NPCs (7 page)

What he’d struck was open to debate; however, its effects were quite apparent. With a blood-spewing grunt, the demon wobbled and collapsed, three inches of polearm shaft still poking out from its ribs. For good measure, and because you can’t trust demons, the other goblins immediately took off its head. As for the warrior who’d struck the killing blow, he picked up another discarded polearm and headed off to find more demons.

That was the goblin way.

* * *

Thistle had never much focused on how he’d die. A gnome born like he was, with no talent for magic, meant he’d had to accept his mortality very early on. It was only cleverness and the support of good friends that had kept him alive this long, and now, it seemed he would be killed aiding one of those very same friends. Thistle had never thought much about how he would die, but this seemed like a pretty good way to go, all things considered.

The demon advanced slowly, wary of the knife still dancing in Thistle’s hand. For all the broken bits of his body, Thistle’s hands had always been shockingly nimble. Truthfully, he credited luck, or the gods, for that last throw. He was talented, but that had been spectacular. Thistle moved back slowly and carefully. It wouldn’t do much good if he died before Grumph had a chance to pull himself up and escape. Though curious to check on his friend, Thistle didn’t dare turn away from the approaching monster. This was why he didn’t see Grumph making the strange gestures with his hand, nor hear him muttering something in his deep, half-orc voice.

There are precious few things that can draw the attention of a demon that has just had a dagger planted in its eye, but one of them, it turned out, was a freezing blast of ice magic striking it in the back. The cold was so intense that, for a moment, Thistle’s teeth tried to chatter, even being several feet away from the impact. The demon whirled around and Thistle couldn’t help but look too.

Sure enough, still slumped over, a swirl of blue magical energy dissipating off his fingers like fog in the sun, Grumph was looking at the demon with an expression of triumph. Thistle didn’t even have time to wonder what had his friend so happy as the demon immediately charged. That made it clear: the big idiot was trying to save Thistle, while Thistle had been trying to save him. The futility of it all would have made Thistle stamp his misshapen foot, if there’d been time.

The gnome’s brain kicked into high gear, immediately assessing the situation. He had no hope of getting between the half-orc and the demon in time; the monster’s back was to him, so another eye shot was out of the question, and he doubted verbal taunts would draw its ire more than the ice spell had. Since he was out of any practical options, all that remained was banking on the impossible.

“Grumble,” he prayed, lifting up his remaining blade and taking aim at the moving demon’s spine. “Though I know I am not actively henching right now, I would still dearly appreciate any assistance you’d be willing to give.” A strange tinkling sound, like bells he’d known in childhood, filled his ears, and Thistle let the dagger fly.

It struck the demon square in the back, though it did not sink in and sever the spine, as Thistle had hoped. Instead, it continued onward, carving through the demon’s bones and flesh and exploding out the other the side in a shower of muscle and blood. The goblin knife had somehow left a hole in the demon’s chest so large that Thistle and Grumph were able to make eye contact through it. The demon fell down dead, and the knife clattered to the ground some feet away, tendrils of white smoke rising off it.

For a moment, there was only silence between the two, neither one certain of what to say in such a strange situation. Then, a cheer went up from the center of the camp as the goblins killed the final demon. The outpouring of elation was enough to loosen Thistle’s tongue, just a bit.

“I might need to buy some of these daggers before we go,” he commented, moving toward the blade that was finally beginning to cease smoking. “That is some fine craftsmanship if ever I’ve seen it.”

Grumph snorted in agreement, then set about the cumbersome task of getting himself off the ground.

8.

It was several hours before the chaos finally gave way to some semblance of organization. The warrior goblins conducted a thorough sweep of the perimeter, ensuring no other demons were waiting to ambush them once their guard was down. Non-warriors and children were brought back into camp and immediately herded to the most fortified buildings still standing. The fires were put out, and the corpses of the fallen were gathered in a previously empty building. The reason it had been empty, evidently, was that it was used exactly for occasions like this.

