by Drew Hayes
Weaving through the celebrating citizens, Thistle found his way to a small alcove in front of one of the shops, where chairs had been set beneath an awning for the older members of the town to rest in. They would be the true font of information in Briarwillow, if one existed. Thistle had always been perplexed over why roaming adventurers stopping in Maplebark invariably came to Grumph or the local guard captain to ask about rumors in the surrounding area. Grumph had a bar to run, and the guard captain had men to command. The elderly had no such responsibilities. All they did, and all they wanted to do, was gossip.
“Afternoon, my fine gentlemen.” Thistle resisted the urge to try and climb into one of the free chairs beside the two older men. This was done in part out of deference to the fact that one of their number may yet come to occupy the seat, but also because he had no desire to put on the show of a gnome struggling to pull himself up into a human chair. He was here to probe, not entertain.
“That’s the time of day all right,” muttered one of the men, wisps of white hair protruding from his scalp in all directions. Despite the fact that he too wore rosy cheeks and a sheen of sweat, the persistent good humor of Briarwillow seemed to have passed over his scowling countenance.
“Ignore Kendal,” said the other old man, whose bald head would have gleamed brightly were it not covered by the awning’s shadow. “He’s always like this. I’m Gurt, and it’s my pleasure to welcome you to Briarwillow, fair travelers. You’ve come at the best possible time, you know.”
“So I can see,” Thistle said. He shuffled himself over slightly, moving a touch closer to Kendal and Gurt without seeming to. This act both pulled him in for easier discussion and hopefully made him seem friendlier. People liked feeling as though they were drawing others in, after all. “I am Thistle, and this is my friend Gabrielle. We’re making our way through your kingdom, and must say we were quite surprised to find your town in this state. Can you tell us what’s actually gone on here? There are rumors running up and down the Alcatham road, but it seems none of what we’ve heard is accurate.”
“The rumors ain’t the thing that’s wrong,” Kendal spat.
“Well, that would depend on which rumors you heard,” Gurt added quickly. “Please, enlighten us to the story you were told, and I can correct you as inconsistencies come up.”
“Certainly.” Thistle glanced up at Gabrielle, who gave a gentle nod. He wanted her to jump in if she had a thought, but Thistle had been chosen to act as the group’s voice on most occasions. It was his duty to spin the yarns, even if they were composed from threads of truth.
“As it was told to us, some of your neighbors were excavating a small cave at the foot of the mountains when they came across a mysterious object. Within a day of their bringing it back to town, much of the populace had fallen ill. No alchemist or herb was found that could break the sickness, which left its victims confined to their beds, sick with pain and exhaustion. Thus, it was determined to be magical and likely caused by the object your people found.”
Kendal snorted. “Makes it seem so pretty and simple to hear it put like that. Skims over how many we had to bury, how much that damned skull took from us.”
“Excuse me, did you say skull?” Gabrielle asked.
“Your story is fairly accurate,” Gurt said, meeting Gabrielle’s eyes so she knew he’d heard her question. “But there were several details lost in the passing of the tale. For one thing, yes, the object uncovered was indeed a skull. It was pitch black, with runes etched up and down every inch of its bony exterior. The other mistake is that the people who found it were not our townsfolk. They were travelers, seeking rare minerals they hoped to find in the mountain’s foothills. We gave them lodging, because that is what a town with an inn does, after all.” Gurt’s cheerful, feverish face clouded over slightly. “Had they told us what they found that day, had they shown us what they unearthed, we would never have allowed them to set foot in Briarwillow with such an object.”
“I see. So they brought this plague upon you without your knowledge. May I ask what became of these people?”
“Dead, all three of them.” This time, Kendal actually did spit after he spoke, as if trying to hack the taste of the words out of his mouth. “Along with anyone else who touched that damn skull. Thing was cursed beyond cursed. We found them, and it, dead the morning after they brought it into our town.”
