by Sean Gibson
“Get bent!” replied the Widow Gershon, spitting a wad of tobacco near the Alderman’s right foot.
“Of course, madam,” said the Alderman, somehow remaining polite. “Raise your hands if you support option one.”
About a quarter of the people in the room raised their hands. The Alderman nodded. “Hmmm. You do understand that there is no sexual congress involved, correct?” Most of the men lowered their hands. “Now then—raise your hands if you support option two.”
The remainder of the people in the room raised their hands, including one man who had already raised his hand for option one.
“I’m sorry, Gerard,” said the Alderman, “but you can’t vote for both options. It won’t affect the outcome, but, ah, given that this is on the record, I’d like to make sure the tally is accurate.”
Gerard gave him a blank look, scratched his head, scratched his crotch, and then sniffled. “What was the question?”
It really wouldn’t have been a tragedy if the dragon had chosen to eat everyone.
“We’ll call that a vote for option two,” said the Alderman. “Very well—it is decided: the Village of—”
“Town!” shouted a bearded man near the back of the room.
For the first time, the Alderman showed a hint of annoyance. “Fine. The Village, the Town…whatever…of Skendrick hereby declares that it will seek aid from a group of adventurers to slay the dragon that has plagued our fair vil…er, tow…ah, place that we live, to be rewarded from the city’s treasury.” He turned to an elderly woman seated in the front row. “Loalia,” he said, “how much do we, ah, have in the coffers for this purpose?”
The Village Treasurer rose shakily to her feet with the aid of a cane. She couldn’t have been a day over four hundred years old. “Once we pay for the damage caused by this most recent attack…well, let’s just say we’ll have to hope there are some hard-up adventuring groups running end-of-year sales. Then see if we can get a discount.”
The Alderman, as enterprising a person as there was in Skendrick, which is a little bit like saying he was the kindest orc in the grope (“grope,” of course, being the technical term for a group of orcs, for reasons it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out), ran his hand over his chin in a pondering pose that would have been hackneyed if it wasn’t being described by a bard of such incomparable skill. “Well, how about we think of it as an opportunity for an, ah, up-and-coming group of adventurers to make a name for themselves, and the real reward will be the reputational benefits that will redound to them if they defeat the dragon. Oh, and all of the treasure they can plunder from the dragon’s lair, of course.”
Chapter 4
IT IS A RARE BREED THAT CAN COMPLETE AN EPIC DEED
Truly legendary warriors are not born; they are forged in the crucible of combat, tempered in battles that call for fire in the heart and ice in the veins. Sure, they build their skills in the same way a fletcher or wheelwright might, starting with the basic building blocks and gradually learning more and more sophisticated techniques. The stakes, however, are much higher for adventurers—failure means not merely the loss of occupation or income, but rather the loss of limb, or even life. Thus, it is only the bravest and heartiest (and, some might suggest, foolish) individuals who seek this path, for what sane person wishes to face down a dragon’s fire, dodge a bolt of lightning flung from an evil wizard’s staff, or take on a horde of orcs who threaten to overrun the land of civilized folk?
Fortunately, there are those among us who are willing to take on such challenges, and who have the courage, instincts, and talent to survive their earliest adventures so that they might mature into the types of warriors who can complete even the most impossible quests. It is just such a noble group that this tale is about, a group that came together at just the right place and just the right time, driven together by a combination of coincidence and necessity.
Before those heroes were ready to aid the good people of Skendrick, however, they needed to complete another quest, one that would test their mettle and their commitment and instill them with the confidence they needed to take on an even more daunting mission.
