NPCs (25 page)

“Probably bad,” Grumph said. “Based on history.”

“We don’t know how many have gone before us,” Gabrielle said. “Maybe we’re the second or third expedition to attempt this. It’s always possible one of the other teams might actually make it through.”

“Perhaps they will,” Eric agreed. He didn’t have the heart to tell her what he’d figured out. If the king was courting adventurers who had done nothing more than kill off a few kobolds, he was not looking for the best adventurers around. For something this important, there was only one reason why the king would be using the dregs of the adventuring barrel: all the good ones he could find had already failed. No, they weren’t the first or second group of teams to try this. He doubted they were even in the first ten.

This place had already claimed the lives of countless adventurers. By the time the next sun rose, it would have certainly gotten the blood of more. All they could do was pray not to be among them.

* * *

A sickening howl filled the air as the drake plunged its teeth into the dwarf’s flesh. The dwarf refused to go down easily, grabbing the short sword from his hip and stabbing at the monster currently chewing on his leg. Surely, at this range, he would finally hit. He wouldn’t go down like the rest of his friends, who were all dead, or bleeding out around him. He would survive. He would hit this damned thing and make his escape.

The dwarf’s howl turned into a scream of rage as he thrust the blade forward, aiming right for the drake’s eye. It should have been a killing blow, but at the last moment, the drake turned its head to the side, causing the blade to bounce off its armored skull and stab the dwarf in his other leg.

“No… no. I can’t have…” Whatever final words the dwarf might have been ready to utter were lost to the ages, as this fresh wound was more than he could withstand. He toppled to the ground, unconscious.

The drake continued its meal undisturbed. By the time it had finished eating the dwarf’s meaty leg, its remaining victims had finished bleeding to death and were now simply dead, a set of three corpses in the sixth ring of the dungeon.

And with that, only two teams remained.

21.

No one was sure how many hours they’d been crawling on their knees; all they knew was that everyone except Thistle was sore from their shins to their toes. So when the tunnel finally opened up into a room large enough for everyone, even Grumph, to stand, it took a great deal of effort not to scream in joy at the act of getting up.

The room was simple and small, ten feet by ten feet, made of the same dark stone as the rest of the dungeon and sporting a large door at the far end. On the door were a variety of runes and symbols, each incredibly complex. Grumph took one look at them and knew he had no hope of deciphering any of it. Not that it would have changed things if he could; they’d come this far, and their only hope of salvation lay on the other side of that door. Even if it was rigged with enough magic to bring down a dragon, they still had to open it.

“We should rest,” Eric said, his voice hushed. “Everyone is worn out after that trek, and who knows what’s on the other side of that door.”

“I’d guess an artifact, a guardian, and more trouble than any sane man would want to deal with. Aye, resting is a fine idea.” Thistle also kept his voice quiet, though he showed less concern for stealth as he dropped his pack to the ground and rummaged about. He pulled out a waterskin and some dried meat for rations, biting off a large chunk that would take him ages to chew through.

The others followed suit, getting food and drink from their packs and digging in with more vigor than they’d expected. Fear, adrenaline, and pain had dulled them to the fact that it had been hours upon hours since their last meal. The first bite reawakened the voice of their biological needs, and soon everyone was devouring without a thought spared to manners.

Only as the pain of hunger was curbed did another realization begin sneaking up on each party member: they were exhausted. The simple beds of the barracks seemed years ago, and the fog of fatigue began descending on their minds almost immediately.

“How long do you think we’ve been in here?” Gabrielle asked, washing down the last bites of her dried meat.

“The moon is probably coming down and the sun will rise soon. So, almost a full night,” Thistle said. No one asked how he made his guesses; they were too tired to care.

“That means we’ve been up for almost a full day,” Eric surmised. “We’re going to have to get some sleep if we want to be even close to good in a fight.”

“That should be fine.” Thistle put his waterskin into his pack then laid the whole thing down on the ground. “If anyone thought we were using the tunnels, they’d have killed us ages ago.”

