Maybe one more writing session for this mother-lover of a short story that’s now getting into novella territory. 12 freaking thousand words at this point. Geez.
I found pants. They weren’t my pants, but they were clean and fit – so what the hell, right? I was just grateful that Kragnor apparently collected boots, because mine were in his private sanctum, just waiting to be mounted to the wall along with all the others. Strike that: I was grateful and appalled.
Why were we in the sanctum? For the paperwork. Always grab important-looking paperwork on your way out of the impromptu overthrowing of a warlord’s regime – oh, yeah, the good people of Chillicothe figured out right away what happened when half the guards fell over dead. At least, that’s why I assumed all the nicer-looking buildings in the city were burning as we ducked out of Kragnor’s “palace” and headed west.
I figured the two of us could get away easily enough in the chaos, and I was right. There was one bravo who thought we looked like one of those mage-loving bastards, but I didn’t even slow down for him. Most people have to work themselves up to fight, you know what I mean? I don’t, which is why he ended up whimpering around the knife in his thigh as we left.
Wilkinson seemed still a little peeved that I had used him as a decoy, which would be fine as long as he got over it eventually. He still sneered, “What, no Raygun?”
“I had a knife.” In fact, I had three knives, a sword, and a shield that felt lighter than it should have been.
“You also have magic.” Wilkinson seemed very upset about that. I didn’t figure him for a mage-hater, but a lot of people are. Or maybe he just didn’t like that I had it, which was too bad for him.