Goblin Slayer, Vol. 8

by Kumo Kagyu

  “…Let it be after you return, then.”

  “That’s what we’ll do. Yes, let’s,” she said under her breath, as if confirming it for herself.

  Goblin Slayer said only, “Yes please,” and then his metal helmet turned toward Priestess. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Oh yes, uh…” Finished talking with the acolytes, who were about her age, Priestess held her sounding staff in both hands and looked around uncertainly. “Th-there’s somewhere I’d like to go…”

  “Well now, that’s odd,” Dwarf Shaman said, his eyes widening beneath his brows. It was strange for this girl, who often seemed so young, yet was so serious, to say such a thing. “You know the way?”

  “I do. The address… Well, the way there…they just told me.” Her voice trailed off as she looked in the direction of the acolytes, who had already disappeared. “…If you won’t let me, I’ll understand.”

  Goblin Slayer’s rough-hewn, grimy helmet was impassive in the face of Priestess’s beseeching gaze. There was a grunt from inside his expressionless headwear. “Walking solo is dangerous.”

  High Elf Archer gave an exasperated shrug; he made it sound like she was walking into a dungeon.

  “I’ll go with her, then,” High Elf Archer said. “We should be fine together, right?”

  Lizard Priest nodded at the elf as she raised her hand. “We shall split into groups of three and two, then.”

  “That settles it. Sound good, Beard-cutter?”

  Goblin Slayer took in Priestess, still looking at him, and High Elf Archer, with her small chest puffed out. “I don’t mind,” he said shortly. Then he added, “I have no reason to object.”

  “I’ve heard about enough of that,” Dwarf Shaman grumbled, but then he rubbed his hands together and smiled. “So, milady archbishop. Any especially delicious restaurants you can recommend?”

  Sword Maiden clasped the sword and scales tighter to her chest.

  §

  They ended up at The Golden Knight, a tavern that had been around since before the founding of the Adventurers Guild.

  In the capital, though, the word tavern encompassed a number of different types of establishments. There were tea bars and taverns proper, food courts and cantinas.

  The Golden Knight outdid them all for sheer revelry.

  Once through the door, the visitors were assaulted by a wave of sound. A ranger girl and a warrior in heavy armor were arguing about something; an Eastern-style fighter and a thief girl were watching them.

  In another corner, a boy spell caster—he looked like a rookie—took a swig of wine as his party members gathered around and teased him.

  One party centered around a human warrior monk but also included a padfoot warrior, a rhea spell caster, and a beautiful ranger.

  A female wizard was enjoying a meal with some adventurers who appeared to be her pupils; they showered her with admiring cries of “Teacher, teacher!”

  There was a table with a pudgy mage and a medicine woman. They were joined by a knight in armor and helmet and a female fighter; the two latecomers raised their glasses when they arrived…

  No doubt such scenes had repeated themselves endlessly, everywhere in the world, ever since people called adventurers had begun to appear. One would expect no less from an establishment that traced its history with adventurers back to the very moment the first Guild was founded.

  The number of people seeking adventure had increased dramatically, but all this time later, this remained a place of meetings and partings.

  The walls were covered with posts from people seeking parties, as well as parties looking to fill out members they needed.

  Over at a table in the corner was a young man, a rookie most likely, his face a mixture of expectation and excitement and apprehension. He must have been nursing dreams of a fateful encounter or an adventure out of legend.

  His dreams, though, would not come true.

  His brand-new armor and sword, both sparkling; his helmet-less head: all marked him out as a novice warrior. If he knew some magic, that might be one thing, but otherwise, he was likely to just sit on his hands all day.

  He would have to give in and approach someone himself, or decide to go solo…

  Whichever he chose, it would be on him to make the first move. And if he didn’t have it in him to make that move, well, he wasn’t going to survive very long as an adventurer.

  In the opposite corner, some tables were set up, and some of the tavern’s more shiftless residents were alternately cheering and groaning at a game of dice. This wasn’t like the games that the elderly and the children had been playing by the roadside; this was serious: money was at stake.