“What if other minions are here?” Gabrielle asked. She laid a hand on the axe that rested by her side. “They might come through this tunnel and find us.”

“It’s possible, but unlikely. This place has no need for the sort of minions who would use these tunnels. It’s self-sustained through magic, and none of the monster types listed on the scroll would be inclined to need or know about the minion tunnels. I could be wrong, of course, but we need sleep, so if anyone is too worried, we can set a guard.”

“Forget it.” Eric pulled off his own pack and set it on the ground. It would prove to be a very uncomfortable pillow, but it still would be better than the stone floor. “At this point, getting killed in our sleep almost sounds like a pleasant option.”

“It is pretty strange to be sitting here, knowing that when we open that door the things on the other side are likely to kill us.” Gabrielle lifted her hand off her axe slowly, as though the act were causing her physical stress.

“Adventurers sometimes call this ‘the calm before the storm.’ Never did know why. Usually, before storms, there’s lots of wind whipping about and clouds in the sky, but they say it, anyway. I suppose it refers to the calm we get, the chance to take a breath and prepare before all hell breaks loose.” Thistle ran his hands along the new belt once more, his mind miles away from the dungeon enclosing them.

“That’s a pretty good segue to what I wanted to ask,” Gabrielle said. “We’re going to face almost-certain death in the morning. So, before we go to sleep, why don’t you provide us with a bedtime story, Thistle? The one about how you have so much knowledge about adventurers.”

A dark smile slithered onto Thistle’s face. “I thought you might poke for that. Well, I did say it would be after Solium, and we’ve left the city, so fair is fair.” He leaned onto his pack, letting it support his lower back and trying to find a position that was actually comfortable.

“My tale isn’t a very grand one, not compared to the other tales that live in our world. I was born as you see me: hunched, crooked, and misshapen. That might not have been so bad, however, I also had no talent for magic, and among gnomes such a condition is a far darker curse. I made my living as a worker for the local church of Mithingow, the god of the gnomes. While they had clerics and priests and wizards aplenty, there was still always a need for someone to clean rats out of the basement, or sweep the rafters. Those were my duties and I did them happily, for I was thankful to have a source of income at all, and I was always pleased to serve my god.”

“Wait, you follow Grumble,” Eric interrupted.

“Aye, but this was before I even knew of Grumble, or many other gods at all. I knew a few from the legends where Mithingow tricked or triumphed over them, but in a gnomish community, there was never any need for more gods. No, I would still be working in that church to this day, polishing the pews and sweeping the floors, if a group of adventurers hadn’t stumbled into our foyer one sunny afternoon.”

Thistle paused to take a drink from his waterskin, carefully soaking his throat.

“They were on their way to a nearby forest, where a lingering curse from an ancient necromancer was prone to turning deceased animals into undead monsters. I hid the first time I saw them, shameful as it was. I was terrified; they were so strong, so powerful. The adventurers requested aid; they only knew a general location, no real information about where the curse reigned. Our clerics decided that, for a healthy donation to Mithingow, they could spare some guides. One of their younger apprentices, who they felt could use the experience, as well as a gnome who was known to frequent areas near the forest on his days off: me. So it was that the adventurers set off the next morning with two new additions: myself and… Madroria.”

The gnome halted his story, this time, not because of a need for water. He pressed his hands together gently, willing back the tears that tried to form in his eyes. He couldn’t let the emotions break through now, not when the hard part still lay ahead in the story. At last, he succeeded in pushing away the sorrow and continued his tale.

“Madroria was roughly the same age as I, but she was not cursed with my crooked body, nor my lack of skill when it came to wielding magic. She was, in fact, perfect. Perfect to me, anyway. I’d loved her, silently and sorrowfully, since the first day she came to the church. As scared as I’d been of the adventurers, the idea of walking with Madroria, of speaking to her… I shook with terror all night and barely found the courage to go with them in the morning.”

“It’s hard to picture you like that,” Gabrielle said. “You’re usually so calm and clear-headed.”

