by Drew Hayes
“Brace yourself for a rare bit of good news: you can be both,” Brock assured him. “Not all adventurers become echoes, but all echoes were adventurers at some point. Some quit when they realize what’s changed. Some leave the life without knowing why, their passion for it having just vanished. Others keep going. They find a new reason to fight, to quest, to live that perilous lifestyle. An end to adventuring isn’t what makes an echo.”
Without meaning to, Timuscor leaned forward, nearly crossing the entirety of the bar. “Then what does make an echo?”
Brock waited until Timuscor had eased back to a more relaxed posture, killing time by sipping from his own glass. He held the container in his hand delicately, turning it so it caught the light of the flames burning in the fireplace. “Different people have different theories about that in a grand, metaphysical sense, but if you ask me, there is one key difference that always shows you who’s an echo and who isn’t: fear.”
Timuscor stared blankly, trying to unravel what that could mean. “I’m sorry, fear?”
“Think back, to before. Who you were in the old days. I know the memories are fuzzy, but this should still be something that stands out. Can you find, anywhere in your mind, a memory of being truly afraid you were going to die? Not aware of the possibility, not mildly worried; I’m talking that deep-in-your-gut, absolute boulder of terror that comes when you’re fighting with your life on the line. You’ve gone against Simone, so I know you’ve experienced that at least once.”
That was indeed a feeling Timuscor was quite familiar with. He’d had it in the collapsing cave, fighting the paper monsters, and he’d been at death’s door when he got a hole in his stomach saving Elora. That fear was so real it bordered on tangible, the unseen seventh member of their party, billed after Mr. Peppers. Yet, familiar as that sensation was, Timuscor could find no recollection of it before waking up with Eric and the Bridge over him.
“I remember being concerned, once or twice. Like dying would be a serious inconvenience that I didn’t want to deal with. No real fear, though. I wasn’t afraid to die.” He paused, turning that revelation over in his mind. “Why wasn’t I afraid to die?”
“Because you weren’t you. Kieran shared what you said in the church. You’ve messed around with that artifact enough to know there’s more to this world than what we can see. Those outside influences—I’m not sure they control us entirely, but when they’ve got their hooks in us, we’re more them than us. That’s why we weren’t afraid to die: to the mind peering through our eyes, we were disposable. That changed when they left us. Suddenly, we each discovered the idea of self-preservation.”
It was a very intangible distinction, yet nevertheless a valid one. True fear was a new experience, even if it shouldn’t have been. That did raise a fresh question, however. “What about the others? They’re adventurers now, and I believe they have always been afraid for their lives. Which category does that put them in?”
“The mere fact that they’re adventuring means they are, by definition, adventurers,” Brock said. “But they aren’t like us. They’re a third kind: ones who have never been controlled by outside forces, or not as directly as we have. From the start, each has been their own person. It doesn’t happen often, only when a piece of artifact is active, but occasionally, ones like them pick up the adventuring mantle. As interesting a story as I’m sure they have, our condition is something different.”
Silence fell as both men attended to their drinks, interrupted by the occasional snore of Mr. Peppers, sleeping near Timuscor’s feet. Brock was waiting for the next question, patiently giving Timuscor time to put it into words. Only… Timuscor wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to ask what came next. The possibility of not getting an answer was scary; the idea of actually getting one was ten times more terrifying. Once some things were learned, they couldn’t be forgotten. For a fleeting moment, Timuscor almost shied away, turning the conversation elsewhere.
Except being afraid wasn’t such a bad thing, when he thought about it. Fear was a marker, a distinction, a line in the sand between who he was and who he’d been. Every time Timuscor felt his fear rise up, it was a reminder that he was real and different from his prior incarnation. And in a way, that made it comforting, enough for him to push past his hesitations.
“How much of him—who I was before—was me?”
