Tears of Liscor, page 26
part #9 of The Wandering Inn Series
“Right. We could do with eighty thousand gold pieces. Now that would be a real haul even for a Gold-rank team.”
Revi muttered to herself. She raised her hands as she got a dozen glares.
“What? This is great, don’t get me wrong! It puts our team back on the map. After what happened—”
She looked at Typhenous and Halrac. The [Scout] nodded. He sat on the bed, then reached down and pulled a topaz away with a grimace.
“After all our setbacks, this will…it’ll fund us for a long time. Get us better equipment if we need it. Help us get more adventurers.”
“Us too. We’ve had a few thousand gold coins in the bank, but nothing we could really rub together. This? This is security.”
Jelaqua stared at the mountain of coin. She looked up sharply.
“And we can use this in the lottery.”
The others looked at her in surprise. Halrac sat up and nodded.
“That’s true. We can cede all the money we’ll get and ask just for an artifact. And then—”
“—and then we have gold and an artifact. Dead gods. Dead gods.”
Jelaqua rubbed her hands together. Ceria blinked at Halrac.
“You want more? After this?”
She’d hit the limit of all the avarice in her body. But Halrac and the other Gold-ranks clearly hadn’t. The [Veteran Scout] nodded.
“I want that bow. Before, we were trying to get at least a few thousand gold pieces to cover the costs of all we’ve spent. But with this, we can aim just for the artifacts.”
“It’s a miracle. A miracle!”
Revi laughed and lay in a pool of treasure. Seborn had necklaces and bracelets draped over his arms. He grinned, the light of the gems flashing across his body. Erin smiled around, caught up in the genuine excitement this time.
“You did it.”
Yvlon paused. She held a gold coin up and stared at it.
“We did.”
The adventurers quieted. They looked at each other. The Halfseekers, the Horns, and Griffon Hunt. The elation that had filled them drained away for a moment. They remembered.
Ulrien. The original Horns of Hammerad. The Silver Spears. All the others. Ceria stared down at the treasure she held, slightly sick suddenly. It felt like so long. And she’d done it. She held a fortune, the fortune her team had dreamed of. And she felt…a bit empty.
“What now?”
Pisces looked at her.
“Now? I suppose we attempt to arm ourselves better for next time.”
“What next time?”
Revi looked at him, puzzled. Pisces frowned.
“The next foray into the dungeon, of course.”
“Why?”
The question stumped the [Necromancer]. Revi looked around. The Stitch-Girl looked calmer now. She gazed from face to face, ending on Halrac and Typhenous.
“Why do we have to go back into the dungeon? It’s dangerous. It nearly killed us more times than I can count. Besides…we did it. This is what we came here for. Not to conquer the dungeon. For this.”
She gestured at the treasure.
“We did it. A wise adventurer doesn’t keep going in. They take the treasure and go. We did it, everyone. And as for me? I’m done with the dungeon.”
Everyone stared at her in shock. Then Jelaqua stood up.
“So are we. We got our gold. We don’t have to go back in. We’re going to have a holiday. We’re going to—we could go anywhere with this. We don’t have to go back.”
“We don’t?”
Ceria sat still, trying to imagine that. They could just walk away? But the dungeon—
Would be there. And other teams would try to claim its secrets and treasures. But they didn’t have to deal with it. Ceria looked at the treasure. She tried to imagine what twenty-five thousand gold pieces could buy. Could it buy help for an insane Minotaur? A gravestone for the Horns? New robes? Spellbooks? Could it buy—
She looked up and saw Pisces staring at her. Yvlon and Ksmvr stood together, waiting. They were looking at Ceria. So were the Halfseekers. And Griffon Hunt and Erin and Lyonette and Mrsha. Ceria looked around. She stood up. She felt dizzy. Elated. Almost sick. But then she remembered.
A group of adventurers standing around in the inn. Ceria, Sostrom, Gerial, Calruz, Hunt…the Horns. A toast. For honor. Ceria blinked—
And she stood in the room filled with treasure. Different faces gazed at her, worrying, expectant, curious. Ceria looked around. She took a few deep breaths.
