imitation of my voice.

Trevor’s head snapped around, and his eyes narrowed. All the anger that he had been displaying earlier but had managed to shut down was roaring back to life. “What did you say?”

I started to answer, but before I could: “Couldn’t understand a two-syllable word like ‘coward’?”

Instantly, I clapped my hands over my mouth. That turned out to be a mistake, because then they couldn’t see that my lips weren’t moving. So they had to depend on what they heard, and what they heard was, “You sure are a big strong hero . . . for a lady! Is this your sewing circle?”

I tried to salvage the situation, tried to say, “It’s not me! I’m not saying this!” But it was too late. Trevor roared in fury, and none of the others sounded much happier. Most of them had been fairly indifferent to me; only one had genuinely been glad to see me. Furthermore, the lot of them had been drinking, and nothing makes one quick to react to insult like liquor.

Trevor lunged at me, and the only thing that saved me was the fact that he had no left arm because it gave me somewhere to go. I darted to his left, avoiding the sweep of his right arm, and he stumbled forward directly into the campfire.

He cried out in pain and immediately several of the soldiers went to him to help haul him clear. Several others, meantime, came straight at me. I was outnumbered, and there was no way I wanted any part of the fight, particularly since I wasn’t the one who had instigated it.

A branch extended overhead. I leaped straight up for it, grabbing it and swinging my legs up and out so that I just managed to clear the heads of my attackers. I let the momentum of the swing carry me so that I landed just beyond them. They quickly corrected course and came right after me. Given the opportunity, there was no doubt in my mind that they would have caught me and pounded me into the ground.

So, obviously, it was in my best interests to not give them that opportunity.

Clash, that impressive and magnificent stallion, was just ahead of me, tethered to a tree. I sprinted up behind him and vaulted onto his back from behind. He let out a startled whinny, and I said, “It’s me, big fella.”

Meanwhile “my” voice was shouting, “The ladies must really love you lot! Do you share makeup tips and trade shoes?”

This did nothing to get me into their good graces.

There was no point in trying to explain. The combination of the harassment that my mouth seemed to be expelling like vomit and the fact that they’d been tossing back ale fairly heavily wasn’t conducive to their being reasonable. I pulled out my sword, and they fell back a moment, doubtlessly concerned I was about to use it on them.

Instead, I sliced through the rope that was keeping Clash tied to the tree. It parted easily enough, and Clash reared up, pounding the air with his hooves and whinnying even louder than before. He certainly sounded happy to be free of his bonds.

Gripping the reins tightly, I wheeled the horse around and dug my heels in, shouting, “Yah!” because “Giddyap” was just so cliché. The only one who might have been willing to put his body between Clash’s thundering hooves and my route out of there would have been Trevor, and he was busy snuffing out the last of the flames on his clothing. I caught a brief glimpse of Baron’s distressed expression, then we were out of the clearing.

I couldn’t open up the horse for a full gallop because it was dark, we were in the forest, and there was no clear path. But at least it wasn’t a particularly dense forest, and I was able to maneuver Clash through it quickly. I heard the sounds of pursuit behind me, but Clash had four legs to their two, and it was just fast enough to stay ahead of them. Less than a minute later we made it to the main road, and that was when all the chasing in the world was reduced to irrelevancy. They shouted from behind, and I heard a gun or two go off in what amounted to little more than futile gestures. Clash had seized his freedom with all four hooves. Well, not actually seized per se since he had no opposable thumbs, but he clasped it firmly in . . .

Never mind. Let’s just say that Clash was happy to have a chance to be unrestrained.

He literally hit the ground running, his hooves chewing up the dirt, the road hurtling past.

I snapped the reins, urging him on, and he was all too happy to comply. The shouts of the soldiers faded into the distance as Clash pounded down the road although I was happy to hear the words, “Which way did he go?” floating behind me. Anything that added to the difficulty of their following us was fine with me. There was no other horse back at the encampment that had a fraction of Clash’s energy and power.

I also knew how the soldiers’ minds worked. It wasn’t as if I had shot any of them or in some substantive way had done them damage that required vengeance. Instead, from their point of view, I had hurled insults at them, then run away in a thoroughly cowardly fashion. They would decide that such a craven bastard as I wasn’t worth the effort that pursuit would take. Instead, they would return to their encampment and say all manner of derogatory things about me, none of which I would hear or care about in the least.

Sadly, it would never occur to them that I hadn’t really thrown about any insults at all.

“That damn gnome,” I snarled between gritted teeth, as Clash continued to gallop down the road.

“What about me?” came a hideously familiar voice from directly behind me.

Instantly, I reined up, causing a bewildered Clash to skid to a stop with such force that another horse might have upended. Clash remained upright, and I barely managed to hold on, slamming up against the back of his head. His mane got in my mouth and I spat out bits of it.

Happily, the gnome, who had perched on the horse’s rump, was thrown completely clear. He tumbled through the air ass over teakettle several times before hitting the ground and bouncing several more times before rolling to a halt against a tree. Amazingly, his pointed hat remained firmly on his head.

He scrambled to his feet, sputtering in indignation. “Well! I like that!”

“I know I certainly did.” Regaining my proper posture atop the horse, I said, “You disappeared, and you stopped talking. I thought you were gone.”

