NPCs (2 page)

“Shit,” Gabrielle swore.

“What’s wrong?” Eric asked her, rising to his own feet in concern.

“They’re dead,” Gabrielle said simply.

“What do you mean ‘dead’?” Eric asked.

“What do you think I mean? Dead, gone, no longer with us, passed on, moved on, bugbear food, are you getting this?”

“But, I mean, how? All they did was walk in and drink Grumph’s mead,” Eric said.

“Yes. That’s what killed them,” Gabrielle confirmed.

“WHAT!” Eric shakily drew his sword and turned around to face the half-orc that loomed at least a foot taller than his own thin form. “Grumph, why would you poison some innocent adventurers?”

“Way to go there, Lord Shaky of Valiantville, but that’s not what I meant,” Gabrielle clarified. “They ate Drunken Devil in the woods at some point and then had alcohol. That will kill most people quicker than an axe to the gut.”

“How can you be so sure?” Eric asked.

“The smell coming from their mouths. It’s very distinctive. It’s one of the deadly plants my parents had a tracker teach me about, since I end up kidnapped in the woods a lot. This was right near the top of the list; they showed me victims as well, so I would recognize the symptoms and scents in case it was ever slipped to me. It’s sickly-sweet and yeasty — the same smell coming from their open mouths right now,” Gabrielle explained.

“This is... this is bad,” Eric said, sheathing his sword. “I mean, this sure looks like Grumph poisoned them.”

“Oh, don’t be such a wench,” Gabrielle chastised him. “It’s not that big of a deal. We throw the corpses in the woods and let the monsters take care of the rest. Look at their equipment; these four are nobodies. No priest will be calling their spirits, or checking on why they died if they vanish. Easy fix.”

“Not quite, I’m afraid,” Thistle said, shambling over with a scroll in his hand. “I discovered something while scouring their belongings that complicates matters.”

“Great,” Eric said. “More trouble.”

“That’s putting it lightly. According to this writ, these four were on their way to the court in Solium to receive a quest from King Liadon himself,” Thistle said.

“Wait, so they were summoned to appear before the king in order to receive a quest?” Gabrielle asked.

“Correct, which means from the minute they received this scroll, they have technically been emissaries in the employ of The Mad King, the one who is known to burn whole villages at the slightest perceived offense,” Thistle confirmed.

“So, we have four corpses in royal employ, who are expected in court soon, and who, to an untrained or careless eye, it looks a lot like we’ve poisoned,” Eric said. “That about summing it up?”

“Perfectly so, though you could have mentioned that it isn’t just royal employ, but royal employ that loathes inconvenience and is more than happy to investigate the death of every person who has failed him in any way in hopes of exacting more torture on them, or at least on the people nearby their corpses,” Thistle added.

There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of a stony half-orc voice eloquently summarizing the situation in a single syllable:

“Fuck.”

2.

"Okay, we can handle this, we just have to think. There must be a solution here," Eric rambled, trying desperately, and still failing, to stay calm.

"That would depend greatly on your definition of a solution. Technically, the entire town being laid siege to and everyone we know being killed qualifies as a solution. It just isn't a solution that we find favorable," Thistle pointed out.

"Thank you for the cheer, Thistle," Gabrielle snapped. "We're looking for more constructive feedback, if you don't mind."

"I'm looking over this scroll; searching for anything we might be able to use to swing the blame off of us. Does that not qualify as constructive?"

"It does, and we greatly appreciate it. We're just trying to think of other options in the event you don't discover anything of use," Eric placated.

"Now who’s the pessimist?" Thistle grumbled before turning his attention back to the scroll.

"Maybe we can still just dump the bodies in the woods," Gabrielle ventured. "I mean, we're the only ones who know they came through here. If they just die on the way, then the king might swing by, but he wouldn't have any reason to launch a full inquisition."

"This is less of a 'the king needs a reason' thing and more of a 'the king loves burning shit and killing people' thing," Eric corrected. "If we hide the bodies, and if they don't find them, and if they don't manage to use magic to contact the departed souls, then our best case scenario is still royal forces cutting a swath through a huge chunk of land, searching for those answers. It happened last harvest over in Furgrer."

