Split the Party

by Drew Hayes

  “So, what’s your solution here?” Thistle demanded. “Stay and sacrifice yourself for no reason, hoping that sates them?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Timuscor drew his sword and gestured to the crack in the doorway. “I can hold that position. If I go a bit in, they’ll only be able to face me one or two at a time. If I can stay there long enough, then this place will come down and bury them under hundreds of pounds of stone.”

  “Them . . . and you.” Thistle looked toward the flickering light of the dying flames. There wasn’t much time left; arguing would only get them all killed for nothing. “You’re right, Timuscor. One of us has to stay and stop them. So let it be me. I’m the paladin; this is my duty.”

  “You already have a duty in your hands, one that you must see through.” Timuscor nodded to the heart, still beating in Thistle’s grip. “You did say it had to be a paladin of Grumble, and as we all know, I am not a paladin, not of any god.”

  “Then why are you trying to die like one?” Thistle spat the words, frustrated and furious because Timuscor was right at every turn. One of them did have to stay. It couldn’t be him because of his damned duty. Timuscor was going to win—he was going to stay and die for the others, and there was nothing the wily gnome could do about it. Some problems could not be solved by wit, no matter how much of it one might possess.

  “Because it is the one way I can be a paladin.” Timuscor kneeled down, meeting Thistle’s eyes on their own level. “I remember so little about my life before you all . . . only bits and pieces, like a half-formed dream . . . but that desire shines like a beacon through it all. I want to be a paladin. It’s the only constant thing I’ve had in this world. But I don’t possess the heart of a servant, and it seems no god is interested in a man willing to do good without bowing. I will never get to live as a paladin; that goal is forever beyond my reach. But I can give my life protecting those in need, protecting the people I care for.”

  Timuscor rose from the ground, turning to face the doorway as the last flickers of firelight began to fade. He lifted his shield and readied his sword, gaze unmoving from the doorway where his enemies would soon be bursting forth.

  “A paladin’s life may be beyond me, but I can have a paladin’s death. No man, nor beast, nor even god has the right to keep that from me. So please, Thistle and Eric, I beg of you, please go through that door. Let me save you. Let me save everyone. Let me live my dream, even if only with my dying breath.”

  Thistle stared at the armored man, a being who had once been their enemy and was now laying down his life to protect them. There were no words he could think of to dissuade Timuscor, and in truth, he didn’t know that it was his place to try. A person’s path was ultimately theirs to choose, and Timuscor had made his decision.

  Motioning Eric to go through the crack in the doorway, Thistle began to follow, but then turned back. He looked at the boar and made a slight “come here” gesture with his hand, only to be completely ignored. Mr. Peppers, it seemed, would at least be there to keep Timuscor company. As Eric moved toward the crevice and the sound of a fresh attack echoed from the tunnels, Thistle faced Timuscor’s back and lowered his head.

  “For what it’s worth, I will always remember you as the bravest paladin I’ve ever met.”

  “It’s worth more than you can imagine,” Timuscor replied. He still faced away from the gnome, for that was his duty. He would hold the line while the others escaped. He would stop the threat, no matter the cost.

  With nothing else to say, Thistle took his leave through the massive door’s crack, slipping easily back to the outside world . . . or at least to a mountain that wasn’t falling to pieces around him. Timuscor began backing up quickly, wedging himself deeply into the opening so that none of the paper monsters would be able to slip past.

  Mr. Peppers stood near his feet and snorted, tusks at the ready as the second wave of monsters came barreling into view.

  “I know you’re not real, you know. I’m not crazy,” Timuscor said to the boar, rather effectively undercutting his argument of not being insane. “But . . . I’ve always sort of felt half-real too. I know what it’s like. Our kind have to stick together.”

  With a grunt, Mr. Peppers seemed to signal his agreement. Then the time for talking was done, as a paper bear lunged forward across the entranceway, sharp, folded claws swiping directly for Timuscor’s throat.

  * * *

  “We’re it,” Thistle said, following Eric back into the mountain’s cavern.

  “What do you mean, you’re it? Where’s Timuscor?” Gabrielle demanded.

