NPCs (16 page)

It was what had gotten him tossed from his church, what had forced him to travel with a band of adventurers, and what had ultimately led to winning his wife. Pliable as Thistle’s mind could be, there were just some things he absolutely could not do, and dying quietly was one of them. Had he passed away at this particular moment, Grumble would have pointed out that this trait was what made him a candidate for paladin-hood in the first place. But Thistle did not pass away, nor did he relinquish his grip on the daggers when the next round of constriction began. Instead, he held on tight and stabbed again each time the opportunity came.

There was no end goal or strategy at work; Thistle just intended to give as good as he got before the inevitable occurred. Of course, had he been able to hear the sounds from outside the demon, he might have entertained a very different idea of what constituted “the inevitable.”

* * *

There was no style to Gabrielle’s technique as she swung her axe, no sublime grace that others would watch and find beautiful. She was, in fact, quite ugly. Her hair was matted in blood; hot, sticky stuff that also coated a large portion of her face, a face that wore the sort of scowl one sees just before a knife enters their belly. No, she was far from beautiful as she swung downward, rending another Claw’s head from its shoulders and sending a hot spray of fresh blood into the air. Gabrielle didn’t need to be beautiful. She was effective, and that meant worlds more than beauty in her current situation.

With a heavy grunt, she pulled her axe free and spun around, searching for fresh targets. The last few minutes had been a blur. After the dagger-thrower’s sacrifice, her rage had broken free, sending her on a collision course with the Claw who had killed him. Alone, anger or no, she’d never have stood a chance against such a monster. But she wasn’t alone. At her charge, other adventurers had taken the cue, swarming the demon with her and splitting its attention. They’d tried this tactic before; however, this time, they had Gabrielle, who demanded the monster focus on her with every snarl, grunt, and swing she sent its way. The demon was dead in minutes and her newly-formed party hurled themselves at the next one, and the next one, and so on, until she looked around and realized she might be out of Claws to kill.

At that realization, the anger ebbed, and Gabrielle was able to think clearly once more. She surveyed her surroundings carefully, on watch for any threats that might leap out at her. The Claws in her area were all dead, the last of them a headless corpse at her feet. Somewhere along the line, the Scuttles had been broken, their groups destroyed. A few rogue ones darted about, but without the advantage of numbers or the Claws, a single Scuttle proved little challenge for any adventurer. She could see other groups of adventurers and guards still fighting throughout the arena. From the way they were bunched together, it seemed likely they were cleaning up the last of their demons. Truly, the final challenge was the giant monster that had sprung from the ground. Gabrielle hefted her axe to her shoulder and began heading over.

“Be careful,” said a familiar voice to her right. She turned to find Grumph, holding a glowing spear that seemed to be made of purple light, pinning a Scuttle to the ground. It was close to her, so close it could have struck had it made a few feet further. As she watched, he lifted his weapon up and it turned into a hammer, which he brought crashing down on the insect-like demon with a loud crunch.

“Thanks,” she said, noting that her words sounded slightly slurred.

“You need rest,” Grumph advised her. “Anger tolls the body.”

She saw no reason to object; Grumph was certainly right. Already, she could feel the stiffness in her muscles, the heaviness of her weapon. Hell, even taking a few steps had been an arduous task. Grumph was right; she should rest. And she would: when the battle was over.

“Soon,” she promised him.

Grumph merely nodded. He understood that arguing would waste energy she didn’t have. She would fight until either the battle was done, or she was. That was the way of the barbarian, which Gabrielle most certainly was. He would do the job of a friend and keep her safe as best he could.

“One left,” he said, pointing at the ground demon, which was thrashing wildly about.

“Big one, though,” Gabrielle noted.

“Big still bleeds.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

* * *

It was only Eric’s natural grace that kept him from slipping on the massive pool of blood at his feet. He and the other adventurers had taken out nearly all of the demon’s legs and turned their wrath onto its body. The hide was thick and tough, but with time and determination, they’d hacked through it, slice by slice. Each blow opened up new wounds, spilling gooey blood onto the ground. Within minutes, they were all soaked in the stuff; a few minutes more and not even the thirsty dirt could soak up any more. The effects of their damage could be seen: the demon was growing slower, its few remaining limbs weak and ineffective. Sooner or later, they would bleed the beast out. Eric just didn’t know if it would be soon enough.

“Make a path!” The voice rang out from behind Eric, its source a human with copper hair and shining armor, one from the group he’d seen yesterday. Next to him was the elf woman Thistle had been throwing next to, as well as a vast conglomeration of people wearing robes and holy symbols.

“Everyone get clear! We’re going to hit it with a coordinated strike, so move!” the man yelled again, his words finally penetrating the battle-fog most of the remaining warriors had fallen into. Bodies gave up their front-line positions quickly; the one thing any good melee fighter knew was to get clear when magic was about.

Eric scrambled away, nearly losing his footing twice, thanks to a combination of haste and exhaustion. As he exited the demon’s crater, he saw a growing light radiate from the group, as each person there began casting a spell. The light grew brighter, dozens upon dozens of symbols materializing in front of each adventurer, magical energy so thick it made Eric’s hair stand on end, even at such a distance away. The energy grew, swelling slowly like a filling water-skin. Then, just when he was certain no more could be contained, the energy burst.

No one there could actually make out what the attack looked like; twenty-five spells detonating on a single area simultaneously was more than mortal eyes could bear to witness. What they could make out, however, was the after-effect. The top of the ground demon tumbled forward, striking the dirt with a powerful thud. There was no chance of it getting back up, as it had no muscles to work with. The coordinated magical attack had sundered it clean through, chopping it down like a hideous, red-skinned tree.

