NPCs (10 page)

Though Gabrielle was surrounded by silence once the question was asked, she could still clearly hear voices. They were the corrective tones of her father, the mayor, and her mother, the socialite. The voices were firm, admonishing her for even considering such a course of action. Proper ladies did not enter brawls. Proper ladies did not swing axes about their heads. Proper ladies did not adventure. How did she ever hope to catch the eye of one of the royals from Solium if she continued pursuing these stupid endeavors?

Her mouth opened a fraction of an inch, ready to say the word “Archery” when another chorus of voices echoed through her mind. These spoke Gobleck and told her that she was a good tracker, which she’d shown herself to be. She was good at gutting the captured animals and skinning their hides, a task the goblins had taught her and that she’d picked up quickly. And — this voice was the quietest, yet someone she heard with the most force — she was a brave warrior who had saved many goblins with her blade.

No, General Melee was not a sport for proper ladies, but she’d been engaging in those sorts of activities for years already. She’d straddled the line, living publicly as the mayor’s daughter, and living in the forest as an honorary goblin. The line was growing wider now, the division between the two, greater. She was going to have to choose which Gabrielle was the one she truly wanted to be, and while this might not be the point of no return, it would mark the first conscious step in that journey.

“General Melee,” Gabrielle announced, her voice filled with more conviction than she actually felt.

“Are you certain?” Thistle asked.

“Yes, I am,” she told him. And with that, she was. Her parents weren’t here to make happy, her friends didn’t care which she chose. For once, the only one she had to please with her decision was herself, and the truth was, Gabrielle had been far happier as a pretend goblin, than a pretend proper lady. Maybe it was time to stop pretending.

“Very well, then. First thing tomorrow, I’ll get us registered. Grumph is going to see if Bertrand can get the other vendors in town to sell us equipment at somewhat decent rates and you two are free to do what you wish. We’ll all meet at the training grounds for practice,” Thistle instructed.

“Won’t the other parties be there?” Eric asked.

“Almost certainly,” Thistle confirmed. “Don’t worry about them. Just work your hardest to improve in the time before the tournament. They’ll be more concerned with their own skill-sharpening, than sizing us up.”

Despite knowing his policy on truth versus falsehood, Eric couldn’t shake the feeling that Thistle had just told them all one hell of a lie.

* * *

The training area was set up where the tournament would actually be held, since putting together two structures to serve the same purpose would be at the level of idiotic redundancy reserved for the highest halls of government. True, many of the banners were still furled, and the decorations had yet to be unveiled, but the bare bones of the tournament grounds were there: wooden weapons, targets, and fenced-off areas for sparring. There were no arrows or magical tools because those were prone to breaking or being used up and were therefore sold by the shops in town.

Thistle was the first to arrive; registration had taken less time than he expected. All he’d needed to do was provide names, and which events each person was entering. The clerk had been profoundly disappointed that none of them would be paying for the privilege to compete in additional events, an attitude made clear by his constant reminders that the more one competed, the more they could win. The gnome didn’t begrudge the clerk his attempts to gain a little extra coin, but it became quickly tiresome. He made his exit and headed over to the training area to survey it himself.

On the whole, he was impressed. Appleram didn’t have much tradition of sported combat, but they’d put together a respectable arena. It wasn’t as fancy as one might see in Solium; however, in a way, that appealed to Thistle more. He preferred the simple, genuine attempts, rather than gilded fluff. It was why he’d settled in Maplebark, after all. Since there were no other competitors present yet, Thistle decided to squeeze in some extra practice.

Having only two daggers made the throwing process a bit tiresome. He would hurl both, then shuffle across the dusty ground to the target, yank the daggers out, and drag himself all the way back. By the fourth round, he was expecting his body to protest, years of experience telling him this was as much motion as he could complete without pain. Strangely, the soreness didn’t come. Rounds five, six, and seven passed, all without so much as a twinge. It was not until round eight, when he accidently threw one of his daggers with too much force and wedged it halfway into the thick wood of the target, that Thistle remembered his new job was supposed to give him greater strength and endurance.

