by Drew Hayes
“After all, how is one supposed to handle a formal introduction when they have no name to give?”
* * *
“Not every adventurer turns out like us. Most die, as I’ve stated. But even among the few who finish their quests, not all experience this sensation. Some transition into a role befitting of their skill, or go live on a mountain and train new talents. So far as we’ve discerned, the key difference seems to be those artifacts. Only those of us who have been exposed to them, or even merely spent time in an area where one was active, ultimately grapple with the sudden absence in our souls.”
Kieran paused, looking the group over. They were skeptical, that was to be expected, yet none had hardened their gazes in disbelief. Best to ease them in, anyway. “We can go over why that is a little later; it might be the hardest part of all of this to believe, and I don’t want to overwhelm you.”
“It’s because there’s another world out there, influencing ours.” Thistle, unlike Kieran, was favoring a more aggressive strategy. Get it all done, put the truth out in the open, and move forward from there. “We don’t have all the details by any measure, but we’ve seen enough to put that much together. Some adventurers are connected to that world. I’m not sure if it’s complete control or merely a whisper in the ear. I just know it exists. And I also know that the connection can be severed. It’s what happened when we pressed a different piece of the Bridge to Timuscor, and I can only guess that’s also what happened to all of you.”
On the pulpit, Kieran blinked, the first unplanned reaction he’d shown since they woke up. This was more information than he expected from random trespassers, even ones with a chunk of artifact. Hairs on the back of his neck began to rise as Kieran suspected a whiff of the divine in the air. For the most part, the denizens of Notch and the gods kept out of each other’s way. The gods were scary in their own right; however, the collective skill of Notch was high enough that if they had cause, they could easily wreck any given deity’s respective plans. Only the most reckless or desperate of gods had ever attempted to play a game with Notch as a component, and Kieran was far from thrilled that another might be trying.
None of that was the fault of these people, of course. They were mere pawns, being led to-and-fro by powers well beyond their comprehension, parts of a system that everyone in town had been a piece of at some point or another. “Well, that takes a load off my mind. Breaking the whole ‘our world is inhabited by beings controlled from another plane’ speech doesn’t ever go over well, and that’s if I can even convince them to believe at all.”
“If you know more about all of that, we would love to learn,” Eric piped up. Not everyone seemed to share his enthusiasm, but none of them vocally shouted down the idea, either.
“One bit at a time. Besides, I doubt we’ll be able to offer satisfactory answers. Those artifacts are a mystery that stretches back further than any history we’ve found. Even if a few people in the world have realized a small extent of what they can do, it’s a far cry from knowing where they came from or how they work. Today, let us focus on getting you acclimated to Notch. Eat a meal, have a hot bath, get some non-magical rest. We’ve all been on the road before; we know how much a body aches for small comforts.”
The mere fact that all of them could lay on pews and not think it uncomfortable was a testament to just how numb they’d become in their travels. At even the mention of the word “food,” at least two stomachs groaned audibly. Seconds later, Eric shot a panicked look over at Gabrielle.
“Wait. We might still have an issue. Our friend is under a strange curse at the moment, and part of that curse requires her to feed her axe through killing. Last night’s hunt was a failure, so depending on how long we were out, she might need sustenance.”
“Didn’t want to make a fuss, but I do feel a tad sluggish. Guess all those skeletons I bashed in didn’t count.” Gabrielle didn’t appear scared, though that really told them nothing. She’d try to keep a poker face even when staring down a nine-headed hydra; it was just part of who Gabrielle was.
Unlike their knowledge of the Bridge, this revelation wasn’t even a hiccup for Kieran. “We didn’t know the exact extent of it, but it occurred to us that the undead in your party might have a different way of feeding. Right now, Jolia, a talented wizard who helps out around Notch, is setting up a pen near the edge of town. She can summon up a herd of sheep, living ones, with little effort. If that doesn’t work—summons and curses can be tricky—then we’ll switch to a daily hunting schedule.”