The adventuring party had regrouped quickly, Eric and Grumph spying each other across the sea of short heads. Thistle was still with Grumph, a bloody dagger tucked securely in his boot. Finding Gabrielle had been more difficult. They searched for some time, trying to communicate with the goblins through cross-species charades. Thankfully, one of the non-warriors finally took their meaning and led them into a tent near the center of camp.

Cots dotted the landscape, all filled with beings that had sustained considerable wounds. Most were goblins; however, on the largest bed lay Gabrielle. Several goblins were tending to her: removing her bandages, applying a green salve, and reapplying new bandages. Others were checking her for fever and giving her water. As her friends watched the treatment, one of the goblins noticed the poorly-plugged hole on Grumph’s shoulder and motioned him over. After a few minutes, Grumph had been properly tended to as well. Gabrielle’s treatment, sadly, was not so easy.

Although they wanted to stay by her side, it soon became apparent that being in the medical tent was hindering more than helping. So, with heavy hearts, the three walked out into the camp, found some unoccupied space, and pulled out their bedrolls. It was certainly possible they’d be recaptured in their sleep, but none of them could hold onto such concerns as the weight of a stressful night came crashing down upon them.

Within a minute of lying down, all three were sleeping soundly.

* * *

Thistle knew he was dreaming as soon he opened his eyes. In part it was because he felt entirely lucid, so much so that he could piece together the impossibility of passing out in a goblin camp and awakening in a church. The other part, however, was because he knew this church very well, and he knew with certainty that if he was here, and no one was yelling at him, then it must certainly be a dream.

Carefully, Thistle pulled himself up from the pew where he’d been lying. It was all the same as he remembered: same large ceiling, causing a breeze; same enchanted glass windows, swirling with ever-changing colors, and same dusty rug running up to the pulpit. That was when Thistle realized that something had changed. Instead of a glowing orb surrounded by mist, the symbol of Mithingow, the gnome god, there was a picture of a broom with a dagger tied to the top. This was the symbol of Grumble, god of the minions.

Thistle had no sooner reached this revelation than he saw a male kobold (at least, male if Thistle correctly recalled how to interpret the number of spines atop their head) hop up onto the pulpit from the front pew. He was scaly and orange, though the bits around his knees and elbows were starting to look ashen. His lizard’s head was wide, yet, when it paused to flash a smile, Thistle found it oddly comforting. The kobold walked to the front but didn’t take a place behind the altar. Instead, he moved in front of it and looked directly at Thistle.

“Underwhelmed? It’s okay if you are. I get that a lot.”

“No, nothing like that,” Thistle told him. “Just surprised. It’s not often one dreams of meeting their god.”

“This is a dream, but I think we both know it’s not just happening in your head,” Grumble informed him. “I’ve come to have a talk with you.”

“Forgive my foreboding, but those words rarely mean good things, coming from deities.”

“Well, I guess you’re not wrong,” Grumble agreed. “I’ve come to discuss something, and whether it’s good, or bad, will be up to you.”

“This is about the knife, isn’t it?”

Grumble shook his head. “No, this is about the prayer you said right before you threw the knife. I’m not the most popular god in the pantheon — I’m the first to admit it — but I get my fair share of prayers. ‘Please, don’t let the master beat me tonight’ is a big one; right up there with, ‘Please, don’t let these adventurers find my hiding spot.’ Yours, though, that was a rarity: one of my worshippers charging into danger, rather than scrambling away from it, and all to save a friend.”

“Your faith does teach the importance of looking out for one another,” Thistle said.

Grumble hopped down from the pulpit and landed on the dusty rug. He’d have been shorter than a normal gnome, but Thistle’s crooked body left him eye-level with his deity.

“It does teach that, but you went above and beyond. What you did was brave, and selfless, and, dare I say, noble.”

Comprehension dropped on Thistle like Grumph after too many shots of dwarven whiskey. “Ohhh, no. No no no no. No way. Look at me, you know this doesn’t work.”

“I’ll admit, you’re not exactly what most gods look for, but I don’t get a lot of options from my following. Besides, technically speaking, I don’t have to ask, you know.” Grumble walked forward until he was only a few paces away from Thistle. “I can just give you the calling, and then it’s there, and you’re stuck with it.”