“Of course you did. That’s what I wanted you to think although in your case I use the word ‘think’ in the broadest possible way,” the gnome retorted. “I was getting bored with your ignoring me. So I figured I’d wait for just the right time.”

“Why didn’t I see you in the camp?”

“I was hiding above.”

“But . . . my voice . . . it sounded like it was coming out of my mouth . . .”

“You never heard of being able to throw your voice? Although if I’d really wanted to be accurate, I would have made you sound like you were talking out your arse.”

“And the imitation . . . it was perfect.”

“That was no great trick,” said the gnome, waving dismissively. “All I did was squeeze my legs tightly together so I’d sound like a castrato. Naturally, that sounded just like you.”

I was finally fed up. “What the hell is your problem, anyway? You, with your endless insults and your stirring up trouble. I don’t understand the point of what you’re doing.”

“Point? The point is, I hate humans.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re so damned full of yourselves.” He swaggered toward me. “Acting like you’re so much better than everyone and everything else. Look at you. Without your guns, your swords, your knives, without all that, you’re nothing. Hobbes, hollow men, balverines, countless other beings that crawl or walk or slither their way across Albion . . . even the least of them can destroy the best of you if you don’t have your precious weapons with you. What gives you the right to exist at all?”

“Maybe the fact that we can conceive and create those ‘precious weapons’ is the thing that makes us better. Did you ever consider that?”

“No,” said the gnome flatly. “They’re just the defenses you came up with in order to compensate for your own inadequacy.”

“Maybe. And maybe the same can be said of your endless insults and hostility. Seems to me you have your own inadequacies that you’re compensating for.”

The gnome made a rude noise. “You certainly enjoy talking about feelings. How about I lead you to a nice big pile of gold? You can use it to buy some handbags and other nice things that ladies like.”

I regarded him thoughtfully. I might well have been imagining it, but I could have sworn that, just before he delivered more of the same insults, there had been a hesitation in his voice. As if I had struck home with the comment about compensating for inadequacies, but naturally he would never allow himself to admit it.

I suppose that, after everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve seen, there should be something of the cynic in me. I had seen evil thrive and prosper. I had seen good triumph on occasion, but typically at great cost. Those filled with innocence died at the hands of those filled with vice, and the latter oftentimes went unpunished while the former remained unavenged. There were times when I wondered what indeed the point of anything was, and I had come to realize that sometimes you really had to work hard to find it.

Plus, I realized that somewhere along the way I’d started thinking of the gnome as a “he” instead of an “it.”

“You want to come along?” I said abruptly, and even had to double-check myself to make sure that I myself had actually spoken.

The gnome looked surprised. It was the first emotion I’d seen on his face that wasn’t related to hostility. He covered it quickly as his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Come along where?”

“To Blackholm,” I said carelessly. “You heard. They could use some help over there.”

“Help?” he said with disdain. “From you? A virtuous hero, perhaps? Is that what you fancy yourself? People love a virtuous hero. You know why? Because people are idiots. That’s why I hate them.”

“Well, then, just think: If you come along with me, you’ll have plenty of people to shower all that hatred upon. As opposed to here, where you wait for random travelers to come along so you can have your brief amusements.”

“That’s true,” said the gnome thoughtfully. Then he seemed to catch himself. “What’s it to you? Why are you suddenly inviting me to come with you instead of riding as hard and fast as you can to leave me behind? What, you don’t think you can change my way of thinking, do you? Is that what this is about? Some disgusting, noble notion to salvage the evil, cranky gnome? Is that what you’re on about? Or . . . I know! Because you’re a woman, you think like a woman, which means you’re a contrary little thing. You figure that if you try to leave me behind, I’ll conspire to come along just out of perverse spite. But if you ask me to come along, then you figure I won’t. Idiot. Did you think I was born yesterday?”

“I’m honestly not sure when you were born. I hadn’t given it any thought. When were you born?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“Fine,” I said with a shrug. “So . . . I’m leaving now. Are you coming or not?”

I could actually see his internal struggle reflected in his exterior. He was physically swaying, like a tree in the wind, except in his case the winds were coming from within him.

“You know,” I continued, “if you did come along now, there’s nothing to stop you from departing anytime you want.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” said the gnome, which was probably as close as he would ever come to saying I was right about something. He took one step and leaped, covering the distance between the two of us with one effortless bound. He landed on Clash’s rump and Clash made a small noise of protest. He obviously didn’t like the gnome one bit. Who could blame him?

“Do you have a name?” I said.

The gnome twisted his head at a full ninety-degree angle and stared at me. “You can’t be serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious. Do you have a name?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Fine. Keep it to yourself.”

“You trying to get all friendly with me? Maybe we should braid each other’s hair next.”

“Do you even have hair under that hat?”

“You know the main reason I’m coming along?” said the gnome. “It’s so I can be there when you die.”

“Everybody has to be somewhere,” I said with a shrug, and snapped the reins. Clash, apparently relieved for the opportunity to finally get going, started off down the road and in short order was galloping at full speed in the direction of Blackholm. At least I hoped that was where we were heading. All I had was a general idea of where it was geographically in relation to two other regions.

Yet another reason not to be a cynic. Sometimes, hope is the only thing we have to keep us going.