by Drew Hayes
When Eric’s head popped up, a visible surge of relief ran through the room. They hadn’t known what happened after he raced off into the woods, and it was hard not to imagine the worst, given the odds they’d been facing.
“Good morning, everyone. I hope you slept well. We allowed you a brief nap to recover from your travels. Plus, if I’m honest, you all looked like you could use the sleep.” The speaker was a man standing on the pulpit. He was a shorter fellow, though no one would mistake him for a gnome, dressed in casual clothes and with a single sword on his hip.
“That’s great and all, but I wasn’t asleep. That robed bitch just froze me and blocked out all my senses.” No wonder Gabrielle had come up looking pissed; she’d been trapped in her mind instead of merely unconscious.
“Yes, unfortunately not every solution works for every adventurer. We do the best we can and make up the rest as we go. I’m sure you’re familiar with such methods. But look at me, being rude.” He paused, bowing deeply to them. “My name is Kieran, and while our town doesn’t have a ‘ruler,’ per se, I’m the one who often ends up dealing with situations such as this.”
That earned an uneasy look between party members. The phrase “situations such as this” left a lot open to interpretation. Although they were all grateful to be healed and in one piece, they’d also been stripped of their weaponry—a fact that didn’t necessarily bode well.
Kieran was making an effort to be cordial, though, so the least they could do was return it. Thistle stood up on a bench, which allowed him to be seen from the pulpit, and returned Kieran’s bow. “My name is Thistle, paladin of Grumble. With me are Gabrielle, our fearless barbarian; Grumph, our esteemed wizard; Eric, a silent rogue; as well as Timuscor and Mr. Peppers, the classic pairing of a knight and his boar.”
“Gnome paladin, that’s an unusual one.” The real surprise hit Kieran a moment later, as he processed Thistle’s words. “Hold on, Grumble? As in the god of the minions? I didn’t think he had paladins.”
“All gods may have paladins, if they can find those willing to serve,” Thistle explained.
Kieran looked Thistle over once more. “I suppose that might explain why your armor refused to come off. Divine will is stronger the fewer servants a god has in their employ. Easier to pay attention, I presume. You are all a mess of curiosities, I must say. At first, we took you for another party of adventurers who’d had the misfortune to stumble onto a trail they were never meant to find. When Simone realized you had an echo with you, we knew something else was afoot. Then we found your artifact, and it all fell into place.”
It was the first time they’d all realized that Eric’s pack was gone. The serenity of the church and waking up healed was immediately dispelled. Gabrielle went so far as to grab her axe, only to find it unwilling to leave the new sheath around it.
“Don’t worry. We aren’t keeping it. None of us want any of those damn pieces around. But the fact that you have one indicates that they’re active again, which means quite a bit for the world as a whole, and some very specific things for us. It’s also why we decided to let you into our town. Feel complimented. Most who pass the test of character are merely allowed to escape. It’s been some time since we actually brought outsiders into Notch.”
Silence met Kieran’s declaration, as the party tried to absorb the rapid-fire words of near nonsense that had been leveled their way. Not only did he know what a piece of the Bridge was, but his people had no desire to use it? Or even have it nearby? That in itself wasn’t incomprehensible; those items courted danger. It was part of why the party had buried the first one they found. Intriguing as that was, it was another hook that dragged one of them to speak first.
“You’re talking about me, aren’t you?” Unsteady with the sudden disappearance of his armor, Timuscor rose from the pew. “An echo. That’s what the mage woman said when she looked into my eyes.”
“Her name is Simone,” Kieran clarified. “And we’ll get to that in a moment. This is easier digested in pieces, and choking down the first parts make the later ones more palatable. Also, this analogy is disgusting and clearly got away from me, so I’m going to stop talking about eating for a bit. Instead, let’s start with where you are: Notch. Notch is a town you won’t find on any map in any kingdom. We built it out here, at the edge of the Urthos plains, where no tax collector or stray merchant could stumble upon its location. This place is a very weighty secret, so before we go on, it’s important to me that you understand the situation. If you ever depart, you are not permitted to tell anyone what you have seen. The sole exception is gods, of course, since they already know, and I understand that, as a paladin, it might very well be impossible for you to lie to Grumble.”