“Well, this was decades ago, and I’ve gotten to do a lot of growing up since then,” Thistle reminded her. “Anyway, we set out on the road together. At first, it was quiet and awkward, but over time, I began speaking with the adventurers, getting to know them. It was actually quite funny; despite her beauty and power, Madroria was too shy to make much conversation with our strangers, while I soon gave way to my natural eloquence, surprising even myself. I’d never had much opportunity to talk with people, and I’m sure they assumed I had nothing worth hearing. It was a pleasant shock to discover I could hold the interest of these amazing people. Of course, it might have been because I asked endless questions, giving them the chance to talk about themselves.”

“Is that how you know so much?” Eric asked.

“Not quite. That was merely the appetizer that whetted my curiosity. By the time we arrived at the forest, we were all something akin to friends. I could even speak to Madroria without growing so fearful I stumbled over my own words or feet. In the forest, however, the monsters were far greater in number and power than the adventurers had predicted. It was horrible: giant undead beasts, eyeless sockets and snapping jaws, the stench of death snarling through our nostrils. In the end, they uncovered the necromancer’s lingering spell circle and destroyed it. However, it came with a cost. One of their own was killed, and Madroria was skewed through by the tusks of an undead boar.”

“Oh no.” Gabrielle put her hand to her mouth. “Did she…”

“No. She was horrifically wounded, but we were able to stabilize her. The real danger was the rot that began to destroy her from within. Left unchecked, it would devour her life force and leave her as one of them, the undead. We retreated from the forest and rushed back to the temple of Mithingow. It took two days, two days that I spent always at her side. She drifted in and out as the fever grew stronger, but she held on. My Madroria was always a fighter. Then, on the day we knew would be her last, we finally reached the temple. I was crying as we burst through the doors, certain her salvation was close at hand. We brought her up to Mithingow’s altar and screamed for the priests to come out. When I saw them, I collapsed in relief, certain she would be saved.”

“She should have been,” Grumph said, giving a small nod.

“Wait, they didn’t save her?” Eric asked.

“Couldn’t, they said. The priests told me the curse was too powerful, the magic beyond their capacity to undo. I lost my temper at that point, demanding they try. When that failed, I sat on the altar and screamed right at Mithingow himself, making promises, threats, and just plain begging for him to save Madroria. It was foolish, overly emotional, and accomplished nothing, but to this day I think I’d do the same if I were in that position again.”

“So, Madroria… she died?” Eric had his hands gripped to the side of his legs, clutching them in anxiety as he listened to Thistle’s tale.

“It seemed that she would. The clerics said the only thing they could do for her was to cut off her head and spare her the indignity of returning as an undead. I lost my mind at that, socked one of them right in the jaw. Crippled as I was, I don’t think it ever occurred to him that I might have some fight in me.”

“That sounds more like the you we know,” Gabrielle said.

“Thank you. After that, the adventurers had to pull me away, and that is when they told me of the last hope for Madroria. On one of their previous excursions, they’d come across a magic elixir that could heal any wound, lift any curse, cure any disease. It could reverse the ravages of all but death itself. They’d neglected to tell me about it because it was precious beyond value and was not something they would use lightly. As fond as they’d grown of Madroria and me, it was still an item they hesitated to relinquish.”

“Greedy bastards.” Gabrielle spat in the dirt.

“No, I don’t begrudge them their reluctance. These were people who saw danger every day. They would need that elixir themselves, sooner or later, and giving it away could mean the death of one of their own. It was a great kindness of them to even make me a deal, which they did. Madroria and I would serve them, follow as their guides, pack mules, whatever was needed, paying forth our portion of all treasures found until the elixir had been purchased. Needless to say, I leapt at the opportunity. The wizard of their group, a willowy woman with silken hair, produced a bottle that resembled stopped sunshine and poured it down Madroria’s throat.”

Thistle’s eyes grew moist, the battled back tears finally breaking through. He let them this time, for he was now to the part of the tale that filled him with joy. Thistle had no qualms about crying happy tears for his wife; he only avoided those of sadness.