by Drew Hayes
“You want to go look for the rest of the townsfolk,” Thistle said, determined to get the matter resolved before Timuscor was in earshot. Strong and bold though their new friend was, he tended to prefer action over discussion, and there was no sense putting any ideas in his head.
“I think we need to, honestly. It wouldn’t do much good for Grumph and Gabby to come back and find us with no clue as to where they need to direct those mages.”
“They’re mages,” Thistle countered. “I suspect they can find that information on their own.”
“But not what they’re going up against, if the people of Briarwillow are even still alive, if the plague is still contagious, or any number of things. Look, if the mages do show up, we need them to succeed, for the good of everyone. I know you’re trying to keep us safe, but we all knew that once we became adventurers, safety was not a luxury afforded to us anymore.” Eric turned to the gnome and stared hard into his eyes. “You know better than the others how valuable information is. Let’s collect a bounty of it for when our friends return.”
There was little time left to talk, as Timuscor was nearly upon them. Thistle marveled at Eric, who was showing cunning and strategy far beyond what he’d displayed in his time as a simple town guard. Constant danger had sharpened the young man, carving out the instincts he’d never had the chance to utilize in his mundane years. It was impressive, and also just a touch frightening. Thistle couldn’t help but wonder: if this was Eric after less than three months since leaving Maplebark, what he would he be like in a year’s time? It was a thing to consider; however, it paled in comparison to the threats at hand. Much as he disliked admitting it, Eric was right. With time to kill and no way to leave, the best way they could possibly spend their time was gathering information.
“Aye, perhaps that might be for the best,” Thistle agreed. “After we’ve fortified a base and gotten provisions, of course. I’ve got no desire to be out in the open when darkness falls. Just in case.”
Chapter 8
The sun was past its halfway point when Gabrielle and Grumph rode past the last of the farms. Much as she wanted to push her horse, given its age and constitution, doing so might end up forcing her to walk the rest of the way. Despite their thorough search of the town, no one had come upon a single other steed—or pet of any kind, for that matter. The animals, it seemed, had not held out against the plague as long as the humans had.
She slowed her horse as the farmlands faded from sight. Getting clear of Briarwillow had been their most important task; with that accomplished, she could let the horse rest, even if only for a short while. Grumph’s pace fell to match hers, and soon they were riding alongside the increasingly dense trees at a moderate pace.
No words passed between them as the sound of hoofbeats filled the air. Grumph was quiet by nature, obscured and deep like a pool of dark water tucked away in some ancient forest. As for Gabrielle, she tended to converse reactively, which gave her little grounds to begin a discussion. Sarcasm was wasted when one’s companion stayed silent, after all. Besides, the truth of the matter was that Gabrielle didn’t particularly mind the quiet. It reminded her of her days in the woods, when the goblins would “kidnap” her. She could spend whole days nearly undisturbed, practicing her tracking, hunting a quarry, or working on some mindless task to help the camp. Gabrielle had long ago found peace in silence, and she saw no benefit in shattering it pointlessly.
Of course, silence also came with the added benefit of helping one’s ears stay sharp. Sometime after they’d put Briarwillow behind them, Gabrielle became aware of the slightest sounds of riders coming in their direction. She turned to Grumph, whose creased forehead told her quite clearly that he’d noticed the sound as well. From the sounds, the riders were pushing their horses far harder than she and Grumph were. If the gods were on their side, it might mean the strangers hadn’t heard the comparatively quiet steps of their horses. But even if that were the case, it wouldn’t be for long.
With no time to think, Gabrielle did what she specialized in: she took immediate action. Wordlessly directing Grumph with hand gestures, Gabrielle took them off the road and into the forest. She chose a section nearly devoid of brush for entry, then immediately steered them to the densest foliage she could find. Given how little time they had, the coverage they could find was sparse at best, and if any member of the coming riders knew how to track, they’d be found out instantly. Even if these were kingdom soldiers, patrolling the roads to keep them safe, Gabrielle preferred not to be seen. One kingdom’s wanted adventurers were another’s political bargaining chips.
She held her breath as the hoofbeats drew closer. Her hands gently stroked the mane of her horse, who, for once, she was glad was an older steed. If it had been young and excitable, the sight of the other horses might have spurred it into making noise. As things stood, her mount seemed completely content at being given the chance to rest for a few seconds. Grumph’s might still prove to be a problem, but Gabrielle couldn’t worry about that. All she could do was focus on the elements within her control.
At last, the riders came into view, pounding past the point where she and Grumph had left the woods. That was cause for relief, yet Gabrielle felt none as she observed the riders heading down the road. They weren’t soldiers—that much was certain—and they didn’t seem like any adventurers Gabrielle had ever encountered before. In her brief glimpse, she saw that they were road-worn, with mismatched clothing on their backs and too many sacks burdening their horses. They rode with weapons at the ready, scanning the road as they went, searching for . . . she knew not what. Not soldiers or adventurers, then, but they did resemble something Gabrielle had seen on a few unfortunate occasions.
They looked like a group of bandits, riding the kingdom’s roads.