If, that is, they could survive…
Chapter 5
NOW, I’M NOT SAYING THEY WEREN’T HEROIC, MIND YOU…
Bards smooth the rough edges of reality and make even the most bumbling idiots look like heroes. We like to think of ourselves as beacons of knowledge, illuminating every corner of the world by sharing insightful tales of the human condition, but, really, we’re just glorified ale sellers. Ultimately, our job is to entertain patrons whom the owners of the taverns in which we ply our trade would prefer to drink heavily. Each story has a comforting rhythm to it, a familiar cadence that soothes and lulls unsuspecting patrons into having a third (or fourth, or fifth) ale. To do that, we obscure and ignore certain facts, particularly the mundane and boring parts of adventuring (with rare and generally perverted exceptions, no one wants to know how and where heroes pee), while taking a little creative license to jazz things up. In this instance, though, I think the boring and mundane parts are pretty entertaining, and you’re still welcome to drink heavily while I tell it.
The adventuring group that would eventually answer Skendrick’s call for help was undeniably brave, but they were far from legendary, or even particularly experienced. In fact, the group had only recently come together through circumstances that, in and of themselves, would make for an interesting tale, though I’ll save it for another occasion. (That’s right, printers—there’s already a prequel ready and waiting for you; I’m the kind of woman who thinks ahead…or, behind, I guess…and maybe occasionally about behinds, but only if they’re really spectacular, and generally only if they’re dwarven.) I will, however, tell you about an incident that happened just before they took up the quest to slay the dragon, which will give you some idea about both the group itself and the adventuring life in general.
Rumscrabble Tooltinker, all four feet and nine inches of him, stood in the center of a public square in the city (not to be confused with a town, village, or townage) of Velenia, surrounded by a group of people not much smaller than himself. Unlike Rumscrabble, a very rare half-dwarf, half-halfling (quarterling?), those around him were human children, notwithstanding the presence of a few mothers—of the children present, as opposed to people who just happened to be mothers standing near children who were not their own, which would be weird. Rummy, as he was known for numerous reasons (in addition to being shorter and easier to say than “Rumscrabble,” it also described his disposition and the generally spicy scent—not necessarily unpleasant—of his breath), held the rapt attention of his audience, who oohed and aahed at each new feat of prestidigitation he performed.
Side note: I don’t generally use a two-gold-piece word when a copper piece word will do, but in certain parts of Erithea, “prestidigitation” is the technical and professional term for sleight-of-hand tricks performed solely through non-magical means. Some street magicians are literally magicians, and their tricks and conjurations involve everything from simple, environment-affecting cantrips to elaborate illusions; others, however—generally less successful, but no less abundant—rely solely on quick hands, nimble fingers, and misdirection to wow their audiences, and Rummy falls into that group. The only thing magical about him was his ability to consume liquor in quantities that would fell a Cormanthian yak beast and still be able to pull off a successful shell game, complete with snappy patter. I’m not even sure I would dare to get into a drinking contest with him. I think it was his rare genetic heritage; the dwarven side gave him a higher level of tolerance than most and the halfling side gave him ample room to store it—I swear, it’s like they’ve got a hollow leg.
It was easy to see why the children couldn’t take their eyes off of Rummy—with his muttonchops, wiry goatee, sunny smile, dark brown skin, and a pair of golden, wire-framed spectacles perched on the bridge of his bulbous nose, he looked like your favorite uncle (just shorter), and his charisma wa
s matched only by his deft sleight-of-hand skills. The children’s mothers were no less enraptured, and Rummy worked both children and adults into his act, asking them to hold onto birds that disappeared beneath silk handkerchiefs, instructing them to draw cards that then showed up elsewhere later in the performance, and making them hold still while he pulled increasingly (and comically) larger coins from a range of ears. An observant bystander might have noticed him performing a higher proportion of ear-pulling tricks with the mothers and lingering a bit longer with them than the children, and that bystander might assume that it was simply the behavior of a lascivious quarterling who had a thing for human women of a certain age.
Rummy, however, was anything but a ladies’ man, having rarely, if ever, shown any interest in the fair sex; his interest in the mother members of the audience was less lewd, lascivious, lustful, lecherous, or libidinous than it was financially motivated (or maybe “larcenous”).