“I think—for now—at least until we’re ready—”
They waited for it. Ceria smiled. Her heart was beating fast. The world opened up. The dungeon would stay here, but now—
“We’re done with the dungeon!”
The others burst into wild cheers. Jelaqua hugged Pisces, and Revi danced about Moore as the half-Giant high-fived all three of Ksmvr’s hands. Halrac shook Yvlon’s hands as Seborn and Typhenous slapped each other on the back. The adventurers laughed and danced and cried.
“We’re done with the dungeon! Done with the dungeon!”
And the Goblins watched it all, amused and confused and happy. And when Erin had seen enough, she left the room and watched the Hobs file back to their little cave, nudging each other. Satisfied. They’d given away a fortune, but they stood straight. Happy.
That was the thing about Goblins. They cared not for gold or glory or gods for that matter. But they cared about what mattered. Warm food, a place to sleep, a shiny axe, and each other. Erin looked back at the room full of celebrating adventurers and at the Goblins. She saw things to love about each side. So she stood on the stairs and called down at the Hobs.
“Hey!”
They looked back up at her. Erin smiled and beckoned.
“Come on. You deserve at least one cake for all that.”
They brightened up. It was the best gift Erin could have given them.
——
Happy days. Presents that mattered more to different people. The Drakes were grateful for peace. The Gnolls rejoiced in victory over their ancient foe. The adventurers looked to the glitter of their wealth. And the Goblins? The Goblins shared three cakes in their cave and were happy. Which group was the most happy?
It was the Goblins. They lay about in a sugar-induced coma, the Cave Goblins experiencing the joy of frosting for the first time in their lives, smacking their lips. For once, they weren’t hungry. The Hobs slept on beds imported from Erin’s inn, warm and comfortable. And one more thing happened that night.
A Goblin wearing a cape tossed and turned in his bed. His cape was magical. Sometimes it was water or mud or, in one bad case, pee. But usually, it was blood. He’d finally figured out how to make it stick, and the blood cape looked coolest.
Goblins slept around him. They crowded his bed, although none actually intruded on the warm cotton sheets. But they clustered around this Hob more than any other.
Not because he was stronger than the rest like Headscratcher or an expert shot like Badarrow. He wasn’t nearly as masterful with weapons as Shorthilt, and he couldn’t sing or speak like Numbtongue. In fact, the other Hobs would have called Rabbiteater slightly unremarkable. So would he.
But that wasn’t what the Cave Goblins saw. That wasn’t what they remembered. They all remembered a figure standing in the darkness.
A Goblin unsheathed his sword as the Raskghar stirred in their camps. The Cave Goblins looked up and saw a toothy grin, and a Goblin wearing a red cape. Rabbiteater pointed at the Raskghar, his crimson cloak swirling around him. He charged, and the Hobs followed, bringing salvation and hope into the darkness of the dungeon.
They had seen him leading the charge. And he was always smiling, always kind. The other Hobs were grumpy or bad tempered or, in Headscratcher’s case, cried too much. But Rabbiteater was nice. And he was learning to cook from Erin. In their minds, he was clearly the leader. More than a leader.
He was a hero. And hundreds…thousands…of Cave Goblins slept that night and believed it. And because they believed, it was true. Only, it was impossible for Rabbiteater to become a [Hero]. He was missing one thing. So he got the closest thing to it.
[Level 20 Warrior!]
[Warrior → Champion class!]
[Skill – Champion’s Gear obtained!]
[Skill – Grand Slash obtained!]
[Skill – Valor of Champions obtained!]
Rabbiteater sat up. He blinked and looked down at his body. He stared at his worn chainmail shirt and slightly dented sword as they began to glow. Rabbiteater saw the chainmail straighten, shed the rust, and take on a smooth, almost silky sheen. He drew his sword and saw it glow as the blade became straight, the edge razor-sharp. He looked around and waved his arms. All the other Goblins were asleep. So Rabbiteater took a deep breath and shouted.
——
Erin Solstice was sleeping in her bed. In the kitchen. On the floor. She was used to it now, and it was comfy. She was sound asleep, but she woke up when she heard the shouting.
It was coming from the magic door. Erin stumbled over to it and saw the red mana stone was glowing. Someone had opened the door from the other side by accident. She stumbled over and heard loud shouts. She cautiously peeked through the door and saw chaos.