"Why does he keep employing random adventurers who can be so easily killed?" Gabrielle wondered.

"Again, because he seems to like leaving a trail of destruction in his wake," Eric reminded her.

"Right. Awesome."

Gabrielle and the others had heard terms like these from the various adventurers who wandered through their little hamlet from time to time. It struck the townsfolk as curious that these bands of warriors seemed to have a vernacular all their own, but language is infectious, and over time, they had taken to using such slang as well. Some phrases were more popular than others, though, and no one had discerned a standard meaning for the word pronounced as “pone” despite its recent surge in usage.

"So, the bottom line here is that we're dead," Eric said, a not-so-subtle hint of despair creeping into his voice.

"If only," Thistle corrected him. "That would be far more preferable. Instead, we're looking at the potential death of everyone in town, including friends and family, as well as the burning of our lands and homes to the ground."

There was a sound like muted cannons firing as Grumph cracked his knuckles. "They'll earn it."

"Of that, old friend, I have no doubt," Thistle agreed. "But while you lot were bemoaning your fate, I discovered something fascinating about the quest this scroll charges them with."

"Please let it be something good," Eric said.

"Not on its own, no. It is simply what it is. There is potential in how it can be used, though. You see, it seems this scroll charges the adventurers with appearing before King Liadon in three weeks’ time. It details that they won the honor to serve him by the bravery shown when they stopped a kobold invasion in their own town."

"They killed some small monsters. What does that do for us?" Gabrielle asked.

"Very little, if not nothing. If you had let me finish, however, I would have made my point. This scroll details their exploits and their orders to meet the king, but at no point does it ever refer to them by name, only as the Kobold Slayers of Bluefall.”

"That seems strange," Eric noted.

"Indeed. My money says the king is gearing up for some big hubbub and is recruiting every adventurer who can swing a sword, or cast a spell. Likely, he never knew the names of these four, only heard of their small success and decided to add them to whatever he has planned.” Thistle paused, then tacked on, “That is, of course, mere speculation.”

"If you’re right, it would mean they were summoned to see the king, but they haven't met, or interacted with him yet.” Eric said.

"That would be my deduction," Thistle confirmed. "The scroll merely requests that the team of a paladin, a barbarian, a wizard, and a rogue, known as the Kobold Slayers of Bluefall, attend audience with the king to receive a quest."

"Sorry, but I'm still not seeing how this helps us at all," Gabrielle said.

It was Grumph who clarified the point. He stepped out from behind the bar and walked over to the corpse-laden table. "One," he rumbled, pointing to the armored body. "Two, three, four." He gestured to each corpse in turn. He then turned to face the group and thrust his massive grey finger in Gabrielle's direction. "One." He pointed next at Eric. "Two." He moved his hand to the direction of the already-nodding Thistle. "Three." At last, he jabbed in his own direction, pressing his finger against his tremendous sternum. "Four."

"My thoughts exactly, old friend," Thistle agreed.

"Whoa whoa whoa, let’s just hold on a second here," Eric protested, raising his hands and waving frantically. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Do you think I'm saying our best bet is to don their equipment and carry out the mission ourselves?" Thistle asked in return.

"Yes."

"Then, yes."

"But that's suicide!" Eric all but shrieked. "We don't have any of their experience; we can't just start masquerading as them."

"Experience is gained through adventure, and we still have three weeks of traveling to gain the prerequisite necessary," Thistle pointed out. "They clearly weren't very strong, given how easily they died. It could well be possible to achieve a level of skill comparable to theirs given our training and a few weeks of effort."

"You're insane," Eric said, advancing on the gnome. "You have finally lost your damn mind. There is no way we can pull this off. Back me up here, Gabby."

"Actually," Gabrielle said slowly. “I think I'm on board with this."

"What?
"

"If you think about it, it’s basically certain death versus probable death. If we do nothing, we know the crazy king will do some murdering, and he has the resources to track their death to this tavern. On the other hand, if we pick up the equipment and give it a whirl, we'll still probably die, but at least we have a sliver of hope."

