by Drew Hayes
Within the new room’s recesses, Thistle saw lights begin to glow. These were unlike what came from Ulkin’s lantern. They were soft, yet steady, climbing up along the walls and ceiling. More warding, magical runes meant to keep something in, or others out, or perhaps even a combination of both. Ulkin strode forward, undeterred, and Thistle hurried to keep pace.
“The night before I received your messenger, Grumble came to me in a dream,” Ulkin said, his voice hushed in respect of the hallowed place they had entered. “That in itself is miraculous, for I am no paladin, and the gods rarely appear to even the highest of priests.”
“Be wary of that,” Thistle cautioned. “Grumble rather likes having paladins, and you’ve got the build for it.”
“But not the heart,” Ulkin replied. “Too much anger lives in me; I control it through prayer and doing good works here. Were I to take up the blade in his name, I would certainly give in to my more base desires. A paladin cannot be a soulless killer. Mercy, as much as strength, is a mark of a paladin.”
Thistle found himself impressed. He’d seen more than a few paladins in his days, and there were plenty who hadn’t understood their duty as well as Ulkin, an outsider, did. Oddly, this made him more hopeful that Grumble was playing some sort of long-game to draw Ulkin in. A paladin who started off with such excellent understanding would be capable of great things down the line.
“Fear not for me, Thistle, for Grumble assured me he was happy with my work as a priest,” Ulkin continued. “He did, however, set upon me a holy task, one which you have greatly complicated by not stopping by to visit.”
As they treaded across the magical warding, Thistle noticed a strange tingle running along his skin. While he wasn’t sure exactly what was occurring, something told him that if he’d broken in, the sensation wouldn’t have been nearly so pleasant.
Without warning, Ulkin stopped. Before them was a wide circle, and as they arrived, a new set of lights bloomed within it. These seemed to come from all around, and as the circle grew, Thistle could see more clearly what lay in the center of all of this protection.
It wasn’t white or gleaming, as most paladins tended to favor in their wares. No, the majority of it was ash gray, with only a few golden accents positioned in key places. And yet, in all his memory, Thistle could not recall a more beautiful set of armor than what lay before him. He was certainly biased by the waves of magic rolling off it, which was something almost akin to being in Grumble’s actual presence. The only thing marring the suit was a single hole in the chest plate. Thistle knew how that got there; he’d seen it for himself in a Grumble-dream of his own.
“His armor. The first paladin of Grumble’s.” Despite his devoutness, Thistle never considered himself one to go in for the hoopla of worshipping any god, preferring to see himself as a more detached, thoughtful worshipper. In that moment, however, he was forced to admit that even his mind was capable of being bowled over by the wonder of seeing such a holy icon in person. “Grumble wanted you to show me this, I assume. To see what my efforts had helped to protect.”
“You are mistaken, Thistle.” Ulkin lowered himself slowly, setting his now unneeded lantern to the floor and getting on his knees. “What you see before you is the armor of Grumble’s first paladin, yes. But it is also the armor of his most recent paladin. On that, the instructions were quite clear. Grumble told me of the scheme you stopped, the plan to rob the building of its faithful and poach this treasure when its defenses were weakened. If others know it is here, then my temple can no longer properly defend the armor. This holy relic belongs to you, now.”
Thistle had thought himself prepared, but he nearly fell to the ground at Ulkin’s words. He’d believed his reward was to see the armor. Wearing it... how could anyone have braced for such an offer? “You said it burns all who tried to don it.”
“Never do I believe it to have been worn with Grumble’s permission,” Ulkin replied.
“But there’s also the issue of size. That’s much larger than what I can wear.” Thistle wasn’t even sure why he was protesting; it was all just so much to take in. He felt as though he needed to distance himself from the possibility.
“It will always fit its owner’s form. Grumble assured me of such.” Ulkin had lowered his gaze, not wanting or able to gaze at the armor. Did it hurt his eyes? Thistle couldn’t be sure; to him, the armor was breathtaking. It didn’t bother him at all to stare. Perhaps his situation was different.