The five Redfang Warriors were running about, shouting. The Cave Goblins were just as excited. But—wait. Erin tried to make sense of it all.
“Champion! [Champion]!”
Rabbiteater crowed as he ran about, arms raised. His cape fluttered behind him as the Goblins cheered. But the Hobs weren’t happy. They were chasing the Cave Goblins about, shouting. They didn’t use words—well, except for Numbtongue, but Erin got what they were saying.
Why him? The Redfang Warriors were upset. They were happy, well, sort of, but they were indignant. Why Rabbiteater? After all, Headscratcher was stronger. Shorthilt was better with a sword! Badarrow never missed a target! And Numbtongue had a guitar! They argued with the Cave Goblins, slapping their chests and flexing their muscles. But the Cave Goblins stared at Rabbiteater, who was posing with the cloak on his back.
Their hero. And as the other four Hobs lay back, crestfallen, Erin smiled. She looked at Rabbiteater, who was smiling from ear to pointed ear. She whispered quietly to herself.
“And Hufflepuff takes the lead.”
Then she closed the door and went to sleep.
5.50 G
Every species had a way of meeting. Not individually, but in large masses. For instance, Gnolls had no written law, but they still obeyed tradition quite scrupulously, and they had a number of customs that related to interaction between two or more tribes.
When two tribes of Gnolls met, there were ceremonies to be observed. The Chieftains would meet and declare peace—or war. They would exchange gifts in the case of the former or part for one day in the case of the latter. Other species might scoff at these particular formalities, but they all had places of peace and ways of meeting.
The Centaurs had gathering spots where no weapons were allowed to be brought, neutral ground where all might walk in peace, criminal and enemies alike. The Dullahans regarded steam baths as inviolate and would never sanction an [Assassin] to lie in wait there or plan a trap of any kind.
[Ladies] had tea parties. Drakes (generally) didn’t fight under white flags, and even then, it was usually only punching each other in the worst of cases. Dragons tended not to do battle when one or more of their hoards were at stake. And Goblins? Well, Goblins had the sit-about.
Infighting between Goblins was rare. Usually, one Chieftain would crush another by force or trickery, and that would be that. However, larger battles and lasting animosity like the war between Garen and Tremborag’s factions with Reiss’ weren’t unknown.
And while it was unthinkable for them to share a confined space without one side attacking the other, the peace had been maintained by the Humans. Thus, the Goblins had declared a hiatus on killing each other and enacted a rare scene from Goblin tradition, the aforementioned sit-about.
It was simple. Two enemy tribes of Goblins found a big space and sat. One side faced the other, or in this case, since Rags was present and Garen and Tremborag were two different Chieftains, they formed into four sides, such that a square of space lay between them. From overhead, it looked more like a rhombus, but no one was holding the Goblins to exact geometry at the moment.
A rhombus, with a bit of space between each Chieftain and the Goblin Lord. Each one sat at an inside corner, facing the others. And here was the curious thing about the Goblin sit-about; while the tribe of Goblins sat behind their Chieftain, eating and chattering and passing along what was said in the center, the actual amount of space that separated Rags from Garen and the other chieftains was only about five feet in any direction.
There she sat, on the grass. There he sat, five feet away, across a fire. Behind Garen, his entire tribe—barely more than eight hundred Goblins, all wearing the red stripes that marked them as ‘his’ Redfangs—sat. Rags glanced left.
A giant Hobgoblin, a massive blob of fat, chewed noisily on a dead cow’s haunch. Tremborag glanced down at Rags as he tore meat from bone, his eyes flashing with clear annoyance and hatred. Five feet separated them, but such was Tremborag’s size that he could reach out and strike Rags. He did not, because of the rules. And also because of who sat across from him.
Reiss, the Goblin Lord, sat to Rags’ right. He was cross-legged with Snapjaw and Eater of Spears sitting just behind him. He stared at the crackling fire and glanced up. Rags saw his eyes flick towards her, but made no move.
The atmosphere was…well, tense was hardly the word for it. Rags had never been in a sit-about before. She only knew of it from looking back at other Chieftains’ memories. And what she remembered of the sit-about was that it usually didn’t end well.
