Born a Monster

Chapter 506

506 A Short Ride

I do not know that I would ever call Ahmad bin Susek a snake, but he was definitely some manner of reptile. At least, emotionally speaking.

“My friend,” he said, “you are not impressing me by running alongside your lizard. Come, ride like a civilized person would.”

I chuckled. “I find I enjoy the exercise. It has been too long since I just ran, rather than running to save a life. Usually mine, I admit that freely.”

“You must be burning up your stamina.” he said. “It is tiring me out to think it.”

I took a running leap, one long enough to stretch out in.

“I haven’t had to fight for my life for two days, now, Ahmad. I’m well over half my health. I cannot tell you how good that feels.”

He nibbled on his beard. “I have heard that you make healing potions. Do you have one?”

I pulled one from inventory. “Did you need one?”

“I think rather that you, my friend, need one. Preferably now.”

.....

Well, whatever words he was saying, we were not friends. But... I had the day’s worth of nutrition, what could it hurt? I had over half a stack of the things in my inventory.

“I am sorry, my friend, but I have betrayed you.” Ahmad said.

“Truly?” I asked. “How so?”

“Qatil Awash.” he said, “The hunter of monsters. Do you remember that boy who fell asleep on the bank as we crossed the river?”

I nodded. “He entered Lucid Dreaming almost immediately. Dreamwalker is a divine class; I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

“That boy shared a dream with a little kitten, who is usually sleeping upon or near Qatil. So, you see...”

“He is tracking us even now.” I said.

“You have the right of it.” Ahmad said.

“But that’s ridiculous.” I said. “The khan thinks to ransom me back to my people.”

“They are not your people.” he said, spitting to his left. “At any rate, they would not ransom you. One of the dreamers said they reached Hortiluk, the voice of Rakkal.”

It was my turn to spit, but my riding lizard was to my left, so I spat to my right. “He is not wrong. I imagine most of our coin is going into supplies for the army Rakkal is raising.”

“How many can he summon?” Ahmad said. “Numbers are with us; numbers are with the redskins. Numbers are no longer with your land of monsters. The centauros saw to that.”

“I cannot deny the truth of that.” I said. “There has been much bleeding on both sides of that war. It is just so wasteful.”

“Wasteful? Some would call it horrible.”

I shrugged. “I was raised by goblins before humans took their turn. War seems to me to be as natural as rain. Would you curse the rain?”

“I have before.” he said. “Once, the rain tried to curse me back, damn it.”

I squinted. On the surface, in public, the Kamajeen value truth. The reality... usually differs. “I think it more likely a spirit of the storm took umbrage.”

“No.” he said. “My cousin is a Storm Caller, and he taught me to recognize spirits. This was not like that, I swear it by my own eyeballs.”

“Don’t swear to me, Ahmad bin Susek. I serve Sobek, a god of vengeance. Eyeballs are fragile things, if you can reach them.”

“Then I am glad that you must be tired.” he said. “Come, get on your riding lizard. Ours cannot run the camel of Qatil, but we can get you more time for that potion to take effect.”

“He rides a camel, you say?” I asked. “Like that one?”

“Which... Gyaa!”

I can’t fault him. I say similar things when surprised.

“Ah.” the man said. He swarthy, of dark skin, and dressed in blacks and reds. Mostly blacks.

The color of my blood, depending upon my nutrients, was red or black.

the camel sent.

“Perhaps,” the man said, getting off his camel on the side closest to me, “I shall give you my name and titles, and you in return shall not run.”

[You have resisted a mental compulsion effect, level 4 fear.]

I drew a shield, a thick wooden one rimmed in bronze. It wasn’t my best shield, but I wouldn’t be weeping if I needed to use [My Shield is My Life]. “Would it do any good?” I asked. “I only see the two young boys, but I presume you have other archers hiding in the woods nearby?”

“Oh, not just archers.” he said. “But we need not get into that now. Do you know who I am?”

