Here it is:
Halitor the Hero
Halitor the Hero was going mad.
Who wouldn’t, when every day he had to do again what
he’d accomplished, at great personal risk, the day before?
Halitor should have known better than to accept a quest from
an unknown client in a hooded robe that hid his face. But the Hero business had been slow lately,
and a guy had to eat, and feed his horse.
The uniform didn’t come cheap, either.
You’d think a few hunks of leather and fur and a pile of weapons
wouldn’t run you much, aside from the initial outlay for the sword and
axe. But the stitching on the leather
kept coming undone, and moths had gotten into the fur fringe on his cloak, so
he’d had to have the whole thing redone.
And sword polish cost money.
So Halitor took the job.
It had sounded simple enough.
Just kill this fellow Thoriston.
Had to be an easy mark, with a name like that, right? Mind, Halitor was a hero, not an
assassin. But he had it on good
authority—that of the mysterious hooded stranger—that Thoriston was a tyrant
from whose bloody rule all Polyopolis waited to be freed. There would be cheers and feasting, as well
as a bag of gold, just as soon as he’d done the job.
And that was the problem.
The job wouldn’t stay done long enough to collect.
Halitor used his sword the first time. He leapt in front of
Thoriston on the street, claimed offense for something or other, and beheaded him on the
spot. Then he’d faded into the crowd and
waited for the cheering to begin. The
silence was deafening.
He hadn’t expected the beheaded tyrant to reach around for
his head, stand up, and twist it into place.
Halitor was halfway to the border before he remembered that he was a
Hero, and Heroes don’t give up. Also, he needed that bag of gold.
Next day he used his war axe. It took Thoriston a little longer to assemble
the pieces, but he’d still finished before Halitor could find the stranger and get
paid.
He’d used his longbow, crossbow, dagger (that had nearly been fatal to Halitor, as Thoriston now had guards whenever he went out), throwing knives, pike,
and a team of runaway horses. All
Halitor wanted was for the fellow to stay dead long enough for the mysterious
stranger to pay up. He wouldn't.
By now, Halitor knew that Thoriston was an alias. This was a god, and the obvious god was
Thor. And trying to kill Thor was
plain crazy.
And so Halitor knew he was mad, because he didn’t give
up. You couldn’t kill a god. That was written in the rulebook. Gods can’t be killed. Not for more than a few minutes. To try was insane.
Halitor lurked now in the shadows of Thor’s home. Palace, really. Crouched behind the arras in the dining hall,
he gripped a glass vial with the tenderness he usually reserved for cash
payments. This was the one that would
work. A poison so strong that it could
even kill a god. It could only
kill him for a few minutes, but it was a long-lasting poison. Each time he brought himself back to life, it
would kill him again. Halitor liked it.
The table was set for two.
The only challenge was to guess which place belong to Thor, and which to
the unknown guest, for a Hero couldn’t randomly kill the wrong person. He was mad, but not without honor.
Halitor studied the table.
A plate of gilded china sat before an imposing chair, crossed
battle-axes at it’s back. The other was
a mere wooden trencher, sitting before stool.
Thor was out to demonstrate to someone their relative positions of
might.
Halitor considered what he had learned of the god in a week
of killing him.
He made his decision, and crept into the empty hall. It took only a moment to drip the poison into
the already-filled goblet and turn to leave.
“You are punctual.
You will join me, Halitor the Assassin.”
Halitor nearly peed his fur-lined loincloth. Where the kraken had Thor come from? And had he seen what Halitor’d done? Halitor thought of escape, but Thor had brought his bodyguards, giant men from some other world, big as boulders and bright
blue. They cut off all exits, so he had to bluff
it out. Thor waved toward the
table, and Halitor turned toward the lowly stool.
“No, my friend. An
assassin as persistent as you should not take the humble seat.” Thor gestured to the throne-like chair. “Please.
That one.”
Halitor again searched wildly for an escape, and still found
none. He took offense instead. “I am Halitor the Hero. I am no assassin.”
“No? Seven times you
have killed me this week. Odin certainly
found a persistent tool this time.”
Odin. Halitor could
have kicked himself. No wonder the chap
who’d hired him had hidden his face. Even
Halitor would recognize Odin. He was drinking in nearly every tavern you entered. Halitor was pretty sure Odin could be in at
least ten taverns at once. Maybe
more.
Nothing to do but play the game to the finish. Seven times doing the same thing and
expecting a different result. But maybe
he wasn’t mad. This time the end would
be different, and someone would finally be dead.
Halitor sat where he was told, but didn’t take up the goblet
when Thor offered a toast. “I never
drink on the job.”
Thor nodded and took a drink from his own pewter
mug. Then he looked at Halitor,
appalled.
“Odin! You--” Thor never finished the sentence. Halitor stood and smiled.
His gamble had paid off.
He hitched his sword into place, brushed off the giant blue guards, and
turned to the door. He had one task
left, and little time to do it.
He had to collect his fee from Odin before the poison wore off.
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