Slowly, Thistle approached the gray and gold suit. He could feel the power within it, a mere echo of what that first paladin had wielded. It rippled through his misshapen bones, all the way to his teeth. Somewhere, in the part of his mind not currently too overwhelmed to think straight, he hoped this was just some sort of theatrics Grumble was adding for the moment. Otherwise, they’d never have a shot at slipping into a town unnoticed again.
Thistle’s small hand reached forward, and he could have sworn the armor drew a touch closer as well. But just before his finger was to brush the bracer, Thistle stopped.
“Why... did he say why me? It’s been so long. Surely there were other paladins more suited to wear this. Ones who needed it more, could use it better than I. Why only now has Grumble seen fit to allow another to wear it?”
“He thought you would ask that,” Ulkin replied from his place outside the final circle. “And he wanted me to tell you that he couldn’t pass it on. It was never his to give. Only its owner could bequeath it to another, and that owner was very adamant that you be the next to wear it. Apparently, he believes you have the potential to be a far greater paladin than he ever was.”
“By my life, I cannot understand why people keep insisting on overestimating me.” Thistle tried to keep his tone light, even as tears fell down his face. “They can say what they will; you and I both know that this is a burden I’m being tasked with. Power comes with obligation, always and forever. I can’t even imagine what Grumble will demand from me once I don this armor.”
“As with any gift, it is your right to refuse,” Ulkin said.
“If I were smarter, perhaps I would do just that. Walk away from the gift and all the strings that come along with it. Ignore the fact that in almost no time at all, my friends will be in danger, counting on me to help keep them alive. Or maybe I’d think of another way to aid them, one that didn’t dig me in further with a god who has shown a willingness to use me as he deems necessary. Yes, that’s what I would do if I were smarter.”
Thistle let out a small sigh, blinked his eyes clear, and then allowed his extended, waiting fingers to press themselves against the surprisingly warm metal of the armor.
“But then, if I were smart enough to do all that, I wouldn’t be much of a paladin in the first place.”
Chapter 37
“So help me, Driscol, if you try to pass off that blade for any more than a single copper over two thousand gold, I’ll hang your family up by their ears in the town square as the prodigy of a swindler.”
The first time Timuscor had heard Elora speak to a clerk like that, he’d tensed, trying to prepare himself for battle while at the same time being much too aware of how vulnerable he felt without his armor. In fact, it had been at a blacksmith who specialized in plate armor where they had made their first stop, where Elora had wheedled and threatened a man bigger than Grumph into paying top coin for the remains of Timuscor’s old scrap armor, while also getting him to agree to build him a custom replacement for far less than the original price quoted. Shockingly, as they’d left the shop, the blacksmith and Elora had shaken hands cheerfully, as though everything that had transpired was perfectly normal. Timuscor didn’t think he really understood the process of haggling, and he dearly hoped he’d never be tasked with it.
“I’d like to see you try; the rope’s not been woven that can hold a dwarf’s muscle. It’s two thousand, two hundred gold, and not a silver less!” Though the dwarven weaponsmith, Driscol, held firm on the latest price, it had already dropped down from the
three thousand it had been when negotiations began. As with most of their stops, Elora had simply ushered them all in, asked Timuscor to find a type of blade that felt right, and then hurried him off to stand in the back with the others like a child while she did the rest of the talking.
Although the methods were strange, Timuscor couldn’t argue with the results. The day wasn’t near done yet and already Elora had helped stretch every piece of their gold as far as it would go. Grumph had commissioned new armor made of a special material woven from the refined silk of moonspiders. While it had cost quite a bit, the armor would move as freely as cloth, allowing him to retain the dexterity necessary for spellcasting while offering him protection roughly on par with well-fashioned leather.