  On the wall nearby, the pieces of a broken die were skewered like a criminal’s body; it seemed there had been a lead weight inside, and it was being displayed for all to see.

  “Ahh, that’s a schoolboy cheat,” Dwarf Shaman said as he settled into a comfortable seat near the hearth. “Professionals use quicksilver. Lets them pick which way the dice’ll fall.” He rubbed his stubby fingers together, luxuriating in the aroma drifting from the food in front of him.

  Perhaps it was out of recognition that presentation was everything. Perhaps he simply meant to get the most out of all his senses.

  There was a boiled egg that had been cooked by being buried in the ashes of a fire, and a sauce of egg yolk, oil, and lemon. There was a stew cooked in a great pot, cream with plenty of cabbage and bacon. As for the entrée, there was a porridge of red snapper fish sauce mixed with giblets. And finally, cooked goose, in the same sauce of yolk, oil, and lemon.

  To cleanse the palate, there were honeyed grapes, plums, and apples…

  Dwarf Shaman’s eyes wandered happily over the feast. He could hardly decide where to look.

  “Point is, it’s fixed. Bah, leave it to a rhea to go to all that trouble for some measly dice.”

  “And then there are followers of the god of trade, who use the Luck spell to change the outcome,” Lizard Priest said, licking the tip of his nose. “But a roll is a roll. Neither Fate nor Chance has any more to say once the dice are still.” His gaze was fixed on a piece of goat cheese.

  Dwarf Shaman watched his scaly friend and laughed. “They say not even the gods can change a roll once made.”

  Four people cheered: a healer and a spell caster, a paladin and a thief. Apparently celebrating the defeat of a demon and the successful conclusion of an adventure. Dwarf Shaman raised a cup in their direction then drained it in acknowledgment of their achievement.

  “Got to say, I’m impressed our lovely archbishop knows about a place like this.”

  “She was herself an adventurer once, or so I hear,” Lizard Priest said somberly, inspecting the cheese as carefully as if he was checking the condition of his equipment. “At the time, it seems the owner had relocated from the capital to the northern reaches.”

  “Huh,” Dwarf Shaman said, stroking his white beard. “I suppose that would have been about ten years ago, then.”

  “Even so,” Lizard Priest replied with a slow nod. His long neck made it seem as if he were almost gazing into the past.

  Let’s see… How old is Scaly, again?

  If it was hard to guess Dwarf Shaman’s age from his appearance, it was no easier with Lizard Priest. But if he knew about the battle a decade ago…

  At that moment, though, Dwarf Shaman’s thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

  “Evening, sirs. Where might you be from?”

  They looked up to see a man with a stringed instrument in hand—a bard or entertainer of some kind—standing and smiling pleasantly at them. Lizard Priest made a strange hands-together gesture toward the man, who showed no sign of consternation at the sight of the lizardman.

  “We are from the western frontier,” he said.

  “I see—the west. Very good, that, very good.”

  Then the entertainer, who appeared to have something in mind, disappeared into the hustle and bustle of the tavern�
�

  Forever shall her name endure:

  Sword Maiden, whom the gods adore

  Six Golds, one holy maiden, she:

  Just scales, sharp sword, in her hand be

  All word-havers love her so

  Her prayers give rise to miracles

  Among six Golds, she ranged herself

  To fight the Demon Lord himself

  And now the beast is on his pyre

  Guards she the law with equal fire

  Forever shall her name endure:

  Sword Maiden, whom the gods adore…

  The powerful recitation cut through the chatter of the tavern. It told the story of the many adventurers who had beaten back the storm of Death that had come blowing down from the north ten years before. A great many hardened veterans had gathered at the northern fortress to challenge the dungeon there, but it had swallowed them up; they disappeared forever.

  Just six people succeeded in attaining this long-sought goal. Some people even referred to them as the Six Heroes, or simply the All-Stars…

  Whatever one called them, they were not legends, but true heroes who had appeared in actual history.

