by Drew Hayes
* * *
Thistle wasn’t surprised, per se, when he “awoke” to find himself still dreaming. Things had been picking up again, and he’d taken note of the curious amount of coincidences that had befallen his friends in the last day. Those sorts of things usually meant the gods were at work. Nevertheless, he’d been hoping to sleep soundly through the night and be proven wrong.
With a weary sigh, he pulled himself up to find that he was still in the Hall of Adventurers. Except it wasn’t quite the Hall as he’d seen it last, mere hours ago before trundling up to bed down in his shared room with Grumph. The tables were a little different, and some of the decor had been changed. No, it had been changed back, because the longer he looked, the more certain Thistle was that this was the Hall of Adventurers as it had been the first time he came through Alcatham. As he walked through the rows of tables, he searched, eventually coming upon one with a slightly lopped off corner, the site where someone he’d once called friend had dropped their new magical sword, only to watch it cut straight through the wood.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with how freely you use my nostalgia,” Thistle said. Though it seemed he was talking to no one, he knew quite well that there was a being present who could hear him.
“Just trying to show you happier times.” The kobold stepped out from behind a table where he very clearly hadn’t been seconds ago, tilting his spiny orange head in greeting to Thistle. “Well met, my paladin.”
“Good evening, Grumble.” Though he was never sure just how formal he was supposed to be in these situations, Thistle still lowered his gnarled body as best he could, managing a slight bow in deference to his god. “Please tell me I’m not being called on to destroy another piece of Kalzidar’s divinity. We’re already a bit pressed for time as it is.”
“No, sadly that last piece was the only one I know about. Kalzidar is many things as a god, but certainly not careless. He learns from his mistakes.” Grumble made his way across the floor, his sharp-clawed toes clacking against the worn stone. “Tonight, I wanted to talk about the power move Tristan is pulling with your friend.”
“If this is going where I think it is, then perhaps it’s best if we halt right here,” Thistle said, rising from his bow. “It is not within my power to make Eric change his mind about the rogue training, and even if it were, I wouldn’t do so. He has to follow his own path and serve the god he feels will best watch over him, even if that means our allegiances differ.”
“Well, of course he has to make the choice for himself.” Grumble cocked his head slightly to the side, causing the spines atop his head to momentarily quiver. “It’s faith, Thistle. No one can force another to believe.”
Thistle paused for a moment, wearing an expression just as confused as his god’s. “Yes... I suppose that’s true. Forgive me, Grumble, but it appears I made some misassumptions about the purpose of this meeting.”
“It happens, especially with your type,” Grumble replied.
“Gnomes?”
“No, those who think themselves clever. So, actually, yes, a fair amount of gnomes, but not just them,” Grumble said. “The point is, you lot get ahead of yourselves more often than not. Sometimes that’s a good thing, but it can also bite you if you’re not careful. Now, if we’re done with you interrupting just to refuse tasks I wasn’t going to assign, may I continue?”
Although he’d just been chided for his trying to be too clever, Thistle was still wise enough not to actually try and give his god permission. Instead, he merely shut his mouth and waited patiently until Grumble continued.
“As I was saying, I wanted to talk with you about Tristan brazenly trying to court Eric away. I mean, he could have at least tried to be subtle, gifting him with the power to sense Elora’s watchful eyes, setting things up so one of his more devout—and gifted—followers spotted you all. He’s the god of rogues, for goodness’ sake, and we’re supposed to work with an air of mystery…” Grumble’s voice trailed off as he seemed to realize he’d wandered away from the principal topic. With a small cough, he looked over at Thistle and started again.
“What I meant to say was this: as you know, Tristan and I both have some claim on Eric’s soul. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but since I put my foot down publicly and made an issue of it, there’s now pride on the line. Which, by the way, is why Tristan is working so hard to win your friend over.”
“I’d assumed it was at least in part because of Eric’s talent as a rogue,” Thistle interrupted.
