NPCs (4 page)

As it turned out, Opportunity had far less patience than Thistle.

* * *

The goblin camp was somewhat homier than Thistle had imagined. Certainly, there were bulwarks of defense: archer stations, barriers to trip horses, even a few oddly-colored patches of earth Thistle suspected to be traps. But there were also things that made no sense in this setting, things like goblin children racing around, goblin cooks tending to the night’s evidently sizable dinner, and several goblin musicians warming up their strange instruments as the last valiant rays of sunlight dotted the landscape.

“Gabby, is the camp always so domestic?” Thistle asked. Their cages had been parked next to one another, while Grumph’s sat on the other side of the fire that was the center point of the camp. The goblins had clearly dealt with half-orcs enough to minimize the damage he’d have the opportunity to do.

“No, this is how it is when they aren’t baiting adventurers,” Gabrielle replied. “Once the runner goes out in the morning, they’ll move everyone but the warriors to some other site. Then, once it’s over, they’ll all come back.”

“To what? Corpses?” Eric asked. “Won’t the warriors be dead after they fight the adventurers?”

“What? Why would you think that? This is their home turf, and they know the adventurers are coming. The goblins almost always win, and even if they lose, they’re smart enough to have a retreat plan.”

“Then why do you always come back after the adventurers leave to get you?” Eric kept probing.

“Because they let me go. I’m just bait to lure the adventurers in so they can loot them. Once that’s done, they let me go until they’re ready to trap another party.” Gabrielle looked at him, eyes filled with bewilderment that he’d even needed to ask the question.

“Knock off the innocent act, Gabby,” Thistle chided. “If you really didn’t see anything strange with how you’d been treated, then you’d have told us some of this before.”

“Fine, so maybe the kidnappings weren’t as bad as everyone assumed.” Gabrielle breathed out a heavy sigh and let the faux innocence slide away. “At first, it was scary. But after a while, it’s hard not to find some common ground with people you see every day. Honestly, for the last few years, these events have been like vacations for me, trips outside the protective bubble of being the Mayor of Maplebark’s daughter.”

Eric didn’t know what to say to this, his eyes darting about nervously. As they moved, he saw action in another part of the camp and decided a change of subject was in order.

“Hey, what are they doing over there?”

Gabrielle glanced over. “Oh, it looks like they found an abandoned caravan and are sorting the goods.”

In front of a large building, easily the most hardily-constructed and well-defended in the camp, stood several goblins wearing makeshift armor. Before them were other goblins leading ponies and a cart filled nearly to the brim with bric-a-brac. In the center of the crowd was an older goblin wearing a dirt-brown robe, examining each item as it came off the cart. Some he sent into the building, others were moved to a different spot in the camp, and a few went back on the cart.

“The one in the middle is an elder; he’s tasked with figuring out which pieces of loot have the most value. Those go in the storage building. Bits that are useful, but not expensive, are given out to others in the camp that can use them. The things going back into the cart are for the other scavenger teams to split up, based on who needs what. When they sell the expensive items at market in a few weeks, everyone will get a cut,” Gabrielle explained.

“You’d think the ones who found it would get more,” Eric pointed out.

“Goblins don’t think like that. They regard everyone in the tribe as one big party, and believe in a system of equal treasure sharing,” Gabrielle informed him.

There might have been more discussion of goblin economics, had the elder not chosen that moment to open a small box he’d been handed, revealing a glowing red gem the size of Grumph’s fist. Excited grunts and clicks filled the area around them, many goblins crowding in to get a closer look. From the vantage point of the cage-carts, the three rookie adventurers could make out the soft radiance of presumably magical light and the dazzling red surface. It was only Eric, however, whose eyes noticed the slight swirls of color within the gem, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“Strange,” Thistle remarked. “If they found an abandoned caravan, one would have expected the people who left it to take such a clearly valuable item.”

“Maybe it was hit by robbers?”

“Robbers who left this much stuff?” Gabrielle said. “I saw them take in small sets of armor and what I suspect was a magical bow earlier. No bandit in their right mind leaves behind equipment like that.”

“They could have been eaten by monsters,” Eric suggested.