  “Doing one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen, and it’ll all be for nothing if we don’t get out of here,” Thistle said, barely keeping himself from snapping at the poor barbarian. “I’ve got a feeling this mountain won’t be a safe place once a giant tomb in its center collapses.”

  “Thistle’s right, we have to go.” Eric stood in front of Gabrielle, blocking her from trying to charge back through the entrance. “You can hit us all you want later on, but right now, just trust that this is the only way to give our friend’s choice meaning.”

  For a moment, it seemed that Gabrielle might go for her axe. Her hand raised, reached halfway back, and then fell onto Eric’s shoulder. “When you tell me the full story, I’d better damn well agree with you, or there will be hell to pay.”

  “Deal.” Eric looked around, noting that Fritz and Talcia were whispering to themselves. “Something wrong?”

  “No, nothing at all,” Fritz replied. “We were just wondering how long it would take for you to notice that Ferdy and the undead are gone.”

  Eric blinked in surprise, and everyone quickly did a scan of the cavern. Sure enough: no glowing green spells, no animated corpses, no surly sorcerer, none of it. He could vaguely make out footprints moving through the dirt, but there was no way of telling when those had been made.

  “Maybe they left?” Eric suggested.

  Dumb an idea as it was, there was no chance to mock him for it, as a loud snapping and groaning sound filled the cavern. Thistle, it seemed, had been right about the structural integrity of where they were standing, and the race to freedom wasn’t quite over yet. A large section of the walkway began to splinter, and that was all the prodding they needed to get back into gear. With hurried steps and more than a few glances back to where their friend was ostensibly spending his final moments, the group ran up the walkway even as it started to crack and crumble, hurrying toward freedom.

  * * *

  Not yet.

  Timuscor raised his shield, deflecting a paper scorpion’s stinger and chopping off the tip of its tail. He barely dodged a blow from a paper tiger as it swung its fearsome claws and scraped the side of his armor. With a kick to the tiger’s midsection, Timuscor knocked it off balance and sliced its flank with his sword. Near his feet, Mr. Peppers drove his tusks into a paper spider’s legs, sending it reeling to the ground, where he stomped it into pieces.

  Not yet.

  A flurry of paper birds with beaks like razors swarmed Timuscor, pecking at his exposed face and trying to tear away his eyes. Sweeping his shield like a hammer, he smashed them into the wall, praying the cuts they’d opened wouldn’t bleed into his eyes. A paper wolf lunged for his throat, and Timuscor met it with an overhanded slice, splitting it at the jaw and shredding all the way down its body. A paper cobra the size of a dog was right behind it; Timuscor beheaded the beast before its fangs could press against his armor.

  Not yet.

  Another bear slammed a paw into him with enough force that Timuscor might have been driven back, were he not already braced by the door. Ducking the next swipe, Timuscor stabbed upward, taking the bear just below its paper throat and cleaving it into mismatched thirds. He had a moment to right himself and take in the room as the next monster prepared to attack.

  There were so many of them; the number seemed irrelevant at this point. They may as well be infinite, and he was just a lone man. Already, his mus
cles burned and blood pooled in various parts of his armor. They were chipping away at him, one fang and claw at a time. Easily as they went down, each made sure to take a piece of him with it. Timuscor was going to fall to them; he knew it with complete and utter certainty.

  But not yet. He tightened his grip on the sword and met the charging paper unicorn below its horn, taking off the top of its head. Timuscor couldn’t let himself die yet. Not until the ceiling came down, and these things were taken with him. Not until his friends were safe. Being a paladin didn’t just mean dying as an act of sacrifice: it meant being willing to do whatever it took to see the job done, even if it cost a life. If he fell now, he fell as a man, a knight, and a failure.

  Timuscor slammed his shield into a paper panther’s face, spinning it about so he could cut through the torso. These things could have his life, if that was the price demanded, but they would only get it on his terms. No matter what it took, Timuscor would meet a paladin’s end.

  Just not yet.

