There are precious few things that can draw the attention of a demon that has just had a dagger planted in its eye, but one of them, it turned out, was a freezing blast of ice magic striking it in the back. The cold was so intense that, for a moment, Thistle’s teeth tried to chatter, even being several feet away from the impact. The demon whirled around and Thistle couldn’t help but look too.
Sure enough, still slumped over, a swirl of blue magical energy dissipating off his fingers like fog in the sun, Grumph was looking at the demon with an expression of triumph. Thistle didn’t even have time to wonder what had his friend so happy as the demon immediately charged. That made it clear: the big idiot was trying to save Thistle, while Thistle had been trying to save him. The futility of it all would have made Thistle stamp his misshapen foot, if there’d been time.
The gnome’s brain kicked into high gear, immediately assessing the situation. He had no hope of getting between the half-orc and the demon in time; the monster’s back was to him, so another eye shot was out of the question, and he doubted verbal taunts would draw its ire more than the ice spell had. Since he was out of any practical options, all that remained was banking on the impossible.
“Grumble,” he prayed, lifting up his remaining blade and taking aim at the moving demon’s spine. “Though I know I am not actively henching right now, I would still dearly appreciate any assistance you’d be willing to give.” A strange tinkling sound, like bells he’d known in childhood, filled his ears, and Thistle let the dagger fly.
It struck the demon square in the back, though it did not sink in and sever the spine, as Thistle had hoped. Instead, it continued onward, carving through the demon’s bones and flesh and exploding out the other the side in a shower of muscle and blood. The goblin knife had somehow left a hole in the demon’s chest so large that Thistle and Grumph were able to make eye contact through it. The demon fell down dead, and the knife clattered to the ground some feet away, tendrils of white smoke rising off it.
For a moment, there was only silence between the two, neither one certain of what to say in such a strange situation. Then, a cheer went up from the center of the camp as the goblins killed the final demon. The outpouring of elation was enough to loosen Thistle’s tongue, just a bit.
“I might need to buy some of these daggers before we go,” he commented, moving toward the blade that was finally beginning to cease smoking. “That is some fine craftsmanship if ever I’ve seen it.”
Grumph snorted in agreement, then set about the cumbersome task of getting himself off the ground.
8.
It was several hours before the chaos finally gave way to some semblance of organization. The warrior goblins conducted a thorough sweep of the perimeter, ensuring no other demons were waiting to ambush them once their guard was down. Non-warriors and children were brought back into camp and immediately herded to the most fortified buildings still standing. The fires were put out, and the corpses of the fallen were gathered in a previously empty building. The reason it had been empty, evidently, was that it was used exactly for occasions like this.
The adventuring party had regrouped quickly, Eric and Grumph spying each other across the sea of short heads. Thistle was still with Grumph, a bloody dagger tucked securely in his boot. Finding Gabrielle had been more difficult. They searched for some time, trying to communicate with the goblins through cross-species charades. Thankfully, one of the non-warriors finally took their meaning and led them into a tent near the center of camp.
Cots dotted the landscape, all filled with beings that had sustained considerable wounds. Most were goblins; however, on the largest bed lay Gabrielle. Several goblins were tending to her: removing her bandages, applying a green salve, and reapplying new bandages. Others were checking her for fever and giving her water. As her friends watched the treatment, one of the goblins noticed the poorly-plugged hole on Grumph’s shoulder and motioned him over. After a few minutes, Grumph had been properly tended to as well. Gabrielle’s treatment, sadly, was not so easy.
Although they wanted to stay by her side, it soon became apparent that being in the medical tent was hindering more than helping. So, with heavy hearts, the three walked out into the camp, found some unoccupied space, and pulled out their bedrolls. It was certainly possible they’d be recaptured in their sleep, but none of them could hold onto such concerns as the weight of a stressful night came crashing down upon them.
Within a minute of lying down, all three were sleeping soundly.
Thistle knew he was dreaming as soon he opened his eyes. In part it was because he felt entirely lucid, so much so that he could piece together the impossibility of passing out in a goblin camp and awakening in a church. The other part, however, was because he knew this church very well, and he knew with certainty that if he was here, and no one was yelling at him, then it must certainly be a dream.
Carefully, Thistle pulled himself up from the pew where he’d been lying. It was all the same as he remembered: same large ceiling, causing a breeze; same enchanted glass windows, swirling with ever-changing colors, and same dusty rug running up to the pulpit. That was when Thistle realized that something had changed. Instead of a glowing orb surrounded by mist, the symbol of Mithingow, the gnome god, there was a picture of a broom with a dagger tied to the top. This was the symbol of Grumble, god of the minions.
Thistle had no sooner reached this revelation than he saw a male kobold (at least, male if Thistle correctly recalled how to interpret the number of spines atop their head) hop up onto the pulpit from the front pew. He was scaly and orange, though the bits around his knees and elbows were starting to look ashen. His lizard’s head was wide, yet, when it paused to flash a smile, Thistle found it oddly comforting. The kobold walked to the front but didn’t take a place behind the altar. Instead, he moved in front of it and looked directly at Thistle.
“Underwhelmed? It’s okay if you are. I get that a lot.”
“No, nothing like that,” Thistle told him. “Just surprised. It’s not often one dreams of meeting their god.”
“This is a dream, but I think we both know it’s not just happening in your head,” Grumble informed him. “I’ve come to have a talk with you.”
“Forgive my foreboding, but those words rarely mean good things, coming from deities.”
“Well, I guess you’re not wrong,” Grumble agreed. “I’ve come to discuss something, and whether it’s good, or bad, will be up to you.”
“This is about the knife, isn’t it?”
Grumble shook his head. “No, this is about the prayer you said right before you threw the knife. I’m not the most popular god in the pantheon — I’m the first to admit it — but I get my fair share of prayers. ‘Please, don’t let the master beat me tonight’ is a big one; right up there with, ‘Please, don’t let these adventurers find my hiding spot.’ Yours, though, that was a rarity: one of my worshippers charging into danger, rather than scrambling away from it, and all to save a friend.”
“Your faith does teach the importance of looking out for one another,” Thistle said.
Grumble hopped down from the pulpit and landed on the dusty rug. He’d have been shorter than a normal gnome, but Thistle’s crooked body left him eye-level with his deity.