“At present, that seems like the most likely option,” Thistle agreed.

Their conversation was cut short by the sound of the door to Thistle and Eric’s cage opening. A pair of goblins stood in the doorway, with several more just outside. The message of “don’t try anything” came through loud and clear before a single click was uttered. Another team of goblins opened the door to Gabrielle’s cage, motioning her to exit with far kinder expression.

The one nearest to Thistle, tall for a goblin and wearing a red buckler on his arm, spoke up.

“He wants you to take off the armor,” Gabrielle translated, looking at Eric as she was escorted over to their cage-cart. None but the paladin corpse had armor that would fit them, and Eric had examined it only to determine it would be more effort than it was worth to try and get accustomed to it. Instead, he’d elected to keep his guard armor on, since that, at least, he was accustomed to dealing with. When they’d been captured, part of him had hoped they’d leave it be, but now, he realized it was merely a matter of waiting for a more convenient time to take it from him.

Red Buckler clicked again.

“He says they will cut it off you, but they’d prefer if you did this voluntarily, since it will damage the armor less.”

“Sure, why not,” Eric sighed, pulling himself to his feet. “Honestly, I don’t even like wearing the stuff. It’s heavy, it’s loud, and I’m always tripping over myself wearing it.” He began carefully removing each piece, a process that grew quicker as the amount of armor he wore lessened. “Still, I don’t think I’m much a paladin without any armor.”

“Right now, the only identity aspect any of us should concern ourselves with is staying alive,” Thistle reminded him.

Eric continued to strip off the metal adornments until they all lay in a pile at his feet. Red Buckler stayed by the door, while the other goblins formed a quick conveyor line to move the armor out of the cage. Once that was done, Gabrielle was sent into the cage with Thistle and Eric. Before the door was closed, a burlap sack was brought in and set before them. Red Buckler made a few goblin sounds and left.

“He thanked us for being cooperative,” Gabrielle said.

Thistle opened the sack to reveal a generous amount of bread, cheese, meat slices, and even a bottle of wine.

“I’ve been held by worse hosts, I’ll give them that,” Thistle said, helping himself to a slice of bread.

* * *

In the transport of the party after the scramble, their equipment had been strapped to the backs of various goblins, since they obviously weren’t going to allow prisoners to have weapons. The only item of difficulty had been the spellbook. Goblins understood the value of magic, especially when bargaining, however, they also knew that magical items were unstable, and the less time spent around them, the safer. Spellbooks especially were frequently booby-trapped by wizards to discourage their theft. The result of this knowledge was a healthy disinterest in being the goblin stuck holding onto any items dealing with magic. After five minutes of bickering about who would have to hold the book, they’d ultimately reached the compromise of throwing it in the cage with the half-orc. If it was trapped, it would only hurt him, and the worst thing he would be able to do by reading it was set himself on fire, or turn his feet into pudding.

At first, Grumph had ignored the book, focusing instead on taking in his surroundings and examining his cage for weak points. Once they arrived, and he was stuck away from the rest of his party, boredom teamed up with curiosity to prompt him into flipping through its pages. The vast majority of them were blank; only about five had actually been filled out. The wizard it belonged to truly had been just starting out. Each spell was interesting, a combination of mental images, physical gestures, and specific words; all required to invoke the magic contained within. For most, they would have been very difficult to memorize, especially under pressure. For a veteran bartender who memorized all his mead recipes so they couldn’t be stolen, it was relatively easy. Strangely, in all of the specific instructions for how to cast each spell, there was never any mention of what the effects would be. Grumph quickly realized this was likely by design, so that, even if the book was stolen, anyone with a smattering of sense would be too smart to cast a spell they couldn’t predict.

The flaw in this strategy was that it failed to take into account a person who was aware they could soon find themselves in a life or death situation. Grumph turned back to the first page and began reading again. He didn’t know if barbarians were supposed to cast spells, but he didn’t really care. If a spell-casting barbarian was an oddity, then he would simply be the first.

Grumph had never been one to wait for others to clear the trail in advance.

5.

