The Witch of Webs: Book 12 (The Wandering Inn), page 28
Numbtongue sat on the stage and looked down at his crowd. They weren’t here for him. Some glared at him. Others shouted for him to get off until Erin threw stuff at them.
It was an unwilling audience. One that hated him, that watched out of morbid curiosity or fear. But so what? He wasn’t going anywhere. The Hobgoblin sat on the stage and searched for the right tune. The right words. They came to him. Despite him not liking singing, the urge rose.
So he began to play.
“Have you heard of the greatest Goblin warriors, the Redfang Tribe,
Who lived in the High Passes and ate Eater Goats and Gargoyles just to survive?”
Across the inn, guests looked up. That was the thing about music. Like it, hate it, it was hard to ignore. Numbtongue strummed and raised his voice.
“Our leader was Garen of the Redfang blade,
Who was an adventurer and his team betrayed
He made us and saved us and taught us how to fight,
A traitor maybe, but he did things that were right.”
Sitting at their table, Moore and Seborn looked up. Jelaqua drank from her mug and watched. Numbtongue went on, improvising, putting words together.
“This is the story of thirteen Redfangs he chose,
Who walked and travelled on no Goblin’s road
He sent us thirteen to kill an innkeeper,
But lost and confused, we didn’t know where to seek her!”
Erin spat out her drink onto Mrsha’s head. She gawped at Numbtongue. The Goblin stared off into the distance.
“This is the tale of the Goblins who roamed
The Goblins who fought and died until they found home.”
It was a ballad of rhymes. Rhymes were easy. Numbtongue barely had to think. All he had to do was remember. At first, there had been Esthelm. Quietly, he told the story of a chance encounter. A fight with the Silver Swords. And a girl. A skeleton.
“A [Florist] who was more Human than monster (who had impeccable taste)!
And so as not to let her sacrifice go to waste,
Thirteen Goblins fought at Esthelm that day
And only six walked away.”
No one knew that story here. No one had heard it told. But they had to hear it. Someone—anyone had to listen. Numbtongue recounted it, the deaths, the names. Grunter, Bitefly, Leftstep…
And on. Of Liscor. Of Bugear, who’d died before meeting Erin, but had died fighting for his brothers. Of the battles there. Face-Eater Moths. Raskghar. Face Stealer. And then the end. Not everyone was listening. But that one [Innkeeper] was, a few Drakes, a Gnoll child—and more listening with one ear, frowning, denying—it didn’t matter. They were listening.
Numbtongue shouted the last refrain.
“They are gone, but I remain!”
And he stood up. He didn’t expect applause. But he got it, scattered, a few hand claps. That was all, but that wasn’t the point. The point was the story. Their story. He sat down next to Erin, and she wiped her eyes. Pisces, who had been listening, cracked one eye open and looked at Ceria and Yvlon. The two female adventurers were quiet, introspective. He coughed.
“You couldn’t make a play about that.”
“Be quiet.”
Yvlon kicked him hard. He went silent. At their table, Erin turned to Numbtongue.
“What will you call it?”
The Hobgoblin shrugged.
“Needs work.”
And it did, but he had a title already in his head. A song.
The Ballad of the Redfangs.
Erin blew her nose.
“It’s good. But you know…”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to surrender the stage after one song, Numbtongue. They can’t chase you off. And you don’t have to go. What if you played a song for us? Something we can sing to?”
The Hobgoblin looked at Erin. She smiled at him. And he looked over at Yellow Splatters. The Antinium had been staring at the [Bard]. The [Sergeant] spoke softly.
“The Antinium have no music. Bird sings. But that is all. If you have a song, I would like to hear it. And…sing?”
Numbtongue’s heart leapt. He stood up and walked back to the stage. Some of the audience groaned. Others shouted that they didn’t want to hear it. And a few looked at Numbtongue and turned their bodies and heads to listen. Only a few. The Goblin had never expected it to be easy.
But he’d remembered why he wanted to be a [Bard]. So he played. At first, a song Erin knew and could teach everyone the words to. Then a song he’d created. A riff, with lightning and thunderous chords. And then another song. And another.