“You said it ‘was’ cursed,” Gabrielle noted. “Did you manage to destroy it?”
“Sadly, no,” Gurt told her. “We originally planned to call a priest from Alcatham’s capital to come look at it, hoping they might find a way to break the curse and cure us. But on the third day of the plague, when our mayor opened the chest he’d locked the skull in—to draft a thorough description—it had vanished. None of the guards saw a thing, and the chest was undamaged. As near as we could figure, it simply didn’t want to be locked away. At first, we thought its leaving would weaken the hold it had over our town. The coming weeks dispelled us of that optimistic notion.”
“Yet you all seem to have reason to celebrate now,” Thistle pointed out.
Gurt’s feverish face brightened once again. “That’s right! A priest of Longinus came through several days ago, leading us in endless hours of prayer and ritual to cleanse our town of the taint that was destroying us. That night, a green light shone down from the stars, and when morning broke, the plague had lifted. We could move and laugh and live once more.”
“A priest of Longinus? That may be our good fortune as well; we could certainly benefit from counsel with one powerful enough to break such a curse.” Thistle didn’t consider this to be a lie, as anyone swinging that kind of magic around really would be beneficial to talk with.
“Skipped town after the deed was done.” Kendal scratched absentmindedly at the wooden armrest of his chair. Shallow grooves were already there, a testament to how many times he’d indulged in this strange action.
“Yes, when the priest saw that we were healed, he returned to the road once more, saying there were more in need of his service,” Gurt confirmed. “He was heading west and left around this time two days ago, so if you ride hard, you may be able to catch up with him, should your need be dire.”
“While I appreciate it, I’m afraid my friends and I are going in another direction. Perhaps you could tell me, though, what name did this priest have? I shall keep an ear to the ground for him in our travels.” Thistle indeed planned to listen quite hard for this mysterious traveling priest, though whether he would run toward or away from the man would depend on what happened to this town once the fever had done its work.
Gurt shook his bald head, nearly putting the would-be-gleaming dome in the sunlight’s path. “I’m afraid the priest gave us no name. He said that the truly dedicated servants of the gods wore no names of their own; they existed only as tools for their gods to use. Said we could think of him as Longinus’s finger, reaching down from the heavens to bless us with salvation.”
As Gurt spoke, Thistle felt his entire body try to seize up. He did his best to hide it, but there was no doubt in his mind Gabrielle had noticed the tension wracking his bones. Kendal also seemed to be paying him more attention than before, studying the gnome with sudden interest. If there was one thing Thistle knew well, it was when to retreat, and that moment had come for him. Plus, the pain in his stomach was growing worse by the second, and he was beginning to harbor a few suspicions about what that might mean.
“Well, gentlemen, we thank you for your time and story. We must regroup with our friends and see about getting supplies. Congratulations on the miraculous recovery, and I wish you and your town only the best from here on.” Thistle turned without waiting for them to return his goodbye, or even to see if Gabrielle was following. He was just off, walking as quickly as his crooked gnome legs would permit him to without breaking into a full run.
Gabrielle caught up to him in a few strides, saying nothing, but shooting an expression of curiosity that was impossible to mist
ake.
“Later,” Thistle whispered. “When we’re back with the others and somewhere safe. If my suspicions are right, I do not want prying ears to overhear this conversation.”
With a quick nod, Gabrielle accepted his explanation and the two headed off toward more of the shops. The information gathering was done, so far as Thistle was concerned. He knew all too well about the order of priests that sacrificed their names.
And they did not serve the god of heroics.
* * *
Timuscor, Grumph, and Eric were all weighed down by the amount of supplies they’d ended up purchasing. While the townsfolk were unaware of their own fevers, they were certainly exuberant at the appearance of travelers, especially when those travelers were looking to spend some coins. After getting a generous supply of smoked meats for a fair price, they’d stocked up on tack, grabbed a few fruits and vegetables for early in their traveling, replaced some worn out water skins, and restocked emergency feed for the horses. Timuscor was hefting the bulk of the supplies, with Grumph taking a fair share and Eric carrying as much as his slender body could handle.
