Will Power by A. J. Hartley Page B

the gray billow disappeared behind the matted stalks of grass, but soon the land cleared and I could make it out plainly. I was in a meadow or pasture of some kind and only a few hundred yards ahead I could see the outline of trees, black against the sky. I stumbled on, ignoring the way my legs buckled with pathetic exhaustion, crossing the field to a crudely fashioned wooden fence. I paused and inhaled through my nose, and the smoke was bitter and woody over the damp greenery. Gasping for air though I was, I sucked it into my lungs like life itself. The audience’s applause swelled in my ears, and suddenly I saw it, appearing through a thicket of hawthorn hedge: a gabled roof, a gray stone chimney, and a sign hanging on a bracket above the door: The Last Refuge Inn.
    “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!” I said aloud, bowing to the field. “Thank you! Thank you!”
    But the door of The Last Refuge Inn was locked. This rather un-pub-like development dashed my spirits a little, but I beat heartily on the door and called in a commanding fashion such as the long dead and probably fictional Lothar would have been proud of.
     
    “The Wand’ring Knight has come to taste your cheer,
    Since he has ’scaped his journey’s fearful doom,
    And longs for hearth and dinner and a beer,
    And welcome given to your daughter’s room.”
     
    Hardly great verse, but not bad for the spur of the moment. There was no answer, but a curtain in a bay window moved, so I waited.
    Nothing happened.
    I tried again, knocking loudly and grinning as I called out, “Come throw the latch and summon Lothar in, since he is weary and he seeks for rest.”
    Still nothing.
    “Open the bloody door!” I yelled, losing patience and good humor at a stroke. “What the hell kind of pub is this? Should I have made an appointment? Do I need references? Come on, open the damn door.”
    And, with a heavy clang, the lock turned and the door creaked open. With it came the point of a fine silver rapier which came to rest about two inches from my windpipe. It was held by a tall, fair man. Others were behind him, weapons in hand and eyes fixed on me with undisguised hostility.
    “Hello?” I tried, leaning slightly away from the sword point.
    The others did not speak, but their eyes hardened and the sword moved steadily under my chin. Gasping wordlessly, I wondered if I had perhaps violated some sort of dress code.
    Farcical though such an instinct undoubtedly was, it wasn’t altogether wide of the mark. There was fear behind the menace in their eyes, and recognizing this, I guessed that the principal reason for this rather unwelcoming behavior lay in my appearance, since I was still caked from head to foot in a dark brown slime and the light in the inn was low. The truth struck me with sudden and comic force: They thought I was some sort of goblin. Imagining how I must appear to these quiet, law-abiding folk already spooked by tales of bear-riding demon assaults to have me banging on their door like a ravaging swamp troll, I laughed with relief. This was apparently the wrong thing to do and seemed, momentarily, to convince them of my hellish origins.
    “Strike!” hissed a young man peering round the doorjamb. He was addressing the rapier wielder and had one eye on me, the other on an axe he was raising.
    “Wait!” I spluttered, specks of mud exploding from my crackedlips unhelpfully. “I am Will Hawthorne, a traveler and friend of . . . of, what the hell is his name . . . ? You know!”
    “Strike quickly,” advised the young man spitefully. “Heed not the words of the enemy, for his tongue is foul.”
    Truer than you know
, mate, I thought, spitting out more pond filth.
    “It called itself Lothar. It is surely some devil from the waters beneath the mountains.”
    “No,” I assured him. “That was just a bit of a joke. A sort of poem, you know. I was happy to see the tavern and . . .” This no longer seemed plausible even to me, so I reverted to