Brock looked Timuscor up and down, eyeing him carefully. “Hard to say. The work is ours, that much is for certain. Even as echoes, we’re as strong as we ever were. The desires, maybe part them, part us? If you’re used to wanting something for long enough, it’s easy to think that the urge is yours. I often find the largest difference between who we are and who we were is the means we’ll use to achieve those desires. Obviously, as echoes, we are all far more concerned with our well-being than we were as adventurers. Even beyond that, sometimes, the way we’ve acted, the way we’ve treated others, we’ve almost all got a few things we’re ashamed of. Were you a bad man, before? I don’t ask that as judgment, but because we’ve got some people who can help you sort through that better than I can.”
“Not bad, or not evil anyway. Even then, I wanted to be a paladin, yet my moral fortitude was lacking. I allowed my former party to do things, to act in ways I can’t imagine tolerating now. And sometimes, in the heat of battle, I could forget myself and become needlessly cruel. There were enemies I could have spared, people who were too injured to keep fighting back, and I still…” Timuscor trailed off, wiping away unexpected tears for the second time that day. Sometimes, he was thankful his memories were blurred. There were plenty of moments he’d rather not recall clearly.
Brock topped them both off, staying silent until Timuscor had composed himself. “That’s rough. And I’ve got no magic words to fix it. Only who you are now can make peace with who you were. Don’t expect it to come overnight, either. Getting past those sorts of issues isn’t easy; it’s not supposed to be. That said, if it ever gets overwhelming, you should talk to Kieran. The guy still hasn’t entirely squared himself away with all his own demons, but he’s been dealing with it longer than anyone I know. Any insight to be had, he’s the one who can offer it.”
“Was Kieran a—no, never mind. That’s not my place to ask behind his back.”
“It’s fine,” Brock assured him. “Notch is a small town; we’ve got few secrets to keep outside of our existence. Kieran used to be an assassin. Part of a band of assassins, in fact. His old party. They were incredible, too. For his last job, Kieran’s team managed to successfully kill a king. Of course, kings are well-protected, and even once the job was done, they had to get out. He was the only one to make it.”
That certainly didn’t mesh with the firm yet friendly man they’d met earlier in the church, but then, the Timuscor of old might not have been recognizable to his current friends, either. Evidently, part of being an echo meant accepting that others had pasts which might not accurately reflect who they were now. It did explain Kieran’s incredible strike display, if nothing else. That wasn’t a move for fighting; it was a technique for killing.
“What about you, Brock? If it’s not rude, can I ask who you were in your past life?”
“I like that. Good way to refer to the pre-echo days. Might have to steal it.” Setting his glass down, Brock took a few steps back and raised both his fists. Immediately, Timuscor felt his hair stand on end. There was danger in that stance; power, too. Part of Timuscor knew, without question, that a single punch from Brock would tear his body to pieces.
“I was a brawler. You don’t have many of those around here, but in my homeland, we were common. Grew up poor—I mean filthy poor. Had to fight for every bite of food that went in my mouth, and it turned out I was decent in a scrap. For kids like me, there were only two ways out of that life: enter my kingdom’s gladiatorial program, or join the king’s army. I don’t like orders, so I took the first one. Got in on guts and willpower alone. My testing opponent beat my scrawny, underfed ass up and down the pit, but
I refused to give up. I’ll never forget what my instructor said that day; it’s one of the few clear memories I have from my past life. ‘You can teach technique, you can build muscle, and you can train reflexes, but that kind of stubbornness comes from the soul.’ Meant a lot to me.”
Relaxing his posture, Brock walked back over to the bar. “Anyway, I got my training, bulked up—clearly—and learned how to win real fights instead of street brawls. After a while, I got bored of that life, so when some other skilled warriors I knew wanted to strike out into the world, I jumped at the chance. We had some good years.” This time, it was Brock who wiped a rogue tear from his eye, though he made no effort to disguise the gesture. “Sadly, Kieran’s story isn’t as unique as it should be. Big final job—we pulled it off, but not without casualties. A lot of casualties. I was one of two survivors. The other went home. She was training new gladiators, last I checked.”
Timuscor lifted his glass in the air, and Brock soon took the hint. He picked up his own and gently clinked the edges together.
“To those we have lost,” Timuscor said.