Moments after impact, a cheer went up. The arena was filled with the sound of joyful accomplishment and relief as the monster lay conquered at their feet. It was done. The attack was over, and they’d survived. Most of them, anyway.

As quickly as the cheer began, it halted even faster when the demon’s mouth began to twitch. Swords readied, arrows drew, and the crackling of magic filled the air once more. Everyone was braced to attack as the twitching moved, first from the back of its mouth, then to the middle, and finally, to its lips. These same lips were pulled open slowly, not by a tongue as many expected, but by a pair of small, gnome-sized hands.

Thistle emerged from the demon’s mouth, careful not to nick himself on the rows of blade-sharp teeth, and breathed a sigh of relief as his shoes touched the blood-soaked dirt. Looking around, he realized the eyes of everyone were on him, ogling the insane sight of a gnome emerging from the maw of a demon. Never one to waste an opportunity, Thistle cleared his throat and spoke as loudly as he could:

“Anyone object to a do-over on that last throw? I got a bit distracted by the demons, and I’d wager my target has flown half a kingdom away by now.”

The cheer he received would have been deafening, had the demon’s scream not already broken the eardrums of so many.

15.

Night fell before any semblance of peace returned to Appleram. The corpses of the demons were trimmed, skinned, and stripped of all useful parts, then buried on consecrated ground and blessed by any adventurers who had a bit of divine connection. The remaining inventory of the storage shed — what little remained — was scrupulously evaluated. No item
with
magical potential was left unassessed, and anything even slightly tinged red was suspect to exceptional scrutiny. Those who’d been injured in the fray were healed with divine magic, the healers curing the poisoning in the blood that the
demons’
strikes had inflicted. Those who were beyond healing, or already gone, were mourned, buried, and stripped of gear by their adventuring party. The latter act gave no one joy, but there was no sense in entombing a friend with his chainmail when that same armor might keep another alive.

By the time Thistle, Gabrielle, Grumph, and Eric returned to the inn, they were wiped beyond measuring, every bit of energy and magic expelled. They greeted the innkeeper and staff with polite nods, slurped down a few bites of stew and rolls of bread, and collapsed in exhaustion with nary a word said among them. There would be time for talk later
. A
ll that mattered for the night was the sweet release of sleep, carting them off to a land where their bones didn’t ache
,
and their eyes weren’t burned with images of fallen corpses. In a small blessing, perhaps metaphorical and perhaps literal, none were troubled by nightmares
,
or dreams of any sort. They slept the slumber of the dead, cut off from the world until morning came, all too soon in its arrival.

As the group stirred, they became aware of a presence in their room
,
aside from one another. Sitting at the table, helping himself to a dish of porridge from a still-steaming pot, was Mayor Branders. The four faux adventurers slowly pulled themselves out of their cots, wandered over to the table, and took their seats. To his credit, Mayor Branders waited until everyone had served themselves before speaking.

“I do not care for adventurers,” he said, his voice thick
,
and rougher than the previous day. It certainly made
sense;
he’d been doing ample shouting of commands when he restored order after the attack. “I never have. I see them as flippant, uncaring folk. They ride into town, slay a few monsters, spend some gold, hit on our bar staff, then float on to the next encounter. They have no roots, no ties, no sense of obligation.”

The other four focused on their porridge, holding back the words of agreement they wanted to speak. Mayor Branders had the same impression of adventurers as any of the regular folk, the same they’d had only a week ago.

“So
,
when an advisor came to me, suggesting the idea for a tournament to draw them in, bleed them dry, and then swindle them out of prizes, I’m ashamed to admit
,
I allowed myself to be won over. I resisted at first, but
,
because of my prejudice against your kind, I let my mind be clouded by greed. It seemed like a victimless scheme in that it would only annoy adventurers, not decent people like those who lived in my town.”

The group’s silence continued, broken only by the occasional sounds of porridge entering mouths.

“Yet today, I find myself impossibly indebted to the very folk I thought to fleece. Without the adventurers, this town would be nothing but blood and ash. Every one of my ‘decent people’ owes their lives to the efforts your kind put forth yesterday. This is the sort of debt I cannot ever hope to repay, even if I possessed all the gold in Solium.”

It was Thistle who spoke next, Thistle who had to speak next. The others didn’t trust themselves to play this right, neither their minds to understand the situation
,
nor their tongues to find the right words. Only the tiny gnome could speak for them
;
only he had the talent and the respect.

“I’m going to make a guess that you don’t intend to have this talk with every adventuring party in town.”

“No, I do not,” Mayor Branders confirmed. “There will be an official release of thanks, and I will work behind the scenes to make good on what I owe. It will not come overnight, but I promise you, Appleram will one day be a haven to every adventurer looking for a place to rest their head. Fair prices, safe accommodations, everything we can do to make their lives easier. However, I came to speak with you all because you hold a different debt over me. Not as a mayor, but as a father. You saved my children’s lives.”

“It is literally part of the job,” Thistle assured him. “A paladin who won’t help defenseless children is unworthy to wear the title, and won’t for long once his god gets wind of it.”

“Knowing your motivations doesn’t preclude me
from
repaying what you’ve done for me. First off, you’ve won the Dagger Throwing event and are entitled to the prize chest.”

“I never
—”

“We both know you had the skill to make it, and you’re the only one who never technically missed the throw. This is my jurisdiction as tournament official
,
and I’ll hear nothing more about it. As a paladin, you are obliged to respect the rules and laws of a city, correct?”