My butt hurt a very great deal.

On a scale of butt pain where one was equivalent to sitting on a pin and ten was about the same as being stabbed, set on fire and burned with acid all at once, I’d give it a solid seven. Which would be about the same as being held down and kicked again and again for more than an hour by someone very good at kicking and wearing boots made for the job.

Why did my butt hurt so much? Partly because I’d been kicked by a bunch of guardsmen who were quite keen on kicking me. But mostly because I hadn’t been able to find a proper horse to steal. Instead, I’d found what must have been the smallest pony in existence. My feet dangled so close to the ground that I occasionally kicked chunks of rock.

In places, I had to stick my legs out straight to avoid stubbing my toes.

Worse, I hadn’t been able to find a saddle. The pony might have looked cute enough in a perverse sort of way, but its back was bony and hard and totally uncomfortable when I first climbed aboard, and now, hours later, every movement was agony.

Surprisingly though, that wasn’t the worst thing about the pony. The previous owner must have had a serious mental condition. Sure, the pony was white and pretty in a miniature equine way, so I guess it was kind of asking for it. But who in their right mind ties little bows to a horse’s mane? Alternating with delicate bells? And why would anyone use precisely that color dye on the tail? I mean, pink? It was too much!

If anyone saw me like this, I thought, I’d have to kill them to stop them from laughing.

Still, it was marginally better than walking. And it could have been worse. If I had found a saddle, it probably would have had tassels.

But then again, it was worse. The pony wasn’t the only problem I had.

First, I didn’t know where I was going. Ulm had been a total bust, and I had no other promising leads to pursue. So all I could do was head away from my failure rather than towards anything interesting.

Second, I was tired. Sure, I’d dozed as much as I could on the back of the pony, but that only worked until one foot or the other bashed against a rock and woke me back up.

Third, my mouth still tasted like ashes. I’d taken the time to fill a waterskin from a handy trough (well away from the townsfolk fighting the fire) and tried to wash it away, but the unpleasant taste still lingered.

Fourth, and not including my pony-induced butt-problems, I hurt. I felt like I’d been stomped flat by a giant. My arms and legs ached as if they were one massive bruise, my ribs felt tender, and my face was a maddening combination of bruises from the beating I’d taken and itches where Max had stabbed me. To sum it all up in a word, I felt battered.

And if all that wasn’t enough, I was bored. Bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. BORED!!!

Like that. Because I’m not an open, empty spaces kind of person, and that’s exactly what I was traveling through. As you may have guessed, I like fun and excitement, and maybe a little danger here and there to spice things up. And that means People, and it means Towns.

Traveling through the countryside like this just wasn’t my thing. Try as I might, I could admire the clean blue sky and vibrant plant life for only so long before the sight of it started to pall. And really, I couldn’t care less about the iridescent flyers that swooped down for bugs, or the hidden tree-hoppers or the undergrowth scuttlers that called to each other with surreptitious croaks or clicks or other such sounds.

My philosophy with these things was straight-forward: if it couldn’t harm me and I couldn’t eat it, sell it or use it as bait for something better, I didn’t want to know about it.

From my perspective, the morning I spent traveling through the woods was nothing short of torture. When those woods turned into rocky scrubland filled with tussock and thorny bushes, it was even worse. By mid-afternoon I’d started several conversations with the pony, but that wasn’t any good. It didn’t talk back, preferring instead to plod steadily onward with little guidance from me.

Then I had a minor epiphany. I didn’t usually travel alone. I’d talk my way into joining a caravan or maybe strike up a conversation with a wandering minstrel. Basically, I’d do whatever I could to make sure I had someone to talk to, annoy, steal from or fight. Once or twice I’d even signed on as a guard or other hired hand, earning honest coin to supplement whatever I stole.

But in reality, I wasn’t alone. The pony wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but deep in my coin pouch I had someone else.

Max.

Perhaps I’d briefly lost my mind. I didn’t even pause to consider what his reaction to having been effectively imprisoned for most of the night and most of the day might have been. Guiding the pony with my knees, I let go of the reins and untied my coin pouch as if there was no reason not to do so.

Nothing happened. Max didn’t explode from the pouch like a swarm of angry hornets with his tiny sword in hand. He didn’t even peek meekly over the edge. Nothing.

Had he somehow escaped? I wondered. After all, he still had his sword. But that needle-equivalent seemed better suited for stabbing than cutting, so I doubted that it would’ve been much use against the leather of my pouch. I turned it around, looking for a tell-tale hole he might have made, but found nothing. And I’d heard muted complaints from him long into the night.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Had he suffocated instead?

I peered cautiously inside, but it was too dark to see. I considered tipping everything out, but there were a few coins in there and I didn’t want them tumbling onto the ground.

Then I heard something that brought back my grin. I listened more closely. Yep. I’d heard it right. Max was still in there.

He was snoring.

Without further thought, I gave the coin pouch a shake and called, “Wakey, wakey! Rise and shine! It’s time to get up and enjoy this beautiful day!” and was rewarded with the dim sounds of wakeful confusion.

“Huh? Wha—? Wuzzhappenin’?”

My coin pouch moved. In moments, Max reached the top, poked his head out and blinked in the light. He glared at me blearily through bloodshot eyes. Or maybe that was just their normal color. He looked as rumpled as he should have done, considering the night he’d had, and somehow he’d lost his cap.

He blinked at me as if he couldn’t quite focus. “Who’re you?” he asked.

