service message from your narrator.) Since he was unable to distinguish between sorcery and science, Mick was convinced that Brewster’s knowledge of the thaumaturgic arts was quite extensive. Robie McMurphy was equally impressed, but no one was more overwhelmed than Bloody Bob, for in loaning him his glasses-or, as Bloody Bob put it, his “magic visor”-Brewster had temporarily restored to him his sight. As it happened, while Brewster’s prescription lenses were not exactly right for Bloody Bob, they did improve his vision significantly. Of course, in Bloody Bob’s case, just about anything short of a blindfold would have been a significant improvement.
Now, while Bloody Bob was not the brightest brigand in the forest, by any stretch of the imagination, he was undoubtedly the biggest and the strongest. In his younger days, he had been a very famous warrior, feared and respected throughout all the twenty-seven kingdoms. However, that was a long time ago and people have short memories. (Just ask Mark Spitz.) The days when Bloody Bob was eagerly sought after by every kingdom and dukedom and offered substantial salaries, profit sharing, great benefits, and Beltane bonuses were long gone and now only the old-timers remembered who he was. And most of them thought that he was dead. He wasn’t dead, but he had foolishly neglected to put anything aside for his retirement. This meant he had to work. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much work available for a man his age (which was probably around sixty or so, he wasn’t sure himself), nor for a man who couldn’t see the broad side of a barn, much less hit it.
This dearth of employment opportunities had left him with few options. He had tried working as a bouncer in a series of seedy little taverns, but due to his failing eyesight, he kept bouncing the wrong people and was, in turn, bounced himself (which resulted in a number of taverns being forced to close down temporarily for renovation). Bob had slowed down some in his old age, and he couldn’t see well, but he was still as strong as an elephant and he angered quickly and easily. Pretty soon, word got around and no one wanted to hire this nearsighted, albeit highly dangerous, old man. So, having run out of options, Bloody Bob turned to a life of crime.
He fell in with the Forest Brigands (back when they still made their headquarters in the forest) and finally found a situation where his abilities were properly appreciated. It wasn’t a great job, but it was okay. There wasn’t very much money to be made in the brigand trade, at least, not until Black Shannon took over and brought her managerial skills to the operation, but Bob was able to get by and he enjoyed the camaraderie.
Brigands have always been, by nature, a rather roughand-tumble lot, and many of them were ex-warriors like Bob, who were getting on in years, so they were able to trade lots of old war stories. (In some cases, they’d fought for opposing sides, but it was only business, so no one had any hard feelings.) The younger brigands were generally warrior wannabe types who’d failed to make the grade for one reason or another, but they knew enough to show proper respect to the old troopers. (And if they didn’t, they generally learned fairly quickly.) So, all things considered, Bloody Bob was pretty happy with his lot in life. He could have done much worse. However, his failing eyesight had been a source of considerable anguish to him. (Imagine how you’d feel if you could once bend a longbow and hit the bull’s-eye every time from a hundred yards, only now you couldn’t even see the target unless you were close enough to touch it.) Worst of all for Bloody Bob was the embarrassment, the sheer mortification, of losing his swords. To a true warrior, nothing was more important than his sword. He ate with it, he slept with it, but he never, ever misplaced it. It was the worst possible sin. And Bob had done it more than once. He couldn’t help it. He’d
Now, while Bloody Bob was not the brightest brigand in the forest, by any stretch of the imagination, he was undoubtedly the biggest and the strongest. In his younger days, he had been a very famous warrior, feared and respected throughout all the twenty-seven kingdoms. However, that was a long time ago and people have short memories. (Just ask Mark Spitz.) The days when Bloody Bob was eagerly sought after by every kingdom and dukedom and offered substantial salaries, profit sharing, great benefits, and Beltane bonuses were long gone and now only the old-timers remembered who he was. And most of them thought that he was dead. He wasn’t dead, but he had foolishly neglected to put anything aside for his retirement. This meant he had to work. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much work available for a man his age (which was probably around sixty or so, he wasn’t sure himself), nor for a man who couldn’t see the broad side of a barn, much less hit it.
This dearth of employment opportunities had left him with few options. He had tried working as a bouncer in a series of seedy little taverns, but due to his failing eyesight, he kept bouncing the wrong people and was, in turn, bounced himself (which resulted in a number of taverns being forced to close down temporarily for renovation). Bob had slowed down some in his old age, and he couldn’t see well, but he was still as strong as an elephant and he angered quickly and easily. Pretty soon, word got around and no one wanted to hire this nearsighted, albeit highly dangerous, old man. So, having run out of options, Bloody Bob turned to a life of crime.
He fell in with the Forest Brigands (back when they still made their headquarters in the forest) and finally found a situation where his abilities were properly appreciated. It wasn’t a great job, but it was okay. There wasn’t very much money to be made in the brigand trade, at least, not until Black Shannon took over and brought her managerial skills to the operation, but Bob was able to get by and he enjoyed the camaraderie.
Brigands have always been, by nature, a rather roughand-tumble lot, and many of them were ex-warriors like Bob, who were getting on in years, so they were able to trade lots of old war stories. (In some cases, they’d fought for opposing sides, but it was only business, so no one had any hard feelings.) The younger brigands were generally warrior wannabe types who’d failed to make the grade for one reason or another, but they knew enough to show proper respect to the old troopers. (And if they didn’t, they generally learned fairly quickly.) So, all things considered, Bloody Bob was pretty happy with his lot in life. He could have done much worse. However, his failing eyesight had been a source of considerable anguish to him. (Imagine how you’d feel if you could once bend a longbow and hit the bull’s-eye every time from a hundred yards, only now you couldn’t even see the target unless you were close enough to touch it.) Worst of all for Bloody Bob was the embarrassment, the sheer mortification, of losing his swords. To a true warrior, nothing was more important than his sword. He ate with it, he slept with it, but he never, ever misplaced it. It was the worst possible sin. And Bob had done it more than once. He couldn’t help it. He’d
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