  * * *

  There were many sunrises Thistle prized throughout his life. The one he’d watched with Madroria after the night she agreed to be his wife. The one he’d seen crest a snowy hill when they’d feared they would freeze to death before morning. The one that had risen on him and his small wagon when he’d set out to start yet another new life. But as he came more tumbling than running out of the hidden entrance to the mountain, Thistle’s eyes fell upon the most beautiful sunrise he could ever recall bearing witness to.

  It coated the sky with purples, blues, and reds, burning away the darkness for what seemed like the first time in weeks. He bolted down the steep landscape, heart still clutched firmly in his hands, racing toward where the mountain’s shadow would end and the first rays of sunlight would hit the paladin’s heart. Behind him, the others followed, all keeping a few paces back out of both respect and prudence. After all, while Thistle hadn’t given anyone but Grumph the full story yet, they could recognize dangerous magic when they saw it.

  Thistle was only steps away from stepping into the light when the cloud appeared, dark as a starless midnight, stretching over the sky and barring him from the precious sunlight that would put his miserable journey to an end.

  “What . . . how . . . Kalzidar.”

  It was, of course, impossible for a cloud to laugh, but Thistle got the distinct impression that this one was doing just that. The dark mass whirled through the air, spreading out in all directions, blotting out even the charcoal grays of the fading night sky with its dark curtain.

  Thistle’s hands tightened around the heart as he watched the cloud spread. Before, he would have only seen it as an inconvenience, trusting that not even a god could block the sun indefinitely. Now, with Timuscor either dead or dying as a result of this wicked divinity’s servant, there was no patience in Thistle’s heart. Instead, it burned with the righteous fury of one who has seen a wrong done and will stand for it no longer. It was not an unfamiliar emotion to Thistle, but it was one he hadn’t felt—hadn’t let himself feel—for a very long time.

  “O Grumble, he who cares for the beaten, the powerless, and the downtrodden. He who lends his ears to those with silenced voices. God of they who toil tirelessly, protector of the ones that cower, watcher of the weak.” Thistle raised his hands high overhead, the heart in them beating so fast it seemed like it might burn itself out. “O Grumble, god of the minions, as your paladin I call upon you and ask: Are you really going take this shit?”

  Above Thistle’s head, the cloud seemed to boil, rolling and twisting through the sky, almost like it was convulsing in pain. For his part, Thistle closed his eyes and tried to focus on what he was praying for. Sunshine, enough to bathe this whole damned kingdom in it. To burn away the shadows where Kalzidar hid, to tear back the darkness that had festered here for too long. Thistle wanted to stand in the sunlight again, even if only for a moment.

  Since his eyes were closed, Thistle didn’t see the beam of light that broke through the cloud, but he felt it warm his body. Without opening his eyes, Thistle rattled off the words he’d been given by his fellow paladin. They were gibberish to him, a prayer from a time long before Thistle’s days. Yet, with every syllable, he felt the heart moving, expanding, growing so big it was all he could do to keep the thing in his hands.

  Then the final word came, and Thistle opened his eyes. As the last of the prayer slid from his lips, the heart began to glow with a golden light. It was burning, beautiful, too magical to look away from, yet too painful to watch. The heart grew lighter and lighter until Thistle was holding more sunbeam than organ. Just as it seemed it could grow no brighter, the heart began to dissolve. Flecks of golden light fell from his hand like grains of sand, burning away into nothingness before they touched the ground.

  A sound, not unlike a far-off, distant scream, seemed to come from the sky, and Thistle suspected he heard the slightest bit of kobold-like laughter tickling his ear. At last, it was done, his mission in Briarwillow finally complete.

  Thistle lowered himself to the ground, ready to take a moment of rest. That was, of course, when he heard the explosions begin.

  Chapter 39

  When Timuscor heard the first blast, he mistook it for a sign that the catacombs were finally coming down in earnest. Then another followed, and another, and it began to occur to him that something about them seemed unnatural, even for a situation where he was in a collapsing tomb fighting paper monsters. Mr. Peppers, scratched and bloody but still in the fight, reacted to them like he’d been waiting all along for such sonorous explosions.