He stepped down from the pulpit, the first time they’d actually seen him walk away from it rather than teleporting, and motioned for them to rise. “I think we’re about at the end of what talking can convey. From here on, it’s better to start showing. Just try to keep in mind one thing: no serious fighting is allowed within Notch. That applies to everyone, you and us, the same. When you’re as strong as some of our townsfolk, one real fight could raze the entire village. You don’t need to worry about combat, anyway. Outside of a few closely guarded vaults and chambers, this is probably one of the safest places in all of the kingdoms.”
Kieran arrived at the back of the church, gripped the handle of each massive wooden door, and flung them open effortlessly. Sunlight poured through, and as the party blinked it away, they were able to make out what lay beyond those doors. Slowly, the shapes came into view, and each member of the party experienced the same procession of curiosity, expectation, and… disappointment.
It was a nice town, just like many others they’d passed through in their travels. Small, compact, apparently hosting a large enough populace to support a tavern with an inn on top and perhaps a couple of general-use shops. If not for the obvious differences in architecture, it could have passed for Maplebark.
“I know it doesn’t look like much,” Kieran admitted as he waited patiently for the others to join him at the front of the church. “But keep in mind, this is a town founded by people who specialize in fighting, not building. People are what make a village, and I think you’ll find ours is quite interesting. Where would you like to start?”
Thistle looked to his friends. While he usually filled the role of leader, that didn’t mean he ignored their wishes. It was a brief exchange; every gaze looked back with the same certainty. This didn’t need to be talked about or argued over. They were adventurers, in a new town. There was really only one place they could possibly start.
“If you have no objection, Kieran, I think we would like to begin at the tavern.”
9.
The tavern was large, with a variety of chairs, tables, and stool sizes they rarely saw outside of Maplebark. Most places defaulted their fixtures to the human/elf size. Anything larger could risk it or stand; anything smaller could climb. Here, there were accommodations for any of the usual races one might see in an adventuring party, as well a few toy-sized ones in a corner with a large sign warning that they were not to be played with.
Standing behind the bar, as somehow always seemed to be the case, was a burly bartender. And yet, common as the sight was, Thistle had to work hard not to reel at the appearance of this man. It was if he was the prototype from which all muscular bartenders had been fashioned. Simple clothes, an earnest smile, and a body so powerful every move seemed as though it should shatter the floor around them. Amazingly, this hulking fellow was as gentle as he was fit, pouring five tankards of ale with smooth grace and setting them down softly in front of his newest customers.
“Please enjoy some of my house special, a way to say, ‘Welcome to Notch.’” His voice boomed, as they’d all known it would from the first glance, but the friendly tone made it more tolerable. “I go by Brock these days, and I’ll be your landlord, chef, and bartender for the duration of your stay. Probably also boss for at least one of you. Got to do some brewing in the next week or so, and I could use an extra pair of hands.”
“We haven’t gotten a chance to go over Notch’s economy yet,” Kieran said, a not-so-concealed thre
ad of annoyance in his voice. With a heavy sigh, he looked over to the group. “Although most of us accrued substantial wealth in our travels, we have limited trading with the outside world, so coins don’t have as much value here. We’re more work-driven. Doing a few hours of labor each day will be enough to cover your food and lodging, if you opt to stay for a while. On that note, Brock, why don’t you get them squared away with their rooms. I’ll go check on Jolia’s progress with the pen, and we can give them space to talk. I imagine, after everything that’s been thrown their way, they’d like some time to discuss and mull it over.”
“That would be lovely.” Thistle took a cautious drink of the ale. His smaller body meant that potent drinks could hit him harder than the others, but he found this brew to be overall acceptable. Not the best he’d ever had, certainly, but as Kieran had reminded them, everyone here was first and foremost specialized in combat.
The others followed Thistle’s lead while Brock rummaged around beneath the counter before coming up with a box of keys. “Been a while since we had to use these. Now, I’ve got one room that comes with a window pointing directly east, meaning the occupant gets a face-full of sunrise every morning. Who among you is the earliest riser?”