Incidentally, why are women the “fair sex”? What does that even mean? I resent the implication that because I lack a dangly part, I’m expected to be fair in any sense of the word—I mean, I am undoubtedly fair in the sense of my complexion, and if one takes “fair” to mean “attractive,” well, that’s certainly true, too (objectively speaking). I’m certainly not gentle, demure, or deferential, however, and goodness knows I’ll just as readily punch someone—man or woman, incidentally—in the crotch as I will the face in the middle of a bar brawl. I’d suggest that we refer to women as the “superior sex,” but that would be sexist of me (albeit factually accurate).
After concluding his performance with an astonishing feat that involved the apparent transformation of a pair of pigeons into a jar of cookies that was then passed around to a cheering audience of sugar-addicted kids, Rummy took a bow and sauntered on down the street. As he walked, an elven woman sidled up next to him and matched his pace, though neither looked at each other and, for a moment, they walked in silence.
The woman was tall and striking by human standards with long blond hair and pale blue eyes, though on the plain side by eleven standards. She walked with the ease of someone who is confident in her ability to handle both the longbow slung over her shoulder and the very sharp sword that hung from her belt. She wore plain leathers, well cared for but worn with use, and her skin was freckled from long hours spent in the sun.
After the pair turned a corner, the woman glanced over at Rummy and said, “How many?”
“Ho ho! Whatever are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m straight asking how many mothers of young children you just robbed.”
Rummy shook his head and frowned. “Such an ugly word, ‘robbed.’ That’s something hoodlums do.” He sniffed.
“And what are you?”
“An entertainer who simply collects payment for his performances in a discreet way that saves audience members the hassle of having to stand in line to purchase a ticket or the unseemly embarrassment of handing money over directly.”
“How many?”
“There were eleven paying customers for today’s performance, which I humbly submit was a very fine one.”
“Unwilling paying customers.”
“I would suggest we call them ‘unwitting’ paying customers instead—who’s to say how they feel about it? It’s entirely possible, given the thrills they experienced during the show, that they might have wished to pay even more than they unwittingly did. And, they got cookies, so there’s that.”
Nadinta Ghettinwood shook her head, both exasperated and amused. “You didn’t take too much, I hope?”
Rummy shook his head vigorously. “Never, dear Nadi! I love those wee lads and lasses, and I’d never take the food out of their mouths. A pittance! ‘Far less in coin than received in pleasure.’ Which, apparently, is the motto of the local house of ill repute.”
Nadinta frowned. “And how do you know that? We haven’t even been here for a full day.”
“Only because I can read—don’t fret.” Rummy pointed across the street to a sign with that very motto hanging from the balcony of a classy building that looked out of place in the rundown neighborhood through which they walked. “I assume that a place called ‘The Soiled Peacock’ is a house of ill repute, anyway.” He scratched his beard. “I suppose it could it could be a bathhouse for birds, in which case the motto might still be readily, if a bit less aptly, applied.”
“Speaking of birds…you’re an odd one.”
“So I’ve been told.” The pair walked in silence for a few more minutes before Rummy spoke again. “Do we have a plan?”
Nadi took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. “I’m working on it. I have an idea, but it’s not fully baked yet.”
“Where are Whiska and Borg?”
Nadinta rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you two guesses.”
“Ah, I’ve always been good at guessing games! Now, let me think.” Rummy tapped his fingers on his chin as he walked. “Let’s start with Borg: he must be at the Feed Bag. Still.”
Nadinta nodded. “Got it in one.” The Feed Bag was a well-known experimental restaurant in Velenia, one in which, for a fixed price (two silver pieces and five copper), a patron could eat as much as he wanted, refilling his plate over and over until he was satisfied. Everyone thought this was a risky venture until it proved profitable mere weeks after opening, but the arrival of rock giant Borgunder Gunderbor seemed sure to change that situation. Rock giants, of which Borg was a particularly impressive example, stand about nine feet tall, weigh upwards of a full five hundred pounds, and essentially look like a miniature mountain come to life. They have considerable appetites, particularly when it comes to sweets. The Feed Bag’s pastry chef would be working overtime.
