Blood Ties by Peter David Read Free Book Online Page A

it took a bit more than a couple of outraged hobbes charging me to throw me off my game.
    The hobbes were heavily armored, but I wasn’t concerned. Neither of them was wearing helmets, so I didn’t expect their attack to pose a good deal of difficulty. As they charged, I simply unslung my rifle and took aim at the one who was closer, the one swinging the war hammer. I targeted him effortlessly, took a breath reflexively to steady my aim, then exhaled as I gently squeezed the trigger. The rifle spat out a report, and the hobbe’s head snapped back. His cries of outrage transformed from animalistic snarls to a single screech of pain and protest, then he fell in his tracks.
    I hoped that seeing his companion fall would be enough for the remaining hobbe to turn tail and run.
    No such luck. His companion didn’t slow down or cast so much as a glance toward the other hobbe. Chances were he didn’t give a damn about him. All he wanted was to get to me and bash me to bits. Backpedaling the entire time, I hastily reloaded, then swung the rifle toward him and once again squeezed the trigger, figuring that I would be able to end this quickly and cleanly.
    Instead of the expected and comforting explosion from the rifle, however, all I heard was a hollow click. The hobbe actually paused, automatically bracing itself against the expected impact from the bullet. That was more brains than I would have thought a hobbe would have displayed, to say nothing of sense of self-preservation.
    I fired again, and was again rewarded with nothing but a click. I knew I’d rushed the reloading, and I was paying for it. Vanessa had jammed.
    The hobbe, newly emboldened, came right at me with more speed than I would have credited it with.
    Instantly, I assessed the situation with the new difficulties that had been presented me. Factoring in the speed with which the hobbe was moving, I immediately realized I had no time to toss aside the rifle and draw either my pistol or my sword.
    So I did the only thing I could. I took a step back, reversed the rifle, and used it as a bludgeon. I swung it around as hard as I could, catching the creature on the side of the head with the rifle stock. The hobbe went down with a screech, hitting the ground, its eyes crossing as it looked up at me, dazed.
    I swept the rifle around and down, hoping to split the thing’s head open. Instead, it moved quickly, and the rifle struck the ground, sending a shiver of pain up my arms as it did so. The hobbe then swung its arm around and knocked the rifle out of my hands with its club, sending my weapon clattering across the ground.
    Because the hobbe was on its back, that gave me the precious seconds I needed to yank my sword from its sheath. The hobbe made a sound deep in its throat that came across like a combination of a growl and a snort of derisive laughter as it swung its club. It was a bludgeon against my cutlass. The cutlass was fairly useless when it came to stabbing; it was more effective for slashing attacks, and that was the use to which I put it. I came at the hobbe, slashing back and forth like a berserk windmill. Repeatedly, I deflected its club, sometimes through design and at least twice, I hate to admit, through sheer dumb luck. I had to be careful, though. For the most part I was batting aside the club, but if the hobbe managed to land a direct blow with it, it would likely shatter my sword.
    Hobbes weren’t designed for sustained battle. They were used to attacking quickly and overwhelming opponents almost immediately. Even though this was a larger hobbe, its endurance wasn’t on a par with mine. In moments I heard it grunting and huffing. As its lunges became clumsier, I sidestepped it and slashed quickly. I came within inches of chopping the thing’s head off. As it was, my cutlass opened up the side of its face, and whatever the thick, dark liquid was that passed for blood in its veins started to gush down the side of its