Grumble merely shrugged his narrow shoulders. “He’s got a knack for it, but there’s no shortage of potential rogues in the world. No, Eric is just a pawn in our game. This is about Tristan refusing to let a so-called ‘lesser’ god come out on top. And I assume, my oh-so-witty paladin, that you already suspected as much?”
“The coincidences did strike me as curious,” Thistle admitted.
“There we go. And that’s why we had to have this little chat.” Grumble wandered over to his paladin and set a scaly hand on the gnome’s crooked shoulder. “Thistle, you are not to interfere with Eric’s decision in any way. The conversion of a soul, the cultivation of faith, these processes are slow and delicate. Eric may decide to throw in with Tristan one day, or worship me or some other god not even in the mix. He could say to hell with us all and offer prayers to none. Whatever plan Tristan is setting in motion, let him make it. You are, of course, allowed to watch over and protect your friends as you deem fit, but I’m afraid I have to forbid you from trying to sway Eric as he ultimately chooses where his loyalty lies.”
Working the command around in his mind, Thistle looked at it from several angles before he spoke next, determined to make sure he understood what was being asked. “Is this going to put him in danger?”
“You almost died fighting tree sprites a few days ago; danger is a relative term for adventurers,” Grumble pointed out. “But to my knowledge, no, he won’t be in any more peril than you all usually bring down upon yourselves. Tristan wants to win him over, make Eric a proper rogue, and then gain his worship. None of that involves killing him.”
“Then I believe I can adhere to your order.” The truth of the matter was that Thistle didn’t actually have a choice—being a paladin meant one was beholden to their god no matter what the command. There were stories of those who’d tried to buck that yolk, and none of them ended well—at least, not for the paladins. But Grumble was a fair god, and he at least always seemed to care that Thistle accepted his orders, even if they’d never come to an impasse. Not yet, anyway.
“Good.” Grumble took his hand from Thistle’s shoulder. “Now, go ahead and ask.”
Thistle didn’t bother to pretend he didn’t know what Grumble was talking about; instead, he seized the opportunity and spat out his question. “Why am I not allowed to speak to Eric on your behalf? It seems pretty obvious Tristan is launching quite the campaign to win him over.”
“Because Tristan has his ways to gain followers, and I have mine. If Eric chooses me, it will be because he knows in his heart that I’m the right god for him. And if that’s not true, then better he finds the god who is.” Grumble grinned, a toothy smile that always looked out of place on his kobold snout. “As for why I had to bring you up here—well, you’re a dedicated follower, Thistle. I know you’d have tried to interfere if I didn’t stop you. Though I have noticed you’ve gotten a little slack about visiting my temples as of late.”
“We haven’t exactly been in many towns.”
“You’re in one now,” Grumble countered. “Maybe take an afternoon out to have a visit. Never know what you might learn.”
“So not interfering with Eric, you can just tell me, but something you want done at a temple, you have to cryptically hint at?” Thistle asked.
“Tristan didn’t enact the divine protocol regarding Eric, and that is quite literally all I can say about that.” Grumble’s tone didn’t lose its usual humor, but Thistle took note of the serious look in his eyes
. As he’d been told before, the divine protocol went into effect when gods were working toward opposite ends and forbade each other from giving their followers direct orders. Hints and visions were the only clues permitted. If Grumble couldn’t talk about the temple, it meant there was something there that another god didn’t want him to find, which was reason enough to go, as far as Thistle was concerned.
“Aye, perhaps I’ll make a trip tomorrow,” Thistle agreed. “Timuscor has wanted to learn more about gods and their relationships to paladins as well, so maybe I can convince him to come along. Of course, I doubt they’ll let his pig inside.”
Grumble’s head tilted once more, and the scales around his eyes crinkled—a look of surprise, with perhaps a touch of uncertainty mixed in. “Pig? What pig?”
“Mr. Peppers, the boar who’s been traveling with us since we left the falling temple outside Briarwillow,” Thistle told him.
“Thistle, I’ve looked in on you and your friends many times since you left Briarwillow, and I’ve never seen a boar with you. Not once.”