With a concentrated effort, he chunked his second dagger into the target, this time actually causing a small part of it to crack. Thistle wore a subdued smile as he made his way across the arena to retrieve them. The title of paladin might not come with a long job-expectancy, or much of a social life, but he had to admit that he didn’t mind the fringe benefits.

Gabrielle and Eric arrived next. After a few moments’ discussion, they each picked up wooden versions of their usual weapons and headed off to one of the sparring rings. Since both would be engaged in martial combat, it made sense for them to train against one another. The first few rounds were more of a dance than a fight, light tapping that only ended when someone called the other as “out” or one admitted defeat. Each was getting accustomed to the new weight and shape of their wooden weapons. The trees around Appleram were notorious for the dense, sturdy wood they produced. While not as heavy as a normal sword or axe, these definitely had more heft than if they’d been made out of the same materials as the targets.

As they settled into the flow of combat and grew more comfortable striking each other, the fights quickly became an exercise in frustration for Gabrielle. Eric — slow, clumsy, ineffective Eric — became increasingly more difficult to hit. Freed from the weight of armor he’d never been strong enough to bear, Eric’s grace was a thing of strange beauty. He moved effortlessly around her faux blade, slipping to the side of each strike with inches of space to spare then slashing her across the arms or stomach. True, his lack of strength meant the blows weren’t terribly forceful, but that wouldn’t have stopped a real sword from opening up some serious wounds on her.

With each round Eric won, Gabrielle’s frustrations grew. How was he so good? She managed to forget that he’d been forced to train regularly with the other guards for the past several years, instead, focusing on how unfair it was that he vanished like a whisper in a crowd every time she swung toward him.

The breaking point came after she saw his heel catch on the ground and seized the chance to attack. Gabrielle swung high and wide, giving it all she had, sure this was the time she’d win. Somehow, Eric recovered his footing and dodged the blow, circling around in the same fluid motion and pressing his wooden short sword against the back of her neck.

“Got you,” Eric said, his voice perfectly calm. It was the way he said it that got her. If he’d been glib or taunting, she could have dealt with it. But no, Eric said it as though he were stating the weather, as though it were an obvious fact. Of course he won, because he was just so damned much better than her.

Gabrielle knew he said something after that, but she couldn’t make out the words over the sudden pounding in her ears. Her grip on the fake axe’s shaft grew so strong that the sturdy wood creaked. Without thought or warning, she spun around, weapon pulled back. Though, in the moment, she ignored it, she would never forget the look of sudden terror in Eric’s eyes as she faced him. It would plague her for years to come.

She released a guttural yell and struck with all her suddenly considerable might. The blow nearly landed true, a blow that would have shattered Eric’s arm and shoulder at the very least. At the last moment, however, she felt her entire body be jerked back, throwing the blow wild and smashing the wooden axe into the dusty ground. Gabrielle was lifted off her feet, arms pinned to her sides as she thrashed about wildly.

It took a few minutes, but eventually, her anger subsided enough for coherent thought to return. For the first time, she realized that the arms holding her belonged to a half-orc, and from there, it didn’t take much thought to put things together.

“I’m… I’m okay now, Grumph,” Gabrielle said shakily.

“What in the seven hells was that?” Eric asked.

“Side effect,” Grumph said before Gabrielle could answer. “Go practice alone. We need to talk.”

Eric nodded his understanding and jogged off toward one of the human-sized dummies set up near one end of the arena. Once he was gone, Grumph’s grip loosened, and he set his friend carefully down on the ground.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said, shocked by how hard it was to get her legs to bear her weight.

“I do,” Grumph replied. “Follow me.” With that, he headed off, away from the arena, past a few of the other adventurers who had wandered in to train, and toward an outcropping of trees not quite dense enough to be considered part of the forest.

Part of Gabrielle wondered why he was leaving the arena; however, a much larger part wondered what was going on inside her. That was the question that begged answering, and soon. Taking a few deep breaths and making sure she could move under her own power, Gabrielle followed her half-orc friend to the woods.