Grumph was thankful they’d managed to get so much. The longer he walked through the town, the more he saw of the people’s ruddy complexions and glassy eyes, and the greater he began to fear the danger might be. If the cause of the illness were still around, or if it could be spread from person to person, then the entire party might very well be lost already. It was possible Thistle could use Grumble’s gift of healing to restore them, but they’d learned early on that he could only call up so much of that divine favor in a given day. There was no guaranteeing it would be enough to cure even one of them, let alone all five.
That was all conjecture, of course. It was equally possible that the underlying cause of the disease had come and gone, leaving only slowly recovering victims in its wake. Even before he learned the basics of spell casting, Grumph had known better than to try and apply realistic logic to the way magical things functioned. A regular plague had ways of being avoided and controlled. With a magical one, the best he could do was hope they didn’t catch it and keep pushing forward to get out of harm’s way.
“Should we look into getting a room?” Eric asked. He pointed up at the sky, as he was the only one of them with a hand not weighed down by supplies. The sun was dipping quickly downward, heading for the horizon at an unyielding pace. They had some time left, perhaps an hour or so, before dusk would be upon them, but there was much to do if they wanted to be saddled up and heading out onto the road before night fell.
Generally speaking, Grumph favored known dangers over unknown ones. When one knew what the threat was, they could make careful, informed choices that maximized the chances of survival. Unfortunately, being on the road was inherently an unknown danger. Monsters had been scarce as they came toward Briarwillow, but so had the Alcatham kingdom’s patrols. If the townsfolk were recovering from their illness, then any infected monsters might be as well, and with few patrols coming near the formerly plague-ridden area, such beasts would be running unchecked. Going onto the road, at night, as adventurers . . . they could very well be serenading death.
On the other hand, the town was still under the spell of a magical sickness they knew nothing about. Perhaps it was harmless, or perhaps they were already infected. Perhaps the people of Briarwillow would grow horns and try to devour the street’s stones; nothing could be predicted with certainty where magic was concerned. Staying may very well increase their chances of infection, but leaving now could leave them ill and helpless on a road often threatened by wild dangers.
All of this ran through Grumph’s mind in the span of three footsteps. When he answered Eric’s question, it was with the same stoicism and calm he worked hard to convey constantly. “Maybe. We should find the others first.”
He noticed a few nearby people start at the unexpected sound of his rough, half-orc voice, but he paid them no mind. Honestly, hearing a half-orc suddenly speak was enough to rattle his nerves too; Grumph was just better at not showing it. As with most elements in life, practice helped.
“That may not be an issue.” Timuscor swept his head away from the setting sun; those following his gaze noticed Thistle and Gabrielle moving briskly down the path. Neither seemed particularly hurried, unless one had known Thistle as long as Grumph had: then they could take in the steady, determined speed he was using rather than his usual unassuming gait. The gnome was doing his best to stay inconspicuous while still moving as quickly as possible.
No sooner had they spotted the two missing members of their party than Gabrielle and Thistle spied them right back. The two bustled over quickly, with Thistle reaching up and grabbing Grumph firmly on his thick forearm.
“We need to take a room,” Thistle said. His breath was shallow, and under the gleaming armor he wore, Grumph could see the rapid movements of his chest. Either fear, effort, or a combination of the two had stolen his breath. “There’s much to discuss and decisions to be made. Gabrielle and I found an inn; bring the supplies and let’s get upstairs.”
Grumph held his friend’s gaze while Gabrielle gave a similar version of the speech to Eric and Timuscor. Thistle knew something, and while he would certainly be telling the rest of the group much of it, now might be the only opportunity for him to give Grumph any additional details the others might need to be left unaware of.