Once they were well past, Gabrielle began to move her horse back toward the road. A heavy, green-skinned hand fell across the blood-red armor on her shoulder, holding her in place.
“Wait.” Grumph nodded down the road in the direction the bandits had gone, his eyes locked on the horizon.
“Why are we waiting? We should either hurry out of here now or go try to help Thistle and the others. You know they’re heading toward Briarwillow, right?”
“Yet no one has visited in weeks,” Grumph reminded her.
Gabrielle eased herself back into her saddle as his point hit home. Briarwillow was a town cursed by a magical plague, so far as anyone else knew. According to the citizens, no one had been there since the infection became common knowledge. What were the odds that this group of would-be thieves would choose the day it became deserted to pay the plague-town a visit? Much more likely they were taking advantage of the deserted roads and absent soldiers, waylaying anyone who attempted to escape imminent death in the disease-ridden town. Her blood grew hot at that idea, picturing the poor few that managed to get free, only to have their belongings, and perhaps their lives, taken by these opportunistic thugs.
“Not now.” Grumph tightened his grip on her shoulder, bringing Gabrielle back to the moment at hand. She nodded her thanks; controlling the anger that dwelled inside her was a constant battle. Ever since it had broken free, she’d learned to be constantly aware of herself, not letting the rage take control unless she willed it to. Some days were more successful than others.
A familiar sound hit her ears, and she turned in the direction Grumph was still staring. Sure enough, the bandits were coming back, no doubt having hit the edge of the farm lands and deciding that they were close enough to death for their tastes. That meant they were running in a loop, from some point up the road to the edge of Briarwillow and back again. Gabrielle didn’t know how long that journey took, or the number of times per day the bandits were making it.
What she did know, what she couldn’t deny no matter how much she wished to, was that this made their already problematic plans all the more troublesome.
* * *
Timuscor laid a salvaged door on top of the wooden planks, which t
ripled the density of the basement’s outer exit. Thistle stood nearby, holding up hammers and tools to assist with the fortification process as Timuscor worked to secure their second, weaker entrance. Thistle had many talents—wit, words, and wiles, to name only a few—but there was no denying that his stature was an impediment when it came to handling hard labor. Especially when paired with his warped limbs and hunched frame.
“Not quite in the center,” Thistle advised him as Timuscor pulled back his hammer. “We want it to be difficult to break through, yet easy to slip out of. Should things go poorly for us, it always pays to have a few escape routes in place.”
With a slight nod, Timuscor adjusted his one-handed grip on the door, sliding it to the right until Thistle made a sharp click on the back of his teeth. A few hearty blows got the first nail, already driven into the door itself, through to the planks on the other side. From there, it was a simple matter of slamming the rest in one after the other.
Timuscor enjoyed work like this. It was simple and straightforward, much like the clarity that came over him during a battle. No one was asking him to understand concepts that sounded like the ravings of a madman, or counter opponents that wielded mystical forces as easily as he wielded his blade. This, he understood. What’s more, he excelled at it. Being in this strange group often left Timuscor feeling as though he were lacking, even if he couldn’t particularly say how. They all seemed so good at so much: Grumph with quiet wisdom, Eric with his nimble stealth, Gabrielle with her fearsome axe, and then, of course, there was Thistle.
The gnome had hopped away from the stool he’d been perched on to hand off the tools, his small, armored footsteps clanging off the walls of the blacksmith’s basement. It had been Thistle who suggested they hide out in the subterranean stone dwelling once night came. With a small furnace that fed to the outside for warmth, heavy walls and ceiling for protection, and ample spare weapons to set traps with, this simple hole had all the makings of a serviceable base. Timuscor and Eric had agreed, with the latter heading off to forage for supplies and the former staying to follow Thistle’s directions.
When he had first met the party, Timuscor had been more impressed by Eric and the strange object he’d wielded to uncloud Timuscor’s mind. Then, he’d grown an appreciation for Gabrielle, as they sparred and he saw the depths of her strength. Once Grumph began to speak—on the few occasions he did—Timuscor saw there was more to the half-orc than mere muscles, and that determination proved right the first time he witnessed his new friend cast a spell. Only Thistle had seemed odd amidst this group of gifted warriors. Small, weak, and with only a pair of throwing daggers to defend himself, Timuscor had assumed Thistle was nothing more than a tagalong the party didn’t have the heart to cast aside.
That misimpression lasted only until the second night they were all together, when the wolves attacked. Massive beasts fashioned from claws, teeth, and murder leapt out of the brush at them, catching everyone off guard. Of them all, it was Thistle who was first to react, moving with a determined speed that Timuscor wouldn’t have imagined his small body capable of. His first dagger caught a wolf in its flank, while the second managed to clip one beast across its furry throat. As he threw, Thistle let out a primal scream that drew the wolves’ attention. Between the yelling and the blades, he succeeded in temporarily turning their wrath onto his too-small form. As those monstrous teeth clanged against his armor and claws stained with long-dried blood scratched for his throat, the others finally snapped into action, assaulting the wolves with such ferocity that, for a moment, Timuscor forgot that the beasts were the attackers.