There was a flicker of surprise in Thistle’s eyes at that. Evidently, that was news to him, if it was true. “Forgive me, but you said if we depart. I can tell you’re trying to be accommodating, but that sort of language does leave an implied threat hanging in the air.”
“No one here is planning to hurt you, although injury is possible. I simply meant that most who are permitted to come here choose to stay. Our town is roughly fifty people strong, not counting children, even if the vast majority keeps to themselves. We’re a tight-knit community, a safe place in a chaotic world, and for many, that’s what they’ve been searching for, whether they knew it or not.”
Everyone save for Timuscor and Mr. Peppers exchanged a glance. Before all this, before the adventuring and the Mad King’s bounty and the Bridge, they’d been mostly normal people. True, Thistle and Grumph had each had excitement in his past, yet even that had long since faded into a mundane existence. They knew all too well the simple pleasure of living within a community of good people. And deep down, each of them had been aching for it since the day they stepped out of Maplebark.
“Sounds lovely,” Eric spoke up from the back. Despite the fact that no bruise or scar was present, he still rubbed the side of his head where he’d been struck. “And while I can’t question your assessment of this being a safe place, given defenses like that, you’ll understand if we’re curious about a fifty-person town that can employ someone as powerful as Simone as its guard.”
That earned a laugh. Not derisive or mocking, but the short chuckle that comes from surprise of the unexpected. “Simone is a civilian here, not a mere guard. She works in a house behind this church, at the edge of the graveyard. The truth is, we only sent her because you had an undead with you, so it made the easiest story to sell. All of us on the town council take turns playing that part, depending on the party and the situation.”
“I see.” Thistle’s brow was knit, his fleeting moment of confusion replaced with intense concentration. “The crux was never whether or not we could defeat the undead army; it was a test to see whether we were the kind of people to trade a friend’s life for our own. Presumably, failure would have put our lives at risk, while success earned us the freedom to leave, maybe with a parting word or two of guidance if we were truly impressive. Am I close?”
“You fudged a detail here and there, but you’ve got the spirit of it,” Kieran confirmed.
“There’s only one issue I can see with such an arrangement. For you to so easily trade out on who fulfills that role, wouldn’t that mean you’d all have to be roughly as powerful as Simone?” Thistle had the look of a man dearly hoping to be proven wrong, which explained why his face lit up as Kieran shook his head.
Tapping his hand on the hilt of his sword, Kieran whispered to himself, counting off some unseen data on his fingers as he mumbled. “Not quite that bad. As I mentioned, only those on the council tend to fill the role. You’ve got the right idea, though. Simone is definitely one of our more powerful residents. I’m certainly not claiming that everyone is on her level. By my count, we’ve got about five who are her equal, and only three I would classify as substantially stronger. That said, even those who are weaker than she are still far stronger than any of you, and most of the adventurers who come through here
as well.”
“You can’t seriously expect us to believe—” Gabrielle’s words were cut off by the sudden appearance of a blade two inches from her skull. In less than a blink, Kieran had vanished and reappeared with his weapon drawn: an entire church crossed before she’d even gotten out a full sentence.
He stayed like that for only a moment before he smiled and sheathed his weapon. “Forgive the parlor trick. I’ve been at this long enough to know a moment of demonstration will save me an hour of debate. Yes, the people of Notch are by and large incredibly powerful. No, that’s not a coincidence. You see, all of us who live here share a common thread.”