As night fell in earnest, more goblins began gathering in the central area of the camp. Tables were set up, food brought out, and charming melodies filled the air as the musicians started to play. Though the sound wasn’t traditional or familiar to anyone but Gabrielle, each of the party members found themselves enjoying it. Warm, peppy, and with an exciting tempo, the music helped make them feel at least somewhat at ease with their situation.

“Do they always party like this?” Eric asked.

Gabrielle shook her head. “This is the celebration they throw the night before trying to bait adventurers. It’s partly an offering to Grebspluk, one of the goblin deities of the hunt, but mostly, it’s a last meal with the warriors and their families. Some of them probably won’t live to see another hunt.”

“I’ve often wondered about that, actually,” Thistle piped up. “Why bother luring out adventurers at all? Surely there are safer ways to live.”

“I asked that once,” Gabrielle said. “They know adventurers would come after them anyway — though they aren’t sure why — but this way, they control the circumstances and give themselves the best chance of survival. Evidently, almost no adventurers go goblin hunting when there’s a kidnapping to pursue. Plus, they get about thirty percent of their income from looting dead adventurers.”

Thistle let out a low whistle that sounded dry despite the ample water available to them. “A not-unhefty sum.”

“I’m still stuck on the fact that they have a deity named Grebspluk,” Eric admitted.

“It’s a rough translation. Gobleck names sound like the rest of the language. Part of why I haven’t tried to introduce any of you.”

“Still seems silly,” Eric replied.

“Don’t be too quick to judge another’s deity,” Thistle cautioned. “I, myself, am a devout follower of a god with an unimpressive name. Yet Grumble is a kind and devoted god to his followers.”

“I’ve never heard of a god named Grumble,” Gabrielle said.

“Nor would I have expected you to. His shrines are modest, and off to the side in any temple, but they are abundant if you know how to find them. Grumble is the god of henchmen and minions. Once a former lackey himself, after his deification he chose to look over his own people rather than putting on airs.”

“I can see how that guy might get some followers,” Eric said. He knew the minions were the lowest on the hierarchy of any organization, regarded as disposable and useless by most commanders. At that thought, he took a long stretch, enjoying the sensation of his muscles’ movements now that he was unrestrained by the armor. In truth, he hadn’t been much more than a minion himself. Maybe he should drop a prayer to this deity next time he was in a temple.

Around them, the festivities had begun to escalate. As plates were cleaned of food, more goblins transitioned from eating to dancing. There was no established pattern that any of the adventurers could make out, no coordinated effort to create a temporary moment of sublime beauty. Mostly, it was just each goblin going out near the fire, finding a spot clear of others, and thrashing about in whatever way delighted them most. There was no grace or delicacy in their movements, yet it was strangely entrancing all the same. Perhaps it was the way they felt so free to dance in any style that pleased them, with no apprehension, or fear of being judged by the others of their tribe.

The musicians picked up the tempo. This, it seemed, was an unspoken signal, as many more goblins rose from their seats and began to dance. Soon, there wasn’t room enough for everyone to move without contacting another, but this didn’t dissuade them. Small claws scraped against a neighbor’s skin, feet were stomped on repeatedly, and occasionally a pair would end up tangled together, crashing to the ground in a still-writhing heap. None of this seemed to diminish the goblins’ enjoyment in the slightest.

No, what it took to kill the party was a massive explosion from the rear of the camp that sent chunks of wood and unknown trinkets flying through the air. The music stopped abruptly, and the dancers immediately crouched into ready positions. Some of the warriors reached for the weapons at their sides, and the archers on the perimeter turned their attention to the smoking husk. It was their storage building, now bathed in a soft red glow from the pieces that were still on fire. For a moment, silence descended upon the camp, save only for the soft crackling of the flames.

Then they heard the clacking of claws and the scraping of feet.

* * *

Eric said nothing as he stared at the blade still quivering in the wood less than two inches from his head. There hadn’t been time to react, not rationally, when they heard the explosion. Eric had merely glanced at the storage building, seen something coming, and hurled himself to the side. So great was the force from the blast that the axe Grumph had been carrying whipped through one set of the cage’s bars with ease, sinking at least halfway into the wooden barriers on the other side. Eric was intimately familiar with that spot; his head had been there only an instant before.