Internally, my grin turned into a laugh. “I’m Gordan, your good friend and drinking buddy, and we’re out on a true adventure!”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Nah yeh’re not,” he said. “Yeh’re that dumb Bigfolk what bashed me head and burned down me home!”

“Wohoo!” I exclaimed. “Look, your memory is coming back! Isn’t that great?”

“Yeah. Jus’ wonderful. An’ what memories they are, too. Mos’ of ‘em about you, ruinin’ me life.”

The expression on his face turned sour. It was as if just looking at me was enough to curdle his stomach. I preferred to think the drinking he’d done the night before might have played a part in that, as well as the lurching, uneven gait of the pony.

He climbed up until he stood carefully on the edge of my coin pouch. He buzzed his wings in exactly the manner I’d seen young orcs flex their muscles right before a fight. Once more, he drew his sword. I tell you, he would’ve been dangerous if he’d been even a few inches taller.

“Now,” I said. “Just a moment. You see, none of that was really my fault. The tankard on the head thing was an accident,” I lied, “and as for the rest—”

“I don’t care what garbage comes spillin’ outta yer mouth.”

Unbelievable. This feisty little pixie still wanted to fight even though I was twenty times his height, several hundred times his weight, and all but impervious to his best attacks. I had to admire his spirit, but I also have to admit that all his bluster was starting to become a little tedious.

I drew in a breath that I intended to use to cut him down to size (so to speak), but he hadn’t finished. “I’m gonna hurt yeh,” he began. But then he paused. For the briefest of moments, he uttered no threats. He looked around instead. “Where are we?” he demanded. I thought I detected a note of uncertainty in his voice.

Maybe I did. In any event, I answered honestly enough. “I don’t know. As far from Ulm as this half-horse can plod in a day.”

“Wha-what direction?”

“Um, north-east, I think. Why? What does it matter?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took off and flew this way and that, stopping to look at a thorny shrub, an unusual clumping of tussock, a rock etched with lichen and a dozen other things I didn’t care about because they were green and out-doorsy and I’m not. But I did want to know why.

“Yeh blimmin’ moron,” he said, not looking at me. “Do yeh know what yeh’ve done? Do yeh know where we are?!”

“Well, no. Not exactly. Maybe halfway between Ulm and the middle of nowhere?”

Max buzzed back to hover barely an inch from my face and I tried not to flinch at his arrival. “Yeh don’t know, do yeh? Yeh idiot, this is goblin country!”

Oh. Goblins. Nasty little brutes. As tall as your knee, they’re vicious and arm themselves mostly with knives and spears no longer than a decent-sized arrow. In ones and twos, they’re fine. As long as he could kick, a man wouldn’t have anything more than a lucky throw with that arrow-spear to be concerned about.

I’d heard rumors that they sometimes banded together in groups, and if they’re trained as part of an army they can upset an opposing force enough to give the main troops an advantage. But for myself, I never gave them much thought.

Goblin teeth were sharp, but I had my armor. I shrugged. “So?”

“So, yeh great twit, they eat Pixies!”

“Really?” I asked. Then, because I couldn’t help it, I continued. “How? I mean, do they cook you up in a pot? Skewer you and roast you over a fire? Or just bite, chew and swallow, as if you were an apple or something? Because I would have thought you’d be a bit stringy. Maybe a marinade of some kind would help, but these are goblins we’re talking about, and I can’t imagine they’d have that many fine culinary skills….”

Max just stared at me with distaste and buzzed backwards from time to time to keep pace with the pony’s gait. “Yeh’re mad,” he said, then added, “Where’s me hat?” But it didn’t seem like the most urgent of questions. He glanced about as if expecting to see goblins hiding under the tussock, then turned back to face me with a more calculating expression. “Look,” he said. “I know we’ve ‘ad our differences, but this is serious. If yeh help me out now all that’s forgotten. Whaddaya say?”

Interesting. “Help you out how, exactly?”

“Take me back to Ulm! And fer pity’s sake, would yeh mind stopping this poor excuse fer a horse so we can have a proper conversation about it?!”

I did as he asked. “You know, I’m not likely to be welcome back there for a while,” I said. “Why don’t you just fly back yourself?”

“‘Cos if there are goblins about I’d never make it, that’s why! They’d sniff me out real quick. Probably know I’m here already. They’d tear me to pieces!”

“And you think you’d have a better chance with me?”

“Yeh know I would. Goblins are cowards. They won’t attack no Bigfolk like you, not if they banded together by hundreds!”

I grinned at him. “Wouldn’t you accompanying me inspire them to do just that?”

“Huh?”

“Stands to reason,” I said. “You want to cause me some trouble, as payback for certain events last night. You stick around, and all of a sudden I’m surrounded by more goblins than I care to face.” Still grinning, I added, “You wouldn’t have thought of that, now would you?”

“No!” He sounded so shocked I almost believed him. “No, really I wouldn’t. Listen. If they were gonna do that, wouldn’t they have done it already?”

He had a point, but I was more than willing to use it against him. “You’re saying that as long you stick with me, we’re both safe?” He nodded. “So there’s really no need to head back to Ulm. You’d be just as safe if we continued on.”

Max glared at me again. He knew he had no choice. “Yeh’re a right mean one, yeh know that?” he said.

I kept grinning, pleased to have him along. Already, this trip had become much more interesting.

After a while I relented somewhat. “If you still want to get back to Ulm by the time we hit the next town, we’ll find someone heading your way. Maybe they’ll let you tag along.”

He seemed to accept that. I gave the pony a nudge in the ribs and we continued on our way. I deliberately didn’t mention the pointy, warty little face I caught drooling at us from under a thorn bush.