  Turning away from the paper snake he’d gored with his tusks, Mr. Peppers faced Timuscor, stamped his hoof once, and charged. Unlike all the other attackers so far, Mr. Peppers was able to catch the knight off guard, as Timuscor hadn’t been expecting a blow from the only ally he had. Mr. Peppers did not, however, try to gore his friend by using those sharp tusks that had felled so many paper opponents.

  Instead, Mr. Peppers used his tongue to free the ring he’d wedged on a crooked tooth, revealing a bright green gemstone that had faced the inside of his mouth. Twisting the trinket around carefully, Mr. Peppers slammed into Timuscor’s leg, gemstone first. The two tumbled backward from the force, a fact that sent Timuscor’s brain reeling since he’d been sure the door would stop their momentum.

  When they finally landed—heavily at that—Timuscor quickly scrambled to his feet, lest the paper monsters should overtake them. So focused was he on incoming attacks that Timuscor failed to notice that there were no monsters. Or catacombs, for that matter. He was standing in the sunshine, a bit bright for so early, as explosions rang through the air. Turning in place, he found himself staring at his friends, who had their backs to him as they stared at the mountain, big chunks of which were collapsing inward, sending billows of dust into the air.

  “But . . . I was supposed to die.”

  Mr. Peppers came up next to his legs, silver ring with a now-cracked gem still stuck in his mouth. Timuscor stared down at the boar that, technically, wasn’t still supposed to be there, and then scratched it carefully behind the ears.

  “Good boy. I think.” While he didn’t understand precisely what had happened, Timuscor lived in a world of magic, monsters, and the unnatural. The occasional unexplained event was simply part of life, and it seemed Timuscor wasn’t quite done living yet.

  “If everyone’s watching that thing, waiting for me to come out, I’m afraid you’re facing the wrong direction!” Timuscor’s voice echoed across the open plain, easily reaching the others, all of whom spun around at the sound, half-ready for another fight or more divine trickery. After they stared at him for a moment, everyone rushed forward, gripping the knight in embraces so fierce he feared he might accidently lose his life after all.

  As deaths went, though, being smothered by the people he loved wouldn’t be such a bad one.

  * * *

  “Wimberly’s bomb . . .” —Russell threw the dice out in plain view, results
intended for all to see— “succeeds! The blast sends the last of the wizards tumbling to the ground, leaving him prone until his next turn.”

  “That would be a lot cooler if his turn wasn’t next,” Cheri grumbled. Chalara had taken a beating in the battle and was down to only a few points of mana, which meant she was stuck on the sidelines while her friends cleaned things up. The fight was going their way—Timanuel scoring a critical hit and crippling the first of the trio of wizards at the start had been a huge boon in their favor—but she’d been playing SS&S for too long to count a battle as done until the bodies were beheaded.

  “It is his turn indeed, but getting up still takes an action,” Russell said. He glanced down at the module for guidance on the final wizard’s plan. Wimberly’s arcane bomb had knocked the poor guy down to only a few health points, and this was likely to be his last round of combat. The module usually had instructions for moments like these: final words or taunts, occasionally actions they would take when knowing their end was at hand. For this wizard, Russell had to flip through the pages to a section of the fight table, and what he found there gave him pause.

  “Does he get up, or try to cast from the ground?” Tim asked. His turn followed the wizard’s, and as a paladin, it didn’t feel right attacking a downed opponent. At the same time, those wizards had tried to kill the party already. He’d feel a lot better about the whole thing if the wizard died on his feet, at least.

  “He, um, he teleports.” Russell stared at the instructions, checking them and double checking them to make sure it was right. Somewhere in his binder, he’d copied down this page, but it was clustered up with the appendix, nowhere near the juicy bits Russell had made certain to keep on hand. “According to this, he activates a ring of teleportation he’d been saving, allowing him to teleport freely.”

  “Horsecrap, he just now uses the thing?” Cheri found herself simultaneously annoyed and impressed. Chicken shit as it was for the last boss to duck out, she had to admit it was a good way to string quests together. “Let me guess, now we have to chase him to the ends of the earth to finish this once and for all.”