* * *

The arrival of other adventurers had forced Thistle to switch up his training tactics. He was still throwing his daggers, still trundling across the wide expanse of land to retrieve them, and still walking all the way back to throw again. What was different, now that others were also there, was that Thistle was missing.

It was a simple strategy, really. Instead of aiming for the center of the target, Thistle would aim for a spot closer to the outer edge. He’d change spots each time, throwing one in the center on occasion, too, just to keep it interesting. In this way, he was still working on putting the dagger exactly where he wanted it, but to an observer, it would appear his throws were all over the place. Despite knowing he’d be putting on a show for these people in a few days’ time, laying low was too ingrained in Thistle’s nature to buck against it.

“Nice throw,” said a female voice from behind him. Thistle turned to see a half-elf woman walking forward until she was parallel with him, perfectly situated to throw at the nearest adjacent target. She was quite pretty, if you went in for that sort of thing, with lavender eyes and golden hair, not to mention a body accentuated nicely by the tight leather armor wrapped around her.

“One of the better ones of the day,” Thistle replied, hobbling to the target to retrieve his daggers. This one had landed close to the center, so he made a note to ensure the next several were thrown at the edge.

“Hope you get more of them,” the woman replied. She pulled a pair of her own daggers from sheaths at her side — long, silver beauties with intricate carvings across their mirror-like surfaces. A quick motion from each arm and the blades were buried on either side of the target’s bull’s-eye.

“Not too shabby yourself,” Thistle complimented.

“I try.” The woman let out a low whistle and both daggers glowed lightly, vanished, and then reappeared in their sheaths at her side.

“Handy trick.” Thistle sent his own blades into the high and low edges of the target.

“Daggers with a calling spell are the only way to go. I’m Sierva, by the way.”

“Thistle,” Thistle replied, once his journey to and from the target was complete.

“Pleasure to meet you. Looks like we’ll be competing against one another,” Sierva noted.

“Aye, so it does.” This time, Thistle watched her as she whipped the daggers through the air and sent them quivering into the target. Both landed close to the bull’s-eye, but neither actually hit it. This would have been a more comforting observation if not for the fact that Sierva’s eyes had never focused on the bull’s-eye in the first place. She was using his same strategy: purposely “missing” in order to appear more inept. What was more, given how many empty targets were around, she’d likely caught on to the fact that he was doing it, too. That was why she’d greeted him and gotten close enough to be observed. She wanted him to know she’d caught onto his trickery.

Thistle smiled as he took aim and let the first of his own daggers fly. He’d been worried things would get boring, but it seemed he might have a little fun at this tournament, after all.

* * *

Unlike Thistle, Eric wasn’t particularly interesting to the other adventurers who wandered into his area of the training arena. Most of them seemed to stick together, whispering when others came by. A few of them shot Eric looks, suspiciously gauging whether he was a danger, but after watching him smack the dummy around, they lost interest.

He couldn’t really blame them; he knew he didn’t look the part of a fellow adventurer. They were all decked out in well-made clothes and fitted armor, while Eric was wearing a homemade tunic and pants, along with shoes that were barely holding together. His mother had taught him to patch his clothing, though in the rush to get out of town, he hadn’t thought to bring along any sewing implements.

Hopefully, his footwear would hold out until at least after the tournament. If even one of them won, it would provide enough to equip themselves with the necessities. Eric took a break to catch his breath and watched a few of the other groups sparring. Most of them were good, but not spectacular. A few, he felt sure he could actually win against. There was the occasional rarity, though: warriors in armor that nearly hummed with magic, and who struck each other with such power that the dust behind them was blown away. One was a dwarf swinging a club nearly the size of him. Another was human, longsword dancing lightly in his hands. When Eric looked at these competitors, he felt a hot stone of certainty in his gut that, if one in his group did win, it wasn’t going to be him or Gabrielle. Even if they had even odds against the bulk of the others, one of those two he was watching spar would likely be walking away with the win.