“Aye, you could do that. But I don’t think you will,” Thistle ventured.

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re the god of the minions: those who are already shoved around and controlled by the powerful. If you were the kind of god who did that, you’d never have chosen us to look over in the first place.”

Grumble gave a brief nod. “You caught me. I don’t force this on anyone. If you tell me your final answer is no, then I’ll let it be. You can consider what happened with the dagger a divine boon, and go on your way.”

“My final answer is—” Thistle kept mouthing words, but found his voice no longer functioned.

“You could at least hear me out,” Grumble said. “That would be the polite thing to do.”

Thistle gave no response; however, he did close his mouth and cease his attempts to talk.

“Good enough. Anyway, there are perks to what I’m offering. Increased strength, a significant bump in endurance, and the ability to bless weapons, not quite as extreme as you saw tonight, but still impressive. Plus, there are the non-combat boons: some divine magic, prayer priority when calling your god, and, of course, healing.” Grumble leaned forward on the word “healing,” so close that Thistle could feel the breath from his snout.

“If you have something to say, please just say it,” Thistle urged, glad to hear his voice had returned.

“The woman who was with you, she’s not long for this world, and Grumph will only be a few days behind her. Demon claws are nasty things. The damage they do gets in the blood, rots the body from the inside out. Herbs and time won’t save them. They need healing magic, the kind powered by a divine backer.”

“That’s your deal: do what you want, or you let my friends die?”

“Thistle, I’m not the one who attacked them. I didn’t unleash those demons. Honestly, if not for your prayer, I never would have known about any of this,” Grumble said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I’m not trying to bully you. I’m offering a way to save them, something you wouldn’t have any other way to do. Without this conversation, they’d have just died and that would be the end of it. I’m trying to help.”

“I’ll grant you that,” Thistle said after a moment’s consideration. “But it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re helping in a way that gets you what you want.”

“I am still a god, after all. There’s a certain way these things are done.”

“Aye. All right then, you win. I’ll do it, on one condition.” Thistle paused for the barest of instants. “Madroria.”

“Your wife?”

Thistle nodded. “As long as serving you won’t put me in a place where I can’t see her in the afterlife, I’m in.”

“My word is given. When your time in my service is done, I will ensure your spirit is reunited with your wife’s.”

Thistle felt a surge of power, one that rippled out from his god and seemed to pulse all around them. One thing you could say about gods: they always kept their promises. They were bound by them.

“So, how do I do this?”

“You just promise to serve me, and then you wake up,” Grumble explained.

“I promise to serve you,” Thistle promptly replied.

“Really? That’s it? I mean, I don’t get many of these, and I thought you’d put a little more theatricality into it,” Grumble, well, grumbled.

Thistle choked back a sigh, which was the warning sign of a sarcastic retort. He was going to be working with this deity for some time; it would serve them both better to keep things civil.

“Oh, mighty Grumble, god of minions and henchmen, overseer of them who keep the world running, yet remain overlooked, I pledge myself to your service, and swear to uphold your standards while glorifying your name.”

“Much better,” Grumble said with a smile. “Welcome to my service, Thistle the Paladin.”

* * *

When the gnome re-entered the tent, flanked on either side by a bewildered human and a half-orc whose bandages were now removed, the goblins were a touch confused. When he jostled his way to the side of Gabrielle, moving others aside politely, but firmly, they grew concerned. It was only when he pressed his hands on her stomach and the dim glow of golden light began emanating from them that they put everything together. At their capture, the goblins had assumed these folks were searching for a quest, looking to become adventurers, yet not strong enough to actually go by the title. Once the light faded and Gabrielle’s eyes flickered open, there was no doubt left.

In the battle, something had changed. One of them, at least, had become a true adventurer.

* * *

Despite the divine patch-job, it was several more hours before Gabrielle was cleared by the goblins’ medical team and allowed to join her friends. She found them at one of the few tables not destroyed in the previous evening’s chaos, eating a few bits of jerky and large amounts of fruit.