Soon it wasn’t that a Goblin was singing a Goblin’s song, but just that he was there. A Goblin [Bard], reminding everyone of the past. Pyrite was in Numbtongue’s head. Not forgotten. And Headscratcher, Shorthilt, all the others, lived on in Numbtongue’s music. They wouldn’t be forgotten. Not yet.
They died. They left us. And we are alone. But we are not gone. Here we are. The guitar sang as Numbtongue stood alone, alone in front of a crowd. But he refused to run. He refused to hide. Here I am. Here we are. We made it. We remain. And we will never let you forget. Here we are. Look at us. See us.
Here we are.
——
Then it was done. Numbtongue sat in his room, dozing off with the sun. His claws hurt, and his throat was sore. But he wasn’t unhappy. He was tired. Oh, so tired. And the sun, usually a good incentive, couldn’t keep him awake. The Goblin nodded as he slowly put his guitar away, and then lay down on his bed. He’d probably wake up after nine hours. Six? Four if he needed to.
It might be hard when he woke up. Hard and unforgiving. But Numbtongue had something now. A friend. A reason to keep going, to stay at the inn. Memories. Today, they had helped him. Given him words he couldn’t have come up with himself. The skill to fight—they’d saved his life.
He would have traded all of it to have the Goblin who they belonged to sitting across from him, grunting and chewing on something as he always did. Numbtongue knew Pyrite now, though they had never spoken. He wished Pyrite had been alive to see him on that stage. To meet Erin. Him, Headscratcher, Shorthilt, and all the others. Numbtongue wished, and that was all. But he wasn’t unhappy. Just tired.
He closed his eyes.
[Conditions Met: Bard → Goblin Soulbard Class!]
[Goblin Soulbard Level 30!]
[Memory – Pyrite, Flooded Waters Tribe obtained!]
[Skill – A Minute, Reborn obtained!]
[Skill – Ballad of Bravery obtained!]
Slowly, Numbtongue opened his eyes.
——
A minute later, a Goblin sat in Numbtongue’s room. He felt tired. Physically, his body, at any rate. Intellectually, his mind was racing. And fresh! The Goblin looked around experimentally, blinking, and then felt at his body. He knew the body’s name. Its owner. That was Numbtongue. But he? He was different.
‘Pyrite’ scratched his stomach. He stopped, poked it experimentally, and wondered if a flat stomach and nimble body was better than fat in combat. Then he thought of who he was.
He could remember everything. He was Pyrite. And he was Numbtongue. The gaps between their personalities had disappeared, but also reformed. This wasn’t the confused jumble that Numbtongue had been forced to sort through when Pyrite had died.
This was different. Pyrite felt like himself, although that might be an illusion. More importantly, Pyrite could remember Numbtongue’s memories, but he was sure, in this moment, he was Pyrite. Only, one inclined to help Numbtongue. Well, that was fine. He would have done it anyways.
Wasn’t this confusing? Pyrite frowned and blew out his cheeks. He knew he didn’t have time to waste on puzzling out who was who, though. The Skill’s name had sounded explicit. [A Minute, Reborn]. Well, that was a time limit. And an inconvenient one, too.
One minute, so now probably thirty seconds. Pyrite hesitated, then decided he needed notes. He bent and, with Numbtongue’s finger, scribbled fast on the floorboards, cutting into them with his nail. Numbtongue didn’t know how to write because he’d never bothered, but he could read this note in case he forgot. There were so many thoughts bouncing around in Pyrite’s head, but he jotted down the most pressing ones as he spoke aloud.
“This class. Is it only for [Bards]? Why did you get it? Because of memory? Was that because so many Goblins died or because I tried? Is this memory here to stay, or does it fade?”
He paused, not too concerned by that. This was fascinating. Experimentally, he flexed one clawed hand and went back to writing.
“Do I remember this, or does Numbtongue remembering take over and I am new Pyrite with Numbtongue’s memories any time? Will I make him level up? Can I level up?”
Probably not. But Pyrite wrote it down just in case. He frowned. So many questions!