  “I see. He hopes travelers will be more likely to pay for ballads from home.”

  “Clever,” Lizard Priest murmured and put some change on the table for the bard to collect the next time he came by.

  “…So you’re saying that after the fighting calmed down, The Golden Knight came back here to the capital, too.”

  Meaning the keeper of this place must know our archbishop as well as we do, or better.

  Dwarf Shaman spared an interested glance in the direction of the barkeep then burped, his breath smelling of alcohol.

  “And you, Beard-cutter—you look worried about something.”

  “…” Goblin Slayer didn’t answer immediately. He took a hearty helping of stew, mixing it around with his spoon before sliding it through his visor.

  Cabbage and bacon simmered in cream. Goblin Slayer tilted his head curiously.

  It did not taste like the stew he ate at home.

  “You can tell?” he asked.

  “Or close enough,” Dwarf Shaman snorted, pouring himself plenty of wine. “It’s been a year since this party formed. If humans live an average of fifty years, we’ve been working together for one-fiftieth of your life.”

  “That’s nothing to sneeze at.” Dwarf Shaman underscored the point by taking a gulp of wine. He wiped some droplets from his mustache then went after the goose’s thigh, taking a big bite.

  Goblin Slayer watched the dwarf closely as he drank and ate in turn.

  “…We have not been focused on goblin slaying lately.”

  “A seabound adventure, then bodyguard work—although we did have that ambush. You are correct,” Lizard Priest said, nodding as he gleefully reached out for the cheese.

  Dwarf Shaman laughed and waved a hand; so rather than cut just a single piece of cheese, Lizard Priest simply gathered the entire wheel to himself. “Sweet nectar!” he exclaimed, pounding his tail on the floor.

  Dwarf Shaman sucked the bones clean, licked his fingers, wiped his mouth, and went for his next helping of meat.

  “It was fun.”

  Both of them stopped.

  Dwarf Shaman and Lizard Priest set down their respective meals and looked at each other.

  They shared a glance, nodded, then both shook their heads before they looked back at the cheap metal helmet glimmering in the firelight.

  “But in both cases, the shadow of goblins was near at hand,” Goblin Slayer said softly, a cupful of wine in his hand. He drained the contents in a single gulp then said with a sort of groan, “And if so, then perhaps that is not my duty.”

  “Duty?”

  “Yes,” Goblin Slayer nodded at Dwarf Shaman. “I am Goblin Slayer.”

  There was a noisy crackling of the fire, audible even over the sound of the crowd. A strange silence pervaded, as if they and they alone had been cut out of a picture. In the background, the bard had switched at some point to a ballad about the frontier hero Goblin Slayer assaulting a frozen mountain.

  “Hmm.” Dwarf Shaman stroked his beard and looked up at the ceiling. He wondered how long, how many centuries, it had been there, to grow so blackened with wine and blood and smoke. Was it the sea he saw there, or the stars? Whichever, it was something much older than any one human life.

  After a long moment, Dwarf Shaman smiled as if he were about to reveal the secret to a magic trick. “D’you know how smiths temper a sword?”

  “…No,” Goblin Slayer said after a moment’s thought. “I don’t.”

  “All right, well, let me tell you.” Dwarf Shaman began counting off on his rough, small fingers. “They heat it. They pound on it. They chill it. And then they heat it again.”

  “…Heat, pound, chill, heat,” Goblin Slayer parroted quietly.

  “S’right.” Dwarf Shaman crossed his arms. “The process requires each and every step. Whatever else you do to it, you have to do those four things.”

  “It seems most labor-intensive,” Lizard Priest offered.

  “Doesn’t it, though?” Dwarf Shaman grinned, as satisfied as if he had done the work himself. “A soft sword is supple but doesn’t fight well. A hard one can cut but will break before long. So what’s a good sword?” Dwarf Shaman was murmuring almost as if he were reciting a spell, but his voice carried as he took a sip of wine to wet his lips. “Cut with a sword and the blade starts to chip. But polish it up, and you’ve less steel to wield. And all steel’s just a speck of history’s dew. So what’s a good sword?”

