No one there could actually make out what the attack looked like; twenty-five spells detonating on a single area simultaneously was more than mortal eyes could bear to witness. What they could make out, however, was the after-effect. The top of the ground demon tumbled forward, striking the dirt with a powerful thud. There was no chance of it getting back up, as it had no muscles to work with. The coordinated magical attack had sundered it clean through, chopping it down like a hideous, red-skinned tree.
Moments after impact, a cheer went up. The arena was filled with the sound of joyful accomplishment and relief as the monster lay conquered at their feet. It was done. The attack was over, and they’d survived. Most of them, anyway.
As quickly as the cheer began, it halted even faster when the demon’s mouth began to twitch. Swords readied, arrows drew, and the crackling of magic filled the air once more. Everyone was braced to attack as the twitching moved, first from the back of its mouth, then to the middle, and finally, to its lips. These same lips were pulled open slowly, not by a tongue as many expected, but by a pair of small, gnome-sized hands.
Thistle emerged from the demon’s mouth, careful not to nick himself on the rows of blade-sharp teeth, and breathed a sigh of relief as his shoes touched the blood-soaked dirt. Looking around, he realized the eyes of everyone were on him, ogling the insane sight of a gnome emerging from the maw of a demon. Never one to waste an opportunity, Thistle cleared his throat and spoke as loudly as he could:
“Anyone object to a do-over on that last throw? I got a bit distracted by the demons, and I’d wager my target has flown half a kingdom away by now.”
The cheer he received would have been deafening, had the demon’s scream not already broken the eardrums of so many.
15.
Night fell before any semblance of peace returned to Appleram. The corpses of the demons were trimmed, skinned, and stripped of all useful parts, then buried on consecrated ground and blessed by any adventurers who had a bit of divine connection. The remaining inventory of the storage shed — what little remained — was scrupulously evaluated. No item with magical potential was left unassessed, and anything even slightly tinged red was suspect to exceptional scrutiny. Those who’d been injured in the fray were healed with divine magic, the healers curing the poisoning in the blood that the demons’ strikes had inflicted. Those who were beyond healing, or already gone, were mourned, buried, and stripped of gear by their adventuring party. The latter act gave no one joy, but there was no sense in entombing a friend with his chainmail when that same armor might keep another alive.
By the time Thistle, Gabrielle, Grumph, and Eric returned to the inn, they were wiped beyond measuring, every bit of energy and magic expelled. They greeted the innkeeper and staff with polite nods, slurped down a few bites of stew and rolls of bread, and collapsed in exhaustion with nary a word said among them. There would be time for talk later. All that mattered for the night was the sweet release of sleep, carting them off to a land where their bones didn’t ache, and their eyes weren’t burned with images of fallen corpses. In a small blessing, perhaps metaphorical and perhaps literal, none were troubled by nightmares, or dreams of any sort. They slept the slumber of the dead, cut off from the world until morning came, all too soon in its arrival.
As the group stirred, they became aware of a presence in their room, aside from one another. Sitting at the table, helping himself to a dish of porridge from a still-steaming pot, was Mayor Branders. The four faux adventurers slowly pulled themselves out of their cots, wandered over to the table, and took their seats. To his credit, Mayor Branders waited until everyone had served themselves before speaking.
“I do not care for adventurers,” he said, his voice thick, and rougher than the previous day. It certainly made sense; he’d been doing ample shouting of commands when he restored order after the attack. “I never have. I see them as flippant, uncaring folk. They ride into town, slay a few monsters, spend some gold, hit on our bar staff, then float on to the next encounter. They have no roots, no ties, no sense of obligation.”
The other four focused on their porridge, holding back the words of agreement they wanted to speak. Mayor Branders had the same impression of adventurers as any of the regular folk, the same they’d had only a week ago.
“So, when an advisor came to me, suggesting the idea for a tournament to draw them in, bleed them dry, and then swindle them out of prizes, I’m ashamed to admit, I allowed myself to be won over. I resisted at first, but, because of my prejudice against your kind, I let my mind be clouded by greed. It seemed like a victimless scheme in that it would only annoy adventurers, not decent people like those who lived in my town.”
The group’s silence continued, broken only by the occasional sounds of porridge entering mouths.
“Yet today, I find myself impossibly indebted to the very folk I thought to fleece. Without the adventurers, this town would be nothing but blood and ash. Every one of my ‘decent people’ owes their lives to the efforts your kind put forth yesterday. This is the sort of debt I cannot ever hope to repay, even if I possessed all the gold in Solium.”
It was Thistle who spoke next, Thistle who had to speak next. The others didn’t trust themselves to play this right, neither their minds to understand the situation, nor their tongues to find the right words. Only the tiny gnome could speak for them; only he had the talent and the respect.
“I’m going to make a guess that you don’t intend to have this talk with every adventuring party in town.”
“No, I do not,” Mayor Branders confirmed. “There will be an official release of thanks, and I will work behind the scenes to make good on what I owe. It will not come overnight, but I promise you, Appleram will one day be a haven to every adventurer looking for a place to rest their head. Fair prices, safe accommodations, everything we can do to make their lives easier. However, I came to speak with you all because you hold a different debt over me. Not as a mayor, but as a father. You saved my children’s lives.”
“It is literally part of the job,” Thistle assured him. “A paladin who won’t help defenseless children is unworthy to wear the title, and won’t for long once his god gets wind of it.”
“Knowing your motivations doesn’t preclude me from repaying what you’ve done for me. First off, you’ve won the Dagger Throwing event and are entitled to the prize chest.”
“I never—”
“We both know you had the skill to make it, and you’re the only one who never technically missed the throw. This is my jurisdiction as tournament official, and I’ll hear nothing more about it. As a paladin, you are obliged to respect the rules and laws of a city, correct?”
“It’s a little less defined than that, but you’ve got the gist of it right,” Thistle admitted.
“Then the matter is settled.” Mayor Branders paused to take another scoop of porridge from the pot. A man his size could put away half the pot, were he so inclined. “Now, I asked around a bit and learned you lot came into town looking for supplies. Lost what you had in a goblin raid. Thistle and the woman with the axe need armor. Anyone else?”
“I could use something light,” Eric spoke up. Much as he loved his newfound freedom, he wouldn’t mind having a barrier between his flesh and enemy blades next time fighting started.