Chapter 18
The sun was still hiding behind Camnarael’s buildings as Eric and Elora made their way down the surprisingly busy street. Later in the morning, things would reach a lull until the adventurers were up and about, but pre-dawn belonged to the merchants and townsfolk getting ready for the day ahead. Stalls were being set up, supplies lugged in, and a swift brigade of cleaners were working to sweep the streets clear. By the time the sun finally shone upon the roads once more, they would look fresh, new, and ready for the day ahead. Eric was a bit envious, deep down. He had no idea how ready he was for whatever lay in store ahead of him.
Once they’d decided that Eric would receive rogue training from Elora, there was no reason to dither about. His friends would take the day to rest and decide what their own next moves would be, then reconnect with Elora at the following dawn. Although there was still some bickering within the group, Eric knew that they would ultimately take Elora up on her offer of assistance. No one wanted it to be, but they all felt that the Bridge was in some way their responsibility. Not seeking it out was one thing, but to have a piece so close by and do nothing? They couldn’t accept that. They would need another quest, at least, to get adequate supplies before the Grand Quest began. They’d need a dangerous one, no doubt, and he wouldn’t be there to help. Instead, they’d have a rogue who was incredibly more skilled and vastly less trustworthy. Still, she should at least work to keep them safe, as long as she was telling the truth about…
Eric’s feet froze mid-step, an action that Elora noticed at once. She turned to face him with a single raised eyebrow.
“The blood debt between us, the one that keeps you from collecting on our bounty or hurting us. What happens if you repay it on the quest? If you save one of the other’s lives, does that give you free license to turn us all in?”
“That is a very appropriately rogue way to look at it; although, in the future, I’d recommend doing so when the negotiations are still ongoing.” Elora began to walk again, and Eric, suddenly aware of just how few his options were, hurried to keep up.
“Among the shadows of Camnarael, there are few rules,” Elora said once he was near, her voice above a whisper, but only barely. “One of them, however, is that we are not permitted to turn each other in for bounties or rewards. I’m sure you can see how that might be necessary in a loose organization of thieves, assassins, and general ne'er-do-wells. Half the people I deal with weekly have some sort of price on their heads; we’d cannibalize our own membership in no time at all.”
“So, you can’t turn them in.”
“No, I can’t turn you in,” Elora corrected. “And that’s assuming you do well enough in our training to even be called a proper shadow.”
“Then I’m not—”
It was Elora’s turn to halt them, spinning around and driving a trimmed nail against Eric’s sternum. “I respect the desire to plan for every contingency, I really do—it’s a good trait that will serve you well in life. Just not today. You’re getting too caught up in ‘ifs’ and ‘buts,’ when there’s a real challenge to deal with. Maybe I’ll manage to save one of your friends’ lives and use it to wipe the blood debt between us, and maybe I’ll be able to turn them in for the bounty, but that is a whole lot of ‘maybe’ to swallow. Besides, what I can do and what I choose to do are not inherently one and the same. So stop fretting over your friends; they’ll have each other to lean on. You, Eric, are all on your own, and rogue training isn’t as gentle as you might want to think. Worry about yourself and about proving to me that you aren’t wasting my time.”
It was slow and begrudging, but Eric still gave Elora a small nod. “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Go? Why, my dear student, we’re already here,” Elora told him.
Eric took in the scenery around them—mostly low-roofed houses and pinched streets. His best guess was that they’d reached a low-cost housing area for those who worked and sold goods in the capital.
“This is where you’re training me?”
“Don’t be silly. This is the site of your first test.” Elora took a few steps away and swirled her cloak. “Being unseen, unknown, and unstoppable are all key parts of being a rogue, but before any of that, we must be swift and sure. We must be able to run down any prey and give any predator the slip. Thus, we start the first trial with a hunt: follow me to our lair’s entrance.”
“I thought that’s…” Eric’s voice trailed off as Elora bolted away, ducking down an alleyway and vanishing completely in a single turn. Understanding kicked in as his plodding feet found their speed. She wasn’t just going to lead him to the destination; he had to either keep pace with or track her. And since Gabrielle handled every aspect of their tracking duties, that meant Eric had to run for all he was worth.