Calmly, as though he hadn’t just shown he could kill any of them in a heartbeat, Kieran made his way back to the pulpit, speaking as he went. “We were all adventurers, too, once. Most adventurers die; that’s hardly a surprise to anyone. Yet, on occasion, they don’t. Luck, the gods, perhaps fate itself, something keeps driving them forward until they complete their ultimate goal, usually in a fight so difficult that only a few members of their party survive, if that. Imagine, if you would… finishing your quest. Seeing it through, walking away triumphant. Do you know what comes after?”
Kieran paused, climbing his way onto the pulpit, waiting to see if anyone would answer. They were smarter than that; each realized that no response they could give would be relevant. This was a story, and they didn’t know the conclusion. Finally, when he was back at his starting position, Kieran resumed.
“Nothing. Nothing comes after. And I don’t just mean there’s no looming, dominant objective to rule your life. I mean a sensation of nothingness soon descends. It happens slowly, usually some while after the battle is over and the rewards are reaped. This… emptiness just starts growing inside you. Like something is missing. Something is gone. And then suddenly, everything you’ve done, everything you’ve fought for, disappears. When you look back at your life, you’re met with only one, inescapable question.”
“Was that really me?” Timuscor was crying—not sobbing, nor heaving, nor even seemingly aware of the tears rolling down his cheek. “Why can I remember doing all of these things, but not why I did them, or what I was feeling, or what made it seem so important? Why does the person I was before feel so different from who I am now?”
“And here, at last, I can finally answer your question.” Kieran’s tone was somber, unexpectedly fitting for their surroundings. “When the quest is done, when the compulsion for adventure fades, we are what is left behind. Shadows of who we once were, beings with skill and power far beyond that which most could dream of, yet lacking the core of what drove us to acquire them. We are, in essence, echoes of our former selves.”
Holding up his hands, Kieran gestured to the large wooden door at the back of the church. “Out there lies Notch. A town whose citizens are almost entirely former adventurers. A city composed of echoes.”
8.
As much as Urthos was a land of open plains and wild riders, one did still have to take a few of Alcatham’s roads to reach it if they were approaching from the south. On the major avenues, this was a safe prospect, as kingdom guards still regularly patrolled for the sake of safety. Some of the paths were not quite so secure, however. This was a blessing for those wishing to transport goods away from the prying eyes of guards, or attempting to travel without being seen. Of course, this also made such roads a boon for bandits: their targets not only often had wealth, but also wouldn’t be able to report the crime if their enterprise was illegal.
Some bandits set up shop and cut off all travel around them, hitting every target they could. It was a valid strategy, yet it came with an immediate disadvantage. The moment word spread, traffic would halt until a squadron of guards were sent to take care of things. Most bandits moved on before the guards arrived, realizing that when the traffic died off, there was no more gold to be made. They’d have to ride until they could set up camp elsewhere, and the cycle repeated.
Tormin was never a fan of that tactic. True, it paid well while it lasted, but the costs of time, travel, and changing locations all quickly mounted up. He’d found, through trial and error, that it was better to let most of the traffic continue unabated. Rumors of bandits on the road should be just that: rumors. For every one account of robbery, let there be nine saying how they crossed without incident. Enough to keep the kingdom hesitant at committing resources and make sure the travelers who used such neglected routes felt it was worth the risk.
In that setup, it was tempting to go for the most tantalizing targets: merchants smuggling forbidden enchantments or outlawed potions. Too few realized what a rookie mistake that was. Merchants had money, which they were more than happy to spend on protection. In his youth, Tormin had seen more than a few older bandits turned to pulp by a formidable knight or wizard paid to protect the cargo. No, merchants were too protected. Tormin liked to liberate his gold from those who thought themselves wily. Too poor to afford protection, so they pretended to have less wealth than they did.