“Including ourselves,” Brock added.
They finished their drinks, and neither man reached for the bottle to add more. Carefully, Timuscor nudged Mr. Peppers awake, eliciting a snort from the boar as he climbed to his hooves. “Thanks for the drinks, and the talk. I think I’m ready to give sleep another try.”
“Good idea. You’ll want your wits about you tomorrow, as you try to figure out if we’re all secretly planning to kill you.”
Jerking his head around, Timuscor found Brock with a big grin stretched across his face. “We’re all former adventurers; obviously, I know what you’re thinking. You really believe we aren’t trying to figure out the same thing about you?”
“Given the difference in our skills, I can’t imagine how much you’d have to worry about from us,” Timuscor said.
Brock shook his head, even as the smile remained in place. “We’re not worried about you, specifically. But some power or other put you on that path to Notch. Until we know whose pawn you are, and in what game, you’ll understand if the people around here are a little wary. If it helps, I’m hoping we don’t end up fighting each other.”
Oddly, it did sort of help. Timuscor could see things from their side. It wasn’t personal; they had an entire village to protect. Even if no one used the word, it seemed clear from the outside that the denizens of Notch had replaced their old groups with this town’s community. In the same way that he would fight someone he had no personal grudge with to protect his friends, Brock would charge head-first into battle for his fellow townsfolk. But only if the situation demanded it.
“If it comes to that, don’t expect me to back down just because you’re stronger. I’m known for my stubbornness as well.”
Brock’s smile dimmed a touch, but new respect glowed in his eyes. “I’ll remember that.”
There was nothing more to say, so Timuscor climbed back up the stairs to his room. Strangely, in spite of the emotional conversation he’d just had—topped off by a half-threat, no less—he found that sleep came almost the moment his head touched the pillow.
13.
Wind tore at his skin, howling as it whipped through the trees. Thistle clung to the locked door of Grumph’s bar, positioned near the edge of Maplebark, as the gusts threatened to tear him away and fling him into the sky. Thistle screamed, yelling his questions to the heavens, yet his voice couldn’t even reach his own ears. If they were making it to Grumble, or if Grumble was replying, then all of it was lost amidst the damn wind. Thistle refused to give up. He strained harder, lifting himself up slightly and raising his voice. The shift weakened his grip, unfortunately, and he was ripped from the door, hurling through the air as the world spun below.
The impact of hitting the floor woke Thistle from his dream, albeit not in a gentle fashion. With some effort, he extricated himself from the thin sheets, pulling his head free to see morning sunshine pouring through his room’s window.
This was a new one. Thistle had seen Grumble unable to convey as much information as he wanted to before, thanks to the divine protocol enacted when two or more gods had conflicting interests, but this was the first time they’d been unable to communicate at all. Some force was interfering, inserting itself into Thistle’s dreams so that Grumble couldn’t reach him. To be powerful enough to block the connection between a god and their paladin was no small feat; outside of other gods, it was hard to imagine anyone having such skill. Then again, if there was such a candidate, they would be here in Notch.
As Thistle saw it, there were three options to consider. The first was that the interfering force came from outside of Notch, which meant that he had no way to investigate or remedy the situation. Possible, yes, but true or not, it had no impact on his course of action, so he set it aside for now. His second explanation was that Notch’s impressive wards were also tuned to disrupt the divine. Given the town’s attitude on outsiders—including gods—that seemed like the most plausible answer. It was far preferable than the third option: someone in town was purposely stopping him from talking to Grumble. That was the worst-case scenario, as it implied someone with an agenda they very much didn’t want Thistle to get insight on… the sort of insight a god might impart.
Out of these explanations, number two would be the easiest to research. So long as he framed it innocently, like he had experienced mere interference in the conversation instead of intentional blockage, they’d have no reason not to tell him if the village’s wards disrupted divine power. Should that turn out to not be the case, then Thistle would have to consider the other options. Until then, it was always best to start with the likeliest choice.