"Not to mention, if we should fall further up the road, then the king will direct his murderous tendencies elsewhere," Thistle said.

Eric had been about to raise another round of objections, but that pulled him up short. Thistle was saying what he should have already realized: their fates were likely sealed regardless of what they did, but it needn't be so for their village. Eric had grown up here; he had friends here; his mother still lived and worked here. Thistle wasn't proposing this plan because he truly believed it would give them a better chance of survival, he was doing it because he believed it would give one to the people they loved. Eric's shoulders slumped as the wind flew out of his proverbial sails.

"You're right," he admitted softly. "We have to do this."

"Glad you're with us," Thistle said. "Now we come to the next part: division of roles. As the scroll stated, we will need a paladin, a rogue, a wizard, and a barbarian."

"I guess I'm probably the best choice for wizard," Gabrielle said, stepping forward. "I have more formal education than the rest of you, and I doubt how much use I'd be in a fight. I'm already always getting kidnapped by goblins."

"True, and despite my crooks and hobbles, I'm likely the best choice for the rogue. I am, after all, not unfamiliar with shady dealings, since I have served as a henchman for many a tyrannical madman," Thistle said.

"But you did that so you could sabotage them and give away their secrets to the warriors trying to take them down," Eric countered.

"Knowledge is knowledge. How it was acquired is of no consequence, only how it is used," Thistle said. "That leaves the barbarian and the paladin."

"The paladin wears the armor, right?" Eric asked.

"Yes," Gabrielle confirmed for him. "They also wear ardent moral standards and the divine blessing of goodness."

"I'm not sure about the other stuff, but I know how to maneuver in armor. It takes some practice, so I'm probably the best choice for that one," Eric said.

"Which leaves only barbarian on the table. Grumph, you possess the raw strength and boot-quaking level of intimidation to play that part well," Thistle said.

Grumph gave only a nod to signal his agreement.

"All right then. Everyone sleep tonight, and say your goodbyes tomorrow. Grumph and I will move the corpses, then tend to our own farewells. Meet back here at this same time tomorrow night," Thistle told them. "We'll loot the bodies and be on our way."

"The words that start every great adventure," Gabrielle quipped sarcastically.

She might have been surprised to discover how accurate that statement truly was.

3.

Eric packed a small bag of essentials from the modest farmhouse where he lived. He’d only had it for a few years, finally earning enough money as a guard for the local mayor to move out from under his mother’s roof. He wasn’t a particularly adept guard, in truth; the goblins had slipped by and taken Gabrielle no fewer than three times on his watch. In fact, were it not for his and Gabrielle’s childhood friendship, the mayor likely would have dismissed him long ago. Thankfully, the mayor knew his daughter had few friends, so he’d deigned to keep Eric on the payroll, quasi-ineptitude and all.

Eric slung the knapsack over his shoulder and adjusted his armor. He was already exhausted; sleep had eluded him the night before thanks to his bone-quaking levels of worry. Eric slipped his father’s old sword into its sheath and checked his reflection in the mirror. When he’d become a guard, Eric had expected to see himself the way he saw them: heroic and stalwart, warriors in their shining armor. Instead, he thought he looked like a child playing dress up, his ill-fitting armor cinched tightly around his narrow frame. Eric’s mother often spoke of his father, the great paladin and unconquerable swordsman. Eric supposed he must take after her side of the family, though, a line of not-unimpressive seamstresses and tailors.

He looked around his home one last time, then set out to bid farewell to his mother. He hoped that the next time he came upon this cottage, it would not be mere ashes under the king’s heel.

* * *

Gabrielle didn’t bother with goodbyes, since her parents wouldn’t have let her go anyway. It was all well and good for men to strike out alone, but there was no way her family would tolerate a lady leaving her father’s homestead before marriage. She packed a sack of rations and changed into her horse-riding outfit once morning broke over the horizon. After breakfast, she gave her mother a hug and her father a kiss and told them she was going to spend the day riding the horses. Gabrielle adored riding, and she often went late into the night with her equine friends. When she didn’t come home, they’d be annoyed, but not worried. It wouldn’t be until the next morning that they’d suspect she might not be returning.