As the sun rose on Tormin’s stretch of highway, he saw just such a potential target riding toward their choke point: a small wagon with two priests sitting up front. Disguising one’s self as clergy was a common tactic for those hoping to avoid robbery. Aside from having little of value, traveling priests, like all who served the divine, were also closely connected to their gods. It wasn’t worth risking divine wrath for a few silver coins and a pair of threadbare robes. Clever an idea as that was, too few who used it paid attention to the details. Today, for instance, Tormin could plainly see that the wagon they were using lacked any church inscriptions or symbols; in fact, it was obviously one of the carts sold near the border of Camnarael. In his line of work, Tormin saw so many carts and horses he could have written a whole tome about them, and the one heading toward him was certainly not the kind of wagon priests would use.
That alone might not have been enough, but there were other factors, too. Lack of identifying symbols, the fact that both were driving and neither had so much as a single holy book out, dozens of tiny indicators that all pointed to a single conclusion: these were not actual priests.
Letting out the call of a sparrow native to the region, with a touch of extra trill so the others knew it was him, Tormin signaled for them to drop the trap. As soon as the wagon passed a predetermined point, a huge log was quickly pulled into their path. Rigging up the pulley system had been a bastard, but it beat trying to block travelers with their horses and bodies. Behind the wagon, a second log was dragged into the narrow road, cutting off any escape.
Normally, this was where Tormin would step out to make demands. Lately, he’d been trying his hand at delegating, so today, Omphel would be giving it a go. Had they been more dangerous enemies, Tormin would have taken over, but the ones who dressed like priests were rarely an issue. Still, Tormin waited near the edge of the trees, blade at the ready in case he needed to step in.
Omphel, a wide man who brandished a sword too heavy for most to wield easily, planted himself in the road, staring down the phony priests. “Well met, travelers. As you can see, there’s been an accident in the road today. My friends and I would be more than happy to clear the path, assuming you can afford our services.”
On cue, the other bandits crept into view. They stayed spread out; if one of these people was a mage, it wouldn’t do to give them a single, clustered target. No, the goal here was to minimize bloodshed on both sides. An unwinnable fight made for more docile victims, which let Tormin finish the job without putting his bandits at risk. Any robbery where everyone walked away alive was a good one in his book.
“Oh my. Such a terrible event. Yet, if it is in our path, then it must be the will of our god.” The driver was the one speaking, his gray hood concealing any features beyond the voice. His passenger was dressed identically and would have been impossible to differentiate if they weren’t nearly a foot taller than the one holding the reins. “What say you, my fellow clergy? What shall we do?”
From t
he back of the wagon, two more figures in gray robes slid out onto their feet. Something was off. Tormin could already tell. The voice was all wrong. It wasn’t scared, surprised, or even uncertain. They’d either seen this coming, or that man was among the greatest actors alive. Tormin wasn’t willing to bet on the latter. Part of him wanted to signal for a full withdrawal. Instead, he waited for a moment longer. Omphel was running the robbery today; he should have noted the curiosities as well. The man deserved a chance to show that he could use discretion when it was demanded.
In spite of his sour expression that always seemed to be spoiling for a fight, Omphel hadn’t been given the position of liaison without merit. His forehead creased in distrust; the voice and the way the priests were acting hadn’t been lost on him. “My apologies, good men. I took you to be charlatans masquerading as clergy, yet now that I study you more carefully, it becomes clear that you are indeed among the devout. Permit us a moment, and we’ll have this road cleared.”
“No need for that. What our god has put in our path, we shall see dealt with.” The driver held out his hand, and from it came a bolt of dark purple, bordering on black, that struck the tree and left only a handful of ashes and a hole in the road behind.
Omphel swallowed hard, raising his mighty sword while gesturing at the rest of the bandits to run. “That’s no priest spell I’ve ever seen. Who are you people, really?”
“Us? Well, that’s something of a hard question to answer.” As the driver spoke, the others were circling, taking careful aim at the bandits who’d crept out from the trees. “Much as we all love our god and serve him faithfully, introductions have always seemed to be something of a sticking point.”
In that moment, Tormin knew. He was running, trying to get close enough to warn them, but it was already too late. Just before the world erupted into screaming, magic, and death, the driver completed his explanation.