Sure enough, Thistle beckoned Grumph down, and he obliged under the guise of shoring up his grip on one of his bulging leather bags. When he was within whispering distance, the gnome’s voice filled his ear, and Grumph found himself wishing he’d allowed himself the luxury of staying ignorant.
“It seems this town was visited by a priest who bore no name.”
Then the two were parted and the group was heading for the inn. Thistle hadn’t said who those priests served, and it had been a wise decision not to do so. Unless one was in a safe, private place, there was no sense in tempting fate by saying the name of the god of darkness out loud.
After all, there was always a chance that Kalzidar might be listening.
Chapter 4
“—and watch over us, protecting us from prying ears and eyes. This I ask as your paladin and servant.”
Thistle rose from his knees, a short journey given the length of his legs, and unclasped his hands. Around him, the others looked on silently, taking up nearly all the space the single room was able to offer them. Despite having the gold to sleep separately, no one felt quite safe enough to split apart from the others again. Especially not with the way Thistle was acting. Something was up with this town, and until they knew what it was, everyone would feel safer knowing the others were nearby. If they were to perish, they would at least perish as a party.
“And with that, hopefully Grumble will shield our conversation,” Thistle announced. “I’d feel better if Grumph knew some spells to the same effect, but as it stands, all we can do is bar the door, say a prayer, and hope dearly that no one of importance overhears what I’m about to tell you. Gabrielle, I heard talking during my prayer. I assume you brought the others up to speed?”
“Told them about the skull, the priest, and the day of praying and rituals,” Gabrielle confirmed.
“Thank you, that will make this go more quickly.” Thistle walked over to the small, thin bed and hopped carefully up onto its corner. “What I am about to tell you should not leave this room, nor be spoken of to people outside of it. I would also ask that you not question how I came upon the knowledge I am going to share with you. Those of you who knew me in Maplebark were aware that I took some odd jobs working as a minion for various would-be evil wizards and conquerors. Generally, I was good about selecting those who were not a real threat, but occasionally I made . . . misjudgments.”
“It was just a job, Thistle,” Eric assured him. “We know you aren’t evil. Heck, you’re a paladin for goodness’ sake. I mean that literally: paladins only exist for the sake of goodness.”
“No, we exist for the sake of
godness,” Thistle corrected. “A paladin is one who pledges themselves to their just god’s service. There are wicked gods as much as there are kind ones, although their devoted wear a different name than ‘paladin.’ Which is, in a roundabout way, what I wish to talk with you all about. The priest who came to this town said he had no name, that he was merely an appendage of his god’s will. Longinus does not ask his servants to forsake their identities, however. In fact, his teachings require a certain amount of individuality. There is only one god in the known pantheon who demands his most devoted sacrifice their names and sense of selves: Kalzidar, god of darkness and hex magic.”
Gabrielle’s eyes widened and her hand brushed against the base of her axe. Eric swallowed hard, his eyes darting about the room. Timuscor looked as though he were considering being sick in the corner, which might have had more to do with dragging heavy supplies through town all day than Thistle’s revelation. Only Grumph appeared composed, which was both how he normally looked and unsurprising since he’d been forewarned.
“How? I mean, just in so many ways. How could a priest of Kalzidar, one of the wicked gods, pretend to serve Longinus without anyone noticing? How did he change the curse, since we all know it isn’t lifted? How did he even know to come here in the first place?” Gabrielle paused for a moment in her rapid-fire questioning, forcing herself to calm down and think with strategy. “And most important of all, isn’t the hows, it’s the what. As in, what does all of this mean for Briarwillow, and for us?”
“If a priest of the god of darkness has come here and worked magic, then I fear it can be nothing good,” Timuscor said.
“Worse than that, I’m afraid,” Thistle pointed out. “He had the people help, making them weave the spells on themselves. That complicates all of this to a level that I fear even a properly educated wizard—sorry, Grumph—would have trouble unraveling.”