All heads turned to Gabrielle, who no longer needed sleep, thanks to her condition. With some mumbling and a “Thanks, assholes,” Gabrielle reached out and took the first key from Brock. It was heavier than it should have been and slightly cool to the touch. When she examined it closely, she saw that there were small runes etched along the length of the key.
“Jolia wanted some fancy whiskey a few years ago, so I had her enchant the keys as a trade. Can’t be lost or stolen, plus using it on the inside of the door creates a potent barrier to block out intruders. I know I could never sleep well unless I was somewhere properly fortified, and I expected my guests might feel the same.”
Gabrielle turned the key over a few times in her hand, thinking back on the flimsy inns where they’d stayed before, often so poorly secured that they still slept in guard shifts. Maybe there was something to be said for a town built by former adventurers.
* * *
The nest of a golden roc was, for very obvious reasons, not near any of the main kingdom roads. Had it been, Alcatham would have placed a bounty on the birds long ago to clear them away, allowing adventurers to hurl themselves at the problem until they either solved it properly or just drove the pests off by sheer force of numbers. No, the golden roc nest was in a section of mountains to the northwest, which meant taking one of the lesser-used roads.
Bandits were a potential risk, so the party traveled in a careful formation. Timanuel the paladin was up front, ready to take on any challengers while also giving careful attention to any potential sensation of approaching evil. Behind him was Chalara the sorceress, in a position where she could be shielded from assault, yet could still hurl spells at anyone who dared try to stop them. Wimberly came next, a few gadgets within easy reach, should they be required. Bringing up the rear was Gelthorn. As the only other melee combatant and easily the member with the best senses, she was tasked with watching their rear and listening for any potential surprises.
Most of their morning’s journey had been achingly dull, so boring it was tempting to let their guard down. That lasted exactly until they crested an upward slope and looked out onto a flat section of road. It was a long stretch; their proximity to the plains was starting to show itself in the geography. Farther away, they could make out something in their path. Smoke was rising from it, though it was thin and dissipated quickly in the air. Not a forest fire, then. The majority of it seemed to be on the sides of the road, leaving the middle clear. Still, everyone drew their weapons. This was exactly the sort of potential ambush they’d been keeping an eye out for. Hopefully, any bandits would see a prepared, armed party and decide to go for easier pickings.
As they rode closer, more of the grisly scene came into view. A pair of logs across the road, the middles of which had been turned to cinder. Odd purple flames still smoldered on the remaining edges, slowly burning them away and sending the thin tendrils of smoke into the air. Worse, by far, was what they saw when they drew nearer to the bodies.
A dozen people, at least, were strewn across the area. Some had been burned, others sliced, and a few had chunks that simply appeared to be missing, like they’d been neatly removed. It was a massacre, and once the smell hit, every member of the party had to force themselves not to leave their last meal on the grass. Horrifying as the sight was, it was the rustling of a nearby bush that brought the party to a stop. Weapons were held at the ready, and Chalara had a spell on her lips, ready to cast as soon as a target stepped into view.
What emerged was not the first wave of an ambush, though, unless it was the most bizarre ambush in all of history. A lone man stepped out into the road, dragging a makeshift stretcher behind him. There was a hollowness in his eyes; he barely appeared to see the world as he moved through it. He didn’t even react to the party. Instead, he took the nearest body and carefully, lovingly, loaded it onto his stretcher. As they looked closer, a few noted that this man’s arms were coated with dirt, the telltale sign of someone who’d been doing extensive digging.
“Hail, traveler.” Timanuel kept his words gentle, and made sure his symbol of the god Longinus was prominently displayed. The last thing they wanted was for this poor man to think he was under attack once more. A paladin of Longinus wasn’t a threat to those who kept the law, especially a man so clearly grieving a loss.
