“Aye, that I do,” Thistle agreed. “And maybe I’ll tell you that story, one day, but it won’t be here, and it won’t be now. We’ve got more important things on our plate.”
“I apologize,” Gabrielle said, although this time, her tone made it clear that her words were only that: words.
“No need. It’s natural to be curious, but there is a time and place for such things.”
“Anyway, you were saying about the events?” Eric probed, eager to change the subject and ameliorate some of the tension in the room.
“Aye, the events. I’ve got a decent hand at throwing daggers, so I’ll enter that one. Eric, are you better with a sword, or a bow?”
“Sword,” Grumph grunted.
“He’s right,” Eric admitted. “Sword. When I was trying to learn the bow, I broke three of the windows on Grumph’s tavern.”
“That’s pretty impressive,” Thistle noted.
“Not really. I was aiming for a target in the grove of trees off to the side.”
Thistle knew the forest Eric was speaking of. It was nowhere near Grumph’s windows.
“Sword it is,” Thistle announced.
“I don’t have my armor.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be using wooden tourney swords,” Thistle assured him. “Besides, I think you’re better off without it.”
Eric couldn’t argue with that logic, so instead, he merely gave a nod and turned his attention toward his meal.
“Next up: Grumph. I daresay you’ve got a real shot at winning the Feats of Strength event, old friend.”
“True,” Grumph agreed. “But I’m in Magical Duels.”
“Come on, Grumph, do the one you can win. We need the money,” Gabrielle wheedled.
“We need practice,” Grumph countered, his thick, rumbling voice moving far more fluidly than it did around those he didn’t trust. “Experience is worth more than gold.”
“Very well, then. Grumph is doing the Magical Duels,” Thistle said. He personally agreed with Gabrielle, however, he knew Grumph well enough to understand that when the half-orc was set on something, it would take an act of the gods to deter him. “Gabby, that just leaves you.”
“I might be able to do okay at archery,” she replied. “I was decent at it. Not great, but decent.”
“General Melee,” Grumph said.
“I hate to say it, but I agree with Grumph,” Eric added, before Gabrielle’s mouth could voice the objection she clearly felt. “He’s right, we do need the practice. When are you going to get the chance to fight seasoned warriors without risking getting killed? Plus, I’ve seen you shoot a bow. You’re better than I am, but that’s not saying much. Do the event where you’ll at least learn something.”
“Gabby, to be clear, General Melee will use wooden weaponry as well; however, they will still be swung hard, and broken bones are not unheard of,” Thistle told her. “I won’t ask you to register in an event you’re uncomfortable with. If you say Archery, then it’s Archery. The choice is yours.”
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.