Thistle’s order of new daggers had already been negotiated with Driscol. It was a set of six, four with enchantments for returning and a charm that let them fly farther than the others, while the other two would be extra sharp and fortified for up-close combat. Everyone had been a bit surprised that Thistle was willing to spend so much on his weapons, but he’d insisted that since he no longer needed to buy armor, it was a reallocation of funds. He’d also refused to explain what he meant by that, though he’d returned from the temple with an excited gleam in his eye that was uncommon for the composed gnome.
Gabrielle had gotten nothing so far; although, since they’d only been to specialized smiths and the odd seamstress who’d agreed to make Grumph’s armor, that wasn’t a surprise. After all, her armor was formed from the hide of demons and held up extremely well. As for the axe—while it certainly seemed to have some drawbacks, there was no denying that it was an effective tool. There was little sense for her to trade up. When anyone asked Elora what Gabrielle would need for equipment, she’d just told them all to wait.
“Two thousand, one hundred and fifty gold, and you get a priest to layer a blessing on top of the enchantments,” Elora said. “And don’t you dare try to add more for that. We both know your wife is a mighty priest of Durget. Let her know she’ll get the usual thanks for her services.”
Driscol stared at Elora for a long while before finally extending his hand. “I’ll curse your name to every god in the pantheon as I work, but you’ve got a deal.”
“If you didn’t, I’d assume I was leaving money on the table.” Elora shook his hand, and then motioned Timuscor over to fill out a slip of paper.
These were fund transfer forms that the merchants accepted for services, knowing that the Hall of Adventurers would pay them the gold from an adventurer’s holdings. Later that day, Driscol would submit the form to the Hall for confirmation that there was indeed enough gold to cover it, and Timuscor, upon his return, would need to review all the claims to be sure he had indeed made them. Once that was sorted, the gold would be paid, and the deal was considered done. It left some room for the clever to abuse; however, it was still a far sight better than lugging around all that gold everywhere they went.
“One last thing, Driscol,” Elora said as Timuscor ran the quill along the parchment. “I’ve got a sword I’ll bring by later. Can’t be scrapped or replaced, but it direly needs improving.”
“My enchanters won’t like that,” Dricsol replied. “Magic needs to be part of the creation to take; layering something on afterward is usually a temporary measure at best.”
“I know, and I’m not expecting a miracle here. Just do what you can. We’ll talk price when I bring it by and you can see for yourself, but until then, don’t you dare close shop on me,” Elora instructed.
“Of course, why else would I have opened a store if not to cater to the whims of half-mad rogues?” Despite the fact that Driscol seemed annoyed, Timuscor noted that the dwarf hadn’t actually refused Elora’s demand.
“Only half-mad? You’re trying to charm me, you con artist.” Elora leaned over Timuscor, made sure the form was properly filled out, and then yanked the parchment away and handed it to Driscol. “With that, our business is done for now.”
They made their way back to the edge of the store, where everyone was waiting patiently; no one wanted to get any closer to Elora and the poor shop owners than was strictly necessary.
“Right then, and with that, the ‘me berating people’ portion of our shopping trip comes to an end,” Elora informed them. “Our next stop is a shop that you’ve all been looking forward to, even if you didn’t know it. We’re going to be visiting a store owned and run by a mage dealing in potent magical items. The upside there is that the prices are fixed. There’s no haggling, so you can freely show interest and ask questions about anything you want. The downside is that magic does not come cheap. There are some fundamental tools you all need as traveling adventurers that, frankly, I’m shocked you survived this long without. Sacks of Containment, like my own. Potions of healing, as that last fight demonstrated. If possible, a warding stone to keep you safe while you sleep. Pocket-space runes are also useful, but likely out of our price range.”
“Do we not have enough gold or something?” Gabrielle asked.
“You’ve got a lot of gold, but as I said, every piece of this is pricey. When you get in there, you’re going to be a bit overwhelmed by all the options before you. Remember that the things I buy first are essential, and only once those are deducted should other items be purchased. Also, while it might be tempting to blow all your gold on one object of immense capability, I encourage you to take a page from the rogue credo: choose versatility over power. Pick ways to improve upon your weakest areas so you’ll be better rounded overall.” Elora looked them all over carefully, making sure her words had sunk in, and then nodded to the door.