“As for Whiska…hmmm. Cockfight?”
Nadinta shook her head. “Not this time.”
“Bear fight?”
“Not legal in Velenia.”
“Yes, laws and regulations are always such effective deterrents when it comes to preventing sick people from making animals fight to the death,” said Rummy with his most sarcastic edge, which, truth be told, was not particularly edgy, given his habitual cheerfulness.
“Fair point, but no—she’s not at a bear fight.”
“Cage fight? Wrestling match? Boxing bout?”
“She doesn’t only go to violent events, you know.”
“So, then, she’s drinking.”
“Yes.” Nadi sighed. “And possibly trying to start a praying mantis fight.”
“Those aren’t illegal here?”
Nadi shook her head again. “Frowned upon, but no, not technically illegal.”
“Well, what’s our next move?”
“You get Whiska and Borg and meet me at the inn—I’ve got one more clue to chase down.”
“Why do I have to get them?”
“Because you’re much more persuasive than I am.”
“You just don’t want to do it.”
“That’s true.”
“Fine.” Rummy sighed. “But you owe me one.”
“How many times retrieving Borg from a restaurant and Whiska from a bar is saving your life worth? Because I think it’s probably more than one,” responded Nadinta as she walked away.
Rummy pursed his lips and nodded. “Fair point. I suppose I owe you one, or a few, then.” He shrugged and headed off in the opposite direction, whistling a jaunty tune.
There’s a tricky balance storytellers need to strike between offering sufficient details to build the scene, establish the characters, and give you the information you need to enjoy the twists and turns a good story takes while not boring you by describing every single thing characters do. Borg’s bathroom habits, for example, probably shouldn’t factor into our tale, and we won’t spend time detailing exactly what Rummy has for breakfast every day—unless, of course, either of those things is relevant to the story. (Which, unfortunately, they are in the former case.)
The songs we sing in taverns are the best
bits of a story, but they’re not the whole story. In writing down this tale, I can tell more than you’d get in a song, and I think those extra parts are worth the price of admission (hopefully a fairly high price), but I also promise not to abuse the power of my unabridged platform by telling you anything that doesn’t relate to the story. Okay, well, that’s a lie—I’m going to tell you all sorts of things not related to the story. But, none of them will be boring or mundane.
Sometimes, I’ll exercise my right to skip over those boring parts, provide a brief summary, and move onto the next good part.
I don’t just break hearts, people—I break fourth walls.
Chapter 6
WHAT HAPPENS IN VELENIA STAYS IN VELENIA (HOPEFULLY)
After some difficulty, Rummy managed to round up his charges and deliver them to the inn where the group was staying. Nadinta was there waiting for them, pacing back and forth in the common room. “What took you so long?” she asked, ushering them to a table and signaling the innkeeper for food.
“Do you know how long it takes to get a rock giant away from a buffet?” asked Rummy as he settled into his seat. “Only slightly less time than it takes to get a Ratarian away from a glass of champagne.”
“It was prosecco, you mouth-breathing midget!” replied Whiska Tailiesen sharply. “You’d think that being the unwanted offspring of two alcoholic races, you would know that, but I guess that’s what you get when an ugly dwarf lets a halfwit halfling into her very loose knickers.”
Rummy smiled at Whiska before turning his head toward Nadinta and raising an eyebrow. “Can you remind me why we keep her around?”
At that moment, a cockroach skittered across the floor. Whiska pointed at it, uttered an arcane syllable, and a bolt of blue energy shot from her finger, incinerating the bug and leaving nothing but a tiny pile of smoking ash. She cackled with glee. “That’s why. Because that spell works just the same on orcs.”