During the sitting, it was peaceful. Oh, the close proximity meant that sometimes Chieftains would shout or throw things at each other, but actual violence would be so wrong that their tribes would usually revolt rather than see one of their Chieftains break the peace. So the two Goblins, or in this case, four, would have to share one meal together, sitting practically cheek-by-jowl.
The violence was what came after. The sit-about was considered the last attempt for two tribes to make peace if one Chieftain refused to cede to the other. If they didn’t find some kind of common ground, then the next day they usually slaughtered each other. Rags didn’t know if that would happen here, but she was on edge.
Her entire tribe sat at her back. Pyrite on her left, Redscar on her right. Poisonbite sat on Pyrite’s left, Noears on Redscar’s right. Quietstab sat directly behind Rags, chewing on a bit of pan-fried beef. The rest of her tribe sat behind her lieutenants, chomping down and watching Rags from behind.
There was a bowl full of chopped and fried beef in front of Rags. Good, hot food that made her stomach growl. The Goblins had run across a herd of cattle on the march and so they were dining well tonight. Normally, Rags would have been stuffing her face, but she knew she was being watched. Every Goblin would assess their Chieftain and the other Chieftains’ performances, weigh what they said. Thus, every move had to be made with care.
Rags thought like that for about five minutes. Then she gave up and began gobbling her beef because she was hungry. The fire crackled as it grew lower; it had been made right when the sit-about had been declared, and no one had fed it yet. The four Goblins eyed the fire. It was Tremborag who broke the silence first.
“The fire’s getting low.”
The other three looked at him. All the Goblins looked at Tremborag. Some nodded. That was a neutral statement, a fact. A good opening. Garen glanced at Reiss. The Goblin Lord nodded.
“It’s low.”
He was agreeing with Tremborag. That was good. It meant the two agreed on something, however small. There were nods all around. Garen growled, not wanting to be left out.
“Should probably add more wood. Other Goblin should do it.”
His Redfang Warriors smiled decisively as if Garen had pointed out something no one else had. Rags rolled her eyes and didn’t comment. Tremborag tore off another chunk of meat. He spoke while chewing.
“Make the nameless child refuel it. She’s better suited to that than leading a tribe.”
The convivial atmosphere became glacial in a moment. Rags stiffened, and her tribe sat up. Redscar half-rose, his eyes flashing, but Noears and Quietstab grabbed his shoulders in an instant. Rags had to be the one to respond. She glanced coolly to her left at Tremborag and replied.
“No.”
The Goblins stirred. Some of them, smaller ones and females, glanced admiringly at Rags for her confident reply. Tremborag’s eyes only narrowed. He waited, but Rags went back to eating.
“Why not?”
Rags glanced back up at Tremborag.
“Don’t want to.”
Tremborag smiled mirthlessly. He tapped one huge finger on the ground as a spark flew from the fire and died in the dirt.
“The fire will go out. Someone must tend to it. Why not you?”
It was a cunning philosophical trap, at least in Goblin terms. Why shouldn’t Rags refill the fire? But the little Chieftain was equal to the challenge. This time, she looked straight at Tremborag and raised her voice slightly.
“I said no. Big fat Hob deaf as well as stupid?”
Tremborag’s jaw fell open. There was a guffaw from behind Rags and laughter from other Goblins. The gigantic Hob growled, but nothing could take away the amusement on Reiss’ face or the way Garen was clearly trying not to laugh. Rags smiled to herself, then felt a poke in her side. Every head turned to Pyrite, who looked troubled as he withdrew the finger. Rags nodded.
“Sorry. Big, fat, ugly Goblin. That better?”
She looked at Pyrite, who grunted with approval. Again, laughter came from behind Rags and from Reiss’ camp. Tremborag’s face was murderous. He swung around, and the faint, stifled sounds behind him went instantly silent.
That had been a perfect riposte with Pyrite’s help as verbal duels went. Rags sat a bit straighter, knowing that if there was a score, she would be ahead. Tremborag was fuming, but unwilling to try to attack Rags again, and Garen was recovering himself. Reiss chuckled and turned his head.