Dressing was a quick affair, since he’d slept in his armor. Not that Thistle could get so much as a single piece off; it was as though the metal had been bonded to his flesh. Grumble was sending at least one clear message, and Thistle intended to heed it. Thankfully, part of the armor’s magic allowed him to rest comfortably while wearing it, otherwise he’d never get a good night’s sleep so long as he was in Notch.
Thistle went down the stairs into the tavern, only to find with a slight shock that he was the last of his party to arrive. Normally, Thistle slept lightly, although dreams from gods did tend to put him deeply under. Never had one dragged on so long that he’d lazed about this late, however. Perhaps the act of hanging on, trying to communicate, had left him unconscious for an extended period of time. That, or the weeks of travel had finally caught up with him and his body took the rest while it was plentiful.
“Good morning.” Thistle looked over to find Jolia sitting at the bar, helping herself to a plate of eggs and a cold ale. It seemed a little early in the morning for a stiff drink, but then again, as far as Thistle knew, she had nowhere else to be. Given everything these people must have seen in their time adventuring, Jolia probably wasn’t the only one to start her days with a potent beverage.
“Morning,” Thistle called back. He meandered over to the bar, climbing up on one of the gnome-sized stools and motioning for a plate of his own. Brock pointed at the mug next to Jolia, and Thistle shook his head. He had no idea what the day held in store. Best to meet it with a clear head.
Service was quick, as Brock seemed to have a massive pan of eggs on the fire and was simply cracking fresh ones in on the right side as he scooped out cooked ones from the left. The food was good. Not the best Thistle had ever tasted, but worlds better than what they could usually manage on the road. He’d gobbled up an entire plate before he noticed, only to have Brock slide a fresh one onto the counter next to him.
“You’re eating more today. Good sign. Your nerves must be easing.” It was the first thing Jolia had said to Thistle since he sat down.
Rather than reply immediately, Thistle finished the bite in his mouth. Though not everyone was a stickler for manners, Thistle liked to put his best foot forth in these sorts of situations. “A day to settle in and a night’s rest will do
wonders,” he finally agreed, pausing to wipe his mouth. “I also want to make sure I have enough in my belly for whatever the day holds. As I recall, we owe you a few hours’ work in exchange for our food and lodging, correct?”
Jolia sighed, and took a larger than necessary drink of her ale. “As Kieran told you yesterday and I already reminded your friends, you don’t need to jump into work right away. The road is hard, everyone here knows that, so ease yourself in. We promised you a place to rest; you should take a few days to do that. However, given the answer they gave, I’m guessing you’ll say the same.”
“Assuming my friends said they’d rather be active, then yes, I do have the same answer. Whether we like it or not, we’ve grown used to the lives of adventurers. Inactivity would drive us mad, and we can hardly afford to let our skills turn rusty. A few hours is only part of the day, and it will help us burn off our spare energy so we can truly make the most of these wonderful accommodations each night.”
All of that was, in one way or another, true. The idea of spending days with nothing to do sounded torturous, especially with so many questions lingering overhead and Lumal only a few days’ ride away. However, that was not the only reason they’d prefer working through their time here. The more time they could spend around these people, especially in casual settings where conversation easily flowed, the greater chance of learning something useful. Since they’d decided to spend a short time recovering in Notch anyway, it only made sense to try to gather as much information as they could. Aside from the wisdom and experience the townsfolk had as adventurers, they knew about the Bridge. How much had yet to be seen, but Thistle was hoping that by the time they rode away from Notch, it would be with a better understanding of the artifact that had so thoroughly changed their lives.
With a mighty thrust of her fork, Jolia polished off the remainder of her eggs and waved Brock off when he tried to bring more. “About what I expected. Since you slept in, we handled most of the assignments already. Gabrielle will be helping Simone tend her garden in the graveyard, since her undead condition won’t disturb the others. Grumph volunteered to give Brock a hand getting ready for his next brewing session—and given the experience he listed, I have to say I’m a little excited for what they come up with. Timuscor is going to be making the rounds with Kieran, Eric is pitching in to aid our local blacksmith, Shandor, and you get the honor of doing paperwork with me.”