“Ahmad calls you Qatil Awash, but that is a title, and not a name.”

“Indeed, it is so.” he said. “But forgive me if I choose not to give my name to a magical creature.”

I rolled my eyes. “I am not THAT manner of magical creature.”

“But surely,” the monster slayer said, “You do not fault my caution.”

I spread my hands to indicate helplessness. “I do not control your actions, nor the thoughts and perceptions that guide them.”

“I have an uncle,” he said, “who uses such language to hide his ignorance. What are you hiding?”

“You know what I’m hiding.” I said. “You have heard that I’ve slain the false Axe Hero, and you’re going to try to find out how.”

He turned his head and spat. “I can smell the stench of your Vanity from here. You WANT to tell me.”

[You have resisted a social manipulation effect.]

I sighed. I did want to tell him, I realized. I just wanted to live more. “What would life be like, if we did everything we wanted? I’ve seen the inside of an asylum; I’d hate to see that on the outside.”

“You dare call me crazy?” A sword with a straight and narrow blade appeared in his hand.

“Is that an estoc?” I asked.

“Don’t change the subject! Are you calling me crazy?”

“Are you saying we should all act however we want, and ignore the consequences?”

“Of course not.”

“Then no.” I said. “I am not calling you crazy.”

“Good.” he said. “Yes, this sword is one of the rarities of the world. Furdish in design, Gastognian the steel.”

“Isn’t Gastogne a part of Furdia?”

“They weren’t when this sword was forged. This sword has history, and it is named for its first victim.”

I laughed. “Do you think me an idiot? How would Charlesbane end up in the hands of a Kamajeen?”

He held it up, tried to reflect light into my eyes. “How indeed. And how would Charlesbane have ended up in the hands of a champion of the Laughing Stones gnoll tribe? And yet it did, and now it is mine. Lame, Enflammeur!”

Rather than ignite with flame, the blade lit up with a very distinct shade of vermillion. The purple common to the kings of Furdia, and of Gastogne, when it was its own nation.

“Oh, shit on all the gods!” I said, holding up my shield to protect my eyes.

“Indeed.” he said. “Rating seven damage. It pierces everything. Metal, stone, it does not matter. Even without a critical, the blade deals 24 piercing damage. That’s not me, that is mostly the blade itself. Your scales will not protect you, I think.”

“And your armor?” I asked. “That is equally protective?”

He tugged at the neckline of his vest. “Chainmail over boiled leather. Eleven points of protection. Hardly invulnerable, but enough that you will run out of life first.”

[You have 106/160 health.]

I grunted. “It does seem that you have the right of that. You have what, sixty health?”

“Hah!” he said. “I am no mere human; I have eighty health, and it is, as you must fear, at the maximum.”

Gods! Had I been THAT arrogant when I first unlocked eighty health? I mean, yes, it’s something to be proud of.

So, quick math. Sixteen minus eleven was five. It would take me sixteen solid blows to fell him. It would only take him five.

I scratched the right side of my jaw, that spot that always itched.

“The raw numbers do seem to favor you.”

“More than just numbers, little monster. With all skills using this estoc, I have rank no less than eight. Does your Valor rating compare?”

[You have detected a use of Charisma/Acting/Bluff/Intimidating Bluff skill at level 6.]

He was LYING? What else was he lying about?

“I suspect that our skills are comparable.” I said. “Save in magic, in which I certainly have the edge.”

He stopped walking toward me. “I am titled Qadil Awash, slayer of monsters! I have slain trolls. You, sir, are no troll.”

“And you, sir,” I said, “are no...”

“Shadow Step!” he invoked.

Only two or maybe three seconds, but it is important to stretch.

Because I got bored, and while I could think of other things to do, I decided not to do them.

.....

Centaurs. He meant centaurs. Don’t call them that; there’s rarely enough alcohol to keep them placated if you do.