“Hm. Hmm. Greydath would know. Do I have Skills when I am reborn? Is it possible to make this longer? An hour? A day? Test me in the mountains or elsewhere. I have [Power Strike]—can’t use here. Lastly…”
Ten seconds. Pyrite could feel something tugging him. Yes. His time was coming to a close. And perhaps he could leave if need be. But he could also be called. When he was needed…his mind flashed from thought to thought, and then Pyrite’s eyes widened. With the last seconds, he wrote, scratching deep into the wooden floorboards.
Then he was gone. One second he was there, and then Numbtongue was staring down at his old thumb. He could sense what Pyrite had wanted to write, so he finished it. Then…Pyrite’s perspective, his intentions, faded away in Numbtongue’s mind like an old dream. The Hobgoblin shook. He could remember what Pyrite had done, even the vague intentions, but the exact reasoning and…personality were beyond him.
But the writing was clear. Numbtongue stared at it. Particularly the last lines. They burned so hot in him that his exhaustion disappeared in a moment. He stared down and read slowly, his voice shaking.
“The class is not new. The class is meant for you. Goblins have always had this power. When did we lose it? How?”
We have had this class. It is ours. [Goblin Soulbard]. Goblin. If Goblins have a class, do Humans? Do Drakes? What does it mean? Is it just memories? Is it a thing of [Chieftains]?
Those were Pyrite’s thoughts. But the words below them struck a chord deeper. They rocked Numbtongue to his core. Because they changed his purpose. The reason he was here. Trembling, he touched the scratches in the wood.
“Find the others if they remain. Find our King.”
He looked up. The inn was silent above him as a new day dawned. And the Goblin sat by himself. But he was no longer alone.
Slowly, the pieces of the world began to fall closer into place.
6.35
Day 54 – Ryoka
When the Wind Runner of Reizmelt woke up, she knew it would be another rainy day. Honestly, she was sick of them, but they were symptomatic of Izril in the spring. Wet.
And it was still better than Liscor, whose spring rain season was the thing of nightmares. Even so, as spring waned and became summer, the rains persisted. And yes, they were good for crops and all that. Ryoka was still tired of being wet.
She knew it would be a rainy day as soon as she woke to the drumming of rain on the roof above her room. But as Ryoka got up, she realized a few more things.
Firstly, she wasn’t in Reizmelt. She knew that because it was past dawn and Madain hadn’t been banging about, swearing and shouting for everyone to wake up!! Funny, but Ryoka almost missed that. And because her bed was freshly made, smelled of flowers, and the sheets had been washed by someone other than Ryoka.
She was in Walta, staying at the Rose’s Retreat, a very nice inn with a female [Innkeeper] who was accommodating and strict. Miss Iglesias Theroben had expressed a firm desire to Ryoka that her rooms not be sullied by impropriety or any untoward advances towards her all-female staff.
She obviously hadn’t been suspecting Ryoka of the latter, given how it seemed like most people in this world’s society didn’t acknowledge or even know about sexual orientations beyond being straight, but Ryoka was amused to know that the upstanding Miss Iglesias thought of Lady Bethal Walchaís as a paragon of virtue. She’d been too grateful for somewhere to sleep and for Miss Iglesias’ welcoming, if strictly proper, inn to shatter the woman’s beliefs.
That wasn’t her. And as Ryoka got up and dressed with the speed and efficiency that came to people who live in a hurry, she realized one last thing: it was going to be a bad day to run. She could still do it, but it would be a bad day.
Not a bad bad day, to be clear. A few days of rest had cleared the minor potion-sickness out of Ryoka’s veins and stomach and rejuvenated her after her now-famous run from Reizmelt to Walta, capital city of Lady Bethal’s lands. She felt good, today, in fact. Hungry. It was just that as soon as Ryoka had sensed then felt the wind outside howling in the rain, she’d known it was going to be a bad day.
The Rose’s Retreat was already bustling when the sleepy young woman exited her ground-floor room. Unlike other inns, the layout of this inn more closely resembled one of the cheap motels Ryoka had ‘run away’ to when she was sick of fighting with her father or trying to get her mother to agree to…anything. Like a good motel experience, breakfast was a buffet.