  “…” Goblin Slayer listened silently. He looked like a child, sitting by the fire and listening to his grandfather tell tales. So when he finally spoke, the directness of what he said was surprising. “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you don’t. And it’s fine to live without knowing.” Dwarf Shaman squinted his eyes, running his thick fingers along his belly. “The secrets of steel are many, and complex.”

  The fire crackled loudly again. A log could be heard to split, and the attentive barkeep came over a moment later. He stirred the flame with a poker; Lizard Priest watched him closely until he left. Then he opened his jaws and let out a laugh that came from deep in his throat. “Heh-heh, master spell caster, you sound like a monk yourself.”

  “How about a word of guidance from a professional, then? For poor, lost Beard-cutter here.”

  “Hmm, yes, well, that will be most difficult.” Lizard Priest’s eyes rolled in his head, and he held up a metal skewer. He took some cheese he had sliced off with his claws, stuck it on the end of the skewer, and put it in the fire. “Few are the things that are incumbent upon all people to do.”

  Turn, turn. He twisted the metal skewer. The cheese was still solid enough to retain its shape.

  “To live, and to die with all one’s attention, that is what one must do. And that is more than difficult enough.”

  The lump of cheese was beginning to grill up, but it was still hard. It wasn’t ready yet.

  “Even the beasts of the field cannot live precisely the way they wish. How much less those who have words.”

  At last the cheese had reached its limit. It threatened to drip off the skewer. It was time.

  “To worry and to feel lost are well and good. I believe those very things are life itself.”

  Lizard Priest whisked the skewer out of the fire and stuffed the food, still hot, into his mouth.

  “Ahh, sweet nectar!” It was the same tone he used when praising his ancestors. A full-throated cry of joy.

  “Hmph.” Dwarf Shaman snorted, and then he reached for the goose again. “Sounds like what I was saying.”

  “Which means that it may indeed be close to truth.”

  Goblin Slayer suddenly remembered hearing something of the sort long ago. It was when he had been kicked into an icy river, his hands tied behind him.

  “Sink down deep! Then kick!” the rhea yowled, gesturing madly wit
h his dagger. “Do that, and you’ll be able to float! Then do it again and again! Otherwise, all that awaits you is death!”

  He had been right.

  If Goblin Slayer hadn’t kicked then, he wouldn’t be here now.

  “…I see.”

  Then this probably was indeed close to truth.

  “I much agree,” Lizard Priest said with a nod.

  “That’s how it is,” Dwarf Shaman added.

  “You are…right.”

  Goblin Slayer brought some of the cabbage and bacon to his mouth.

  It didn’t taste bad at all.

  §

  Stones stood in quiet rows there, like islands floating in a sea of fallen leaves that persisted no matter how carefully they were cleaned. It felt as if there was nothing to do in that place but kick one’s way through red and gold waves, relying on the numbers etched upon those markers to guide one.

  They were graves.

  The markers stood, organized by the careful numerology of the clerics of the God of Knowledge.

  Deep in the graveyard, Priestess stood by a new tombstone—well, not so new; it had been there for at least a year.

  The name carved on the stone was one she held dear, though she had only heard it for a single day in her life.

  Even though each of the stones was carved to a specific and identical size, this one seemed so…like her. Even if Priestess found her image fuzzy when she closed her eyes and tried to picture her.

  “…I’m sorry it took me so long,” she whispered in a trembling voice. She sank to her knees, heedless of the dirt, then brushed her palm along the tombstone. “…I’m sorry.”

  In spite of it all, that young wizard girl had been one of Priestess’s first party members.

  It was a story of ifs.

  If they had decided to hunt rats and not goblins for that first quest, what would have happened?

  Would everyone have survived? Would she and the young man and the women still be adventuring together?

  Would they have grown to care for one another? To know one another’s likes, dislikes, and interests?