“Okay, that’s it. We can go now. Oh, except Timuscor. Just realized we need to make sure your old sheath can fit this new sword. Everyone else, go ahead and step outside, get some fresh air. We’ll be in the next spot for a long while.”
Although they threw more than a few suspicious glances at Elora as they went, Gabrielle, Grumph, and Thistle all followed her directive and slowly exited the shop. For his part, Timuscor turned back toward Driscol, expecting to need his sheath measured.
“I was lying, Timuscor,” Elora said once the door had shut. “Sheaths are included with every weapon Driscol forges. I just needed to talk with you for a moment, and I preferred to do it with as few others around as possible.”
Timuscor didn’t imagine that Elora was going to attack him in the middle of a shop with his friends outside, yet he found himself missing his armor again all the same. If she intended him harm, there was no stopping the assault from occurring, so Timuscor merely tilted his head to the side.
“Why did you want to talk with me?”
“Why do you think?” Elora snapped, her usual cheer slipping away momentarily. “Sorry, I’m just... owing one blood debt is bad enough. Having two is weighing on my mind. But it is what it is; there’s no denying you saved my life, Timuscor.”
“Yes, I did,” Timuscor agreed. “I’m just not sure why that needs discussing.”
“Did you forget that the reason I’m not turning you all in for a tremendous mountain of gold is that rogues are bound by blood debts?” Elora asked. “You took a hole in the gut for me. I might have dodged it—partially at best, and that’s a strong might. Even if I had, Holdram would have killed me in my weakened state. So I owe you a blood debt. And I’ve scoured my brain trying to think of how to repay it, but you’re not as easy to read as Eric. Which is why I’m simply going to ask: what do you want from me, Timuscor? If it’s money, I can give you my share of the gold from the mercenaries. If it’s information, there’s much I know and more I can find out. I doubt you want training, but that’s on the table too. Just tell me what you want, so I can clear this from my ledger.”
Timuscor found himself a bit surprised that he believed Elora’s sentiment. Very rarely did she seem genuine, but in that moment of asking how she could repay the debt, he didn’t doubt her sincerity one bit. He knew this meant that he probably should be all the more suspicious of h
er. Still, it wasn’t like her level of sincerity had any impact on what he knew his answer had to be.
“There is no debt between us, Elora. If you feel one, then I release you from it,” he told her.
She blinked in surprise; it was possibly the first time anyone in the party had ever truly caught her off guard—that Timuscor had witnessed, at least. “Hang on, I think you’re mixed up—”
“I stepped in front of a weapon that drove through my shield, my armor, and my flesh, so that it wouldn’t strike you,” Timuscor replied. “I know exactly what I did. And I’ll say again, there is no debt between us. I can put it in writing, if that will help.”
“Huh....That’s a... shockingly kind gesture, Timuscor. And here I thought you didn’t even like me,” Elora said.
Timuscor gave a firm, deep nod. “I don’t. I don’t like you, or the way you play with falsehoods around my friends. And I certainly don’t trust you—at least, no more than to the exact word you’ve given at any moment.”
“Then why in the hells aren’t you holding this over my head? Forcing me to do your bidding, or help the party in some way?” Elora was confused, or she was faking it on a level Timuscor had not previously seen her capable of.
“Because when I took that attack, you were a member of our party. It was my job to shield you from harm, just as it was yours to keep us safe from the traps we passed. There is no debt for that, for upholding the roles we have chosen. I don’t care for you or your ways, Elora, but so long as you’re a member of this party, I will protect you with my life. That’s the path I’ve chosen, and I don’t require debts or rewards for it.”
Assuming their conversation was done and wanting to force the end even if it hadn’t arrived naturally, Timuscor moved for the door. As his hand reached for the knob, Elora’s fingers fell across his wrist.