Dimly, it occurred to him that perhaps they shouldn’t have paid Elora up front.
* * *
Although Thistle tried not to stare, his gaze involuntarily kept making its way to Mr. Peppers as the boar and Timuscor walked with him into the temple district of Camnarael. Mr. Peppers certainly seemed real enough, snorting and trotting in the early morning sunshine lighting the road. And others could obviously see him—more than a few fellow travelers steered around the boar as they made their way through the street. All of this made it all the more curious that a god, a being who was supposed to pick up far more than those with mortal eyes could ever hope to, had been utterly unaware of his existence.
Worse yet, Grumble had been unsure of the cause. He’d admitted that there were a few very potent magics that could do such things, and that the occasional anomaly did pop up. But far and away the most likely reason for Grumble’s boar-blindness was divine intervention. Somewhere, someone was probably keeping the god of the minions from seeing Timuscor’s pet pig. But why anyone, god or mortal, would waste the required energy on such a thing was beyond either of them to understand. Ultimately, it had been decided that Thistle should simply keep an eye on Mr. Peppers for the time being, staying ready to react if something odd happened and otherwise pretending as though nothing had changed. In other situations, Thistle might have been a bit more concerned about having to hide such a secret from one so near, but seeing as even a magically hidden boar was still just a boar, it wasn’t quite so stressful an undertaking.
Between glances at Mr. Peppers, Thistle allowed himself to take in the splendor of Camnarael’s temple district. Here, churches to every major god—or at least the civilly-accepted ones—were raised within mere feet of one another. Just from where he stood, Thistle could see symbols of Longinus, Mithingow, Adamus, Cecily, Tristan, and even Grithgow rising high into the sky, grand and eye-catching as they tried to outdo one another. There were far more temples to tour, if one were so inclined, though of course the worshippers of the wicked gods—like Kalzidar and Ashael—were not welcome in such a place. Their temples would be found in darkness, far from curious travelers and proper civilization. Thistle’s o
wn destination was not among the grand churches either, yet neither was it so shameful that it had been driven out of town.
Leading Timuscor and Mr. Peppers away from the large, beautiful structures, Thistle walked one street over to where a wide alley ran behind several of the churches. Making their way through it, they eventually turned to find a squat, functional building awaiting them. It was largely empty, with only a few kobolds darting about inside. Even they seemed to vanish at the sight of Timuscor in his gleaming armor. Thistle, still hoping to keep a low profile while in town, had chosen to continue going without the protection of his plate mail, in no small part because he knew how skittish Grumble worshippers were around those who wore such protection. Whether it was a master or an invader, seeing people like Timuscor rarely went well for the minions of the world.
“I thought there would be more here,” Timuscor said as they made their way inside.
“Minions aren’t known for their abundance of leisure time,” Thistle replied. “Many will have small shrines in whatever serves as their quarters, but getting away to pay worship at a proper temple is a rare occasion for most.”
The years had marched on since Thistle was last in this building, yet they had done little to wear it down. Simple as it might be, the temple was also immaculately cared for, with every wooden bench freshly sanded and the stone floor swept clean. He’d missed this place and hadn’t realized it until he was standing in the middle of the room. In a life of chaos, this temple had been a safe haven, one of the precious few Thistle had found in his journeys. Curiously, the surroundings made him homesick for Maplebark. Or, more honestly, for the wife he’d built a home with there.
“It may not look it, but this is a temple, and if you’ve come here looking for trouble, then I’ll be glad to supply it.” The voice was low and rough, instantly recognizable as that of a half-orc. Thistle and Timuscor turned to find a male half-orc that was slightly taller than Grumph staring them down, a pair of kobolds cowering behind him. He was wide and muscular, and even in the clothes of a priest, he carried the air of one who was no stranger to violence. A rough club was gripped in his right hand, held in a way that left no doubt he knew how to use it.