For the first time, the stranger turned his head toward them. Looking over each in turn, his dead eyes took in the details with no sign of either interest or care. It was only when he saw Timanuel that any reaction came; a dark snarl of a laugh clawed its way out of his chest. “A paladin. Truly, the gods are cruel monsters, aren’t they? Putting a paladin in my path mere hours after—” A sob racked his body, short and furious. “Well played, you heartless divine monsters. You’ve done the impossible. You’ve made old Tormin glad to see a paladin. Was it worth it, for something that unexpected?”
The man, presumably Tormin, grasped his chest as another sob racked him. He twisted his eyes upward as he hissed through his teeth. “Was it fucking worth all these lives?”
“Sir, we can clearly see that you’ve endured a terrible trauma, and we will do all we can to help. Please, if you can, tell us what happened here. We understand if you need time to compose yourself.”
“Compose myself? I don’t think I’m ever going to be composed again. I don’t think I’m ever going to be anything again, besides this.” Tormin shook his head, staring at the corpses littering the road. “Save your compassion, paladin. They were bandits, every last one of them. Me as well, if you’d like to haul me before a court. Good men, faithful and earnest, with dreams. Some even had families. But they’re bandits, so there’s no justice to be had. Even if there was, you’re not the one to give it. What did this is beyond you, beyond all of you. Maybe even beyond the kingdom as a whole. Four men did this. Four men with no names, and no mercy in their souls.”
Searching his mind, Timanuel felt a flood of information pouring in as, in another world, a boy named Tim rolled a high number. “No names must mean priests of Kalzidar. Strange. As I knew it, they usually work alone. Not much trust among those, even for each other.”
“Apparently this group found a way to work together. They are death incarnate, and woe to whoever crosses their path. They saw me, you know. I got here just as they were finishing up; the whole thing was over in seconds. They saw me, and I saw them, and they just left. Got back in their cart and kept riding north. I think they knew this was worse than killing me. Dying with my men, I was ready for that. Every bandit has to be. Burying them all, being the only one left—it might be the most brilliant torture I can conceive of.”
A loud clang filled the air as Timanuel dismounted his horse, his armor rattling with every step. It was so distracting that Tormin looked up from the bodies, eyes
narrowing at the sight. “Taking me up on that court offer, I see. Suppose I could ask you to wait long enough that I can bury my men? Or…” Tormin’s voice thickened, and he stopped to cough. “Or at least to let me drag them from the road?”
“I haven’t seen you commit any crimes, and I do not sense true evil here. Whatever wicked deeds you may have done, it seems impossible to me that any punishment could be worse than what you’ve endured today,” Timanuel replied.
“They why did you dismount?”
“Because there are more bodies to bury, and many hands make for lighter work.” Timanuel didn’t even have to turn toward the others; he could already hear them following his lead as they climbed off their horses.
Tormin, for the first time since they’d met, had something other than pure, unfettered pain in his expression. Uncertainty, leaning toward distrust yet not quite there. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, paladin. These men were bandits, the kind of people you’d raise your sword against.”
“I heard you. I also heard you say that they were faithful, with dreams and families of their own. A paladin may judge actions, even lives, in pursuit of our duties, but only the gods can weigh a soul. Whoever these men were, they are in the care of higher hands than ours. Their bodies carry no inherent sin, and I can see no reason why Longinus would object to giving them a proper burial.”
“And what if he does?” Tormin prodded.
“Then he’s not the god I thought he was. But perhaps theological discussions are better saved for when the task is done.” Kneeling, Timanuel gently lifted a burned corpse into his arms, sending a cascade of ashes down his gleaming armor. “Until then, please, show us to the grave.”
* * *
Some distance farther up the road, a wagon pulled by a pair of horses trundled along. Only the driver and passenger were visible again, features concealed by the low-hanging hoods on their robes. The few other travelers they passed took little note of them. In fact, most forgot they’d passed the wagon within a minute of it fading from their sight. That was no coincidence; one of the members in the back continually refreshed their enchantment to pass unnoticed.