When the battle was done, Thistle merely hauled himself up, checked to see if the others were hurt, and then healed his wounds with a single prayer and a brief glow of light. The others continued about as if little had happened, but for Timuscor, his world had been fundamentally altered. Thistle, the physically frail gnome he’d taken as a burden, had thrown himself into the fray without a moment’s hesitation to protect his friends. What’s more, he, that weak little man, had done so wielding the divine gifts provided only by the gods.
There was little that Timuscor could clearly recall from his life before meeting this group: a brief, rushed childhood, time training in the Solium army, that short stint with the awful people he’d been forced to call a party. But one element did shine through with curious clarity: Timuscor had always wanted to be a paladin. It was why he’d trained himself so hard, worked with all his might to master the art of battle. All in the hopes that one day, a god would find him worthy and call Timuscor to his service. Yet here he was, a pinnacle of power and battle acumen, unclaimed by any of the gods. Meanwhile, the weakest person he’d ever encountered wore the paladin’s mantle without any pomp or grandeur. Timuscor was not envious of Thistle’s achievement, but he did admire it. Clearly, there was something more a paladin needed, something he was lacking. Timuscor stayed close to Thistle, always watching, in the hopes that one day he would grasp what that strange element was.
That had been the plan, anyway. After several weeks, Timuscor had grown to understand that there were many things Thistle had that he didn’t, the great majority of them mental. He knew there were strong paladins, though. Timuscor has seen them from a distance while training in the Solium courtyard. He could reach that goal; he knew it was possible. But not if he kept that aspiration to himself, it seemed.
“Thistle, may I ask you something?” With the others riding toward Cadence Hollow and Eric looting all he could, this was the first time Thistle and Timuscor had been alone for any true length of time. Timuscor was determined not to waste the opportunity.
“Certainly, and I’ll do my best to provide an answer. I daresay that might be the only thing I can actually contribute in this current endeavor.” Thistle pushed aside a set of rusty shields and pulled out a small short sword. He turned it over in his hands several times, then threw it in the middle of the basement floor and went back to searching for more useful items.
“Can you tell me, how does one . . . how did you become a paladin?”
“Found myself between a dragon’s maw and claw, so when Grumble dangled me a lifeline, I grabbed onto it. Probably similar tales for many of the others out there, as well.” Thistle glanced up from his digging and noticed the solemn, almost reverent expression on Timuscor’s face. He quickly spoke again, this time with less frivolity. “I was called by my god to serve him, that’s how I became a paladin. To my knowledge, it’s the only way we can be made. They look amongst their devoted and find those who have traits they feel will make them worthwhile champions. In my case, Grumble didn’t have a great amount of choice warriors to select from, hence why he was willing to settle on someone like me.”
“The gods choose from their followers . . .” Timuscor looked as though he’d swallowed some bad berries and was beginning to understand the implications of what such a mistake entailed.
“Paladins serve the just gods, other kinds of servants belong to the wicked ones, but all of us are of their followers,” Thistle confirmed. “If I may be so bold, Timuscor, which of the gods in the pantheon do you follow?”
“I don’t . . . I’ve never really prayed to one in particular.” Timuscor had tossed a prayer to Cecily, goddess of roads and travel, before going off on any journey, and he’d certainly dropped a few coins at the temple of Grithgow, god of battle, before dangerous missions, but he’d never taken a single god to call his own. It hadn’t seemed necessary; paladins were warriors of goodness who made the world better. So long as one was on the side of the just gods, what did it matter who amongst them they bowed to?
“There’s certainly nothing wrong with that,” Thistle assured him. “As the many gods serve their functions, so can the prayers of a mortal be split to suit their needs. But, as far as paladins go, we hold within us a slim bit of our god’s divine favor. From what legends say, to create a paladin is for the god to loan out a tiny fraction of their power. It’s why they are so selective in making
them, and why they tend to only choose from those they believe will serve them and them alone.”
“I see.” Timuscor leaned down and plucked another piece of lumber from the pile they’d gathered. “I always thought the gods merely made paladins of those who were strong and tried to do what was right.”
“Sadly, the gods are more self-serving than you give them credit for.” Thistle could see the disappointment in his companion’s eyes, but there was nothing he could do to change the truth of the situation. Gods chose from their favorites; that was all there had ever been to it. “I think our world would be a better one if they did pick your way, though. There are certainly many out there who could do a great deal of good, if only given the means.”
“Perhaps it would be,” Timuscor agreed. “But it seems it’s not our place to question the will of the gods.”
“Nonsense. If anything, our entire role as mortals is to do exactly that. If we went along with everything they wanted, what would make us different from mindless pieces on a game board? The gods have their wills, and we have ours. Certainly they win more often than not, but we still have to struggle. Because sometimes, with enough determination and luck, ours are the wills that win out.”
“Says the gnome who spent half the morning stuck to the road for trying to ignore his god’s orders.”
“I did say they won most of the time,” Thistle reminded him. “But my point is simply this: we live in a wild world where anything is possible. Grumble himself was once nothing more than the abused servant of a mad wizard. If a simple kobold can ascend to divinity, then perhaps one day you can find a god willing to make you paladin without quite as much devotion as they usually require.”