A very nice buffet. Ryoka saw the goat’s cheese being spread onto a bun first, then she smelled some cooked sausage and saw a delicate spread of garden-grown vegetables, fresh from Miss Iglesias’ own soil. Her stomach rumbled, but when she saw the somewhat portly, very gracious host, Ryoka stopped to greet her. There were such things as manners, and Ryoka wanted to mind hers.
“Ah, Miss Ryoka Griffin. A fair morning to you! I trust you weren’t awoken unduly early? The blessed rain woke me up earlier than I would have liked, but you Runners do keep early hours.”
The woman sighed as she turned to greet Ryoka, goat cheese and bun in hand. Ryoka eyed the bread and decided she was having that first with some of the roasted meat. Miss Iglesias’ inn might not have had the random excitement that was an attraction or a deterrent in Erin’s inn, or the dirt-cheap prices and unique…personality that was Madain’s inn. But it was arguably better than both.
Ryoka knew that was an insult to Erin, but did she have a dedicated [Cook] with [Advanced Cooking] and a host of other Skills like [Rising Dough] or [Two Hour Warmth]? Maybe her inn had changed, but Ryoka saw a [Maid]—not a [Barmaid], just a [Maid]—delicately arranging a gentle-smelling bouquet next to the dishes of warm, delicious food. Still warm, thanks to that Skill, and fresh as…
Ryoka’s mouth watered. Say what you will, and Erin did make a good pizza, but this was home-cooking and as much as you wanted of it.
Fresh and organic too, if that was your fancy. Ryoka would settle for delicious. She nodded politely to the smiling Miss Iglesias.
“Good morning to you too, Miss Iglesias. I’m not so sure it’ll be a fair one, though. The rain might clear up, but you shouldn’t count on hanging anything out; the wind will be blowing hard all day.”
Miss Iglesias glanced out of one of her glass windows with a frown.
“Really? My [Gardener] friend swore her [Weathersense] told her it would be only rainy tomorrow, but perfect for gardening later on if I wore boots. But if anyone would know, it would be you, wouldn’t it?”
Ryoka grimaced.
“I’m not an expert, Miss Iglesias, so don’t quote me on it. If I’m wrong, I’d be delighted. But…uh, this breakfast looks lovely.”
“Oh! I’m terribly sorry. Go on and enjoy yourself by all means. I imagine you’ll want to be up and about. Will you be staying another day?”
The woman stepped aside so Ryoka could fill a plate and chat at the same time. Biting into her first cheese-and-sausage roll—Miss Iglesias stood on no customs aside from the bit about hanky and panky and horrifically graphic displays of sex—she swallowed and then replied.
“I doubt it, Miss Iglesias. I have all my gear in my bag of holding here—I’m paid up, aren’t I?”
She patted the bag at her side. Miss Iglesias nodded.
“You’re free to leave, but I will keep your room open until tonight. If you wish to stay, you need only return. You have been a good guest.”
“Thank you.”
Ryoka smiled gratefully. Miss Iglesias was used to travellers, being one of the more popular inns for travellers to stop by. She had any number of rooms available, but keeping Ryoka’s open for a day was still generous.
Ryoka helped herself to a big breakfast—she might be eating rations on the road if she took the offer she’d gotten yesterday. She might have lingered to talk with Miss Iglesias, but a howl of wind against the windows made her, the innkeeper, and a few guests enjoying the early breakfast look up.
“What a storm. My garden will need no end of work after this.”
Exasperated, Miss Iglesias went to the window and peered outside. Ryoka grimaced, trying to imagine running in that, but—her internal sense told her the wind was upset. Yet that didn’t correlate to the rain. Indeed, it was just a light sprinkle now. Ryoka brightened; she could handle that. And the noise made her realize something else.
“Ah, Miss Iglesias, I might be taking off now. I’m very grateful for your hospitality…”
The woman turned and realized Ryoka was edging towards the door. She opened her mouth and then realized why Ryoka was in a hurry. So she smiled understandingly and reached out to shake Ryoka’s hand gently.
“Well, as I said, you’ve been very easy to look after. No messes, no blood or muck for my girls to tidy up—if you stop by Walta in the future, stay here by all means! I know you Runners, and I have no doubt I’ll see you again.”
