“Us? You’re the one killing people by letting that crystal pull demons into the world!” He struggled as he talked, but even his enhanced paladin strength was no match for the monster’s size and power. It looked like he’d be seeing Grumble again soon.
“A sssssmall price to pay. Sssssoon, I will find the other pieces. Sssssoon, I will free our world from your kind. And it will be easssssy, because you are all ssssso ssssstupid. You even forgot the firssssst rule of combat: never take on a wizard in their lair.”
“Actually, you’re the one who forgot the first rule of combat.” Eric’s voice came only a twitch of a hand before the attack. Thistle saw the tip of the blade, Grumph’s bone-sword, burst forth from Aldron’s left eye. It had been run through the back of his head, skewering his brain in the process. The monster that had once been Aldron slid limply to the side, clearly dead.
“Never, but never, take your eyes off the rogue.” Eric smiled as he spoke, a weak expression on his pale skin. Thistle looked up at his friend, overwhelmed with joy to see him. It wasn’t until he noticed the rapid sound of dripping that the gnome realized something was wrong.
The dripping was blood raining onto the stone floor from the stump where Eric’s left arm had once been. Thistle glanced across the room to see that the appendage was still chained to the ground, short sword clutched in its grip.
“Hey, Thistle, I know I’m not much of a minion, but do you think you could put in a good word with your god for me?” With those words, Eric collapsed to the floor, body as limp as the monster he’d given up his arm to slay.
24.
Eric’s eyes fluttered open as the smell of fresh stew reached his nostrils. He pulled himself up gingerly, then realized that his body wasn’t in any sort of pain. In fact, he felt great. Standing up, Eric noticed two things: his left arm was attached to his body, and he was standing in Grumph’s tavern, the very tavern that had been burned down only a few short weeks ago.
“So, heaven is a tavern,” Eric said, voice echoing off the empty tables. “I suppose I owe my drunk Uncle Jerry an apology for laughing at his theory.”
“Sorry, kid, you’re not in heaven, at least, not yet.” The voice came from a squat kobold that appeared on top of the bar. Had Grumph been here, he’d have been livid at someone sitting on his precious bar top. “Think of this as a way station. It’s where most gods hold our meetings with those who are either fresh off, or still on the mortal coil.”
“Meaning I’m either still alive, or I just died,” Eric surmised. “Which is it?”
“Well, that’s sort of complicated. You want an ale or something?”
“Please.”
The kobold snapped his fingers and a frosty mug appeared on the table next to Eric. The former guard pulled out a chair and took his seat, then drank deep from the mug. This was Grumph’s brew, no question about it.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Eric said after a few more gulps. “How is it complicated?”
“For starters, you’re on the bubble, life-wise. Chopping off your arm with a demon-bone sword took a lot out of you, and the darkness spreading through your blood isn’t helping the situation any. Thistle only has so much healing magic in a given day, and even if he ignored the others completely and tried to save you, there’s no guarantee it would work.”
“Right then; so I’m looking at probable, if not certain, death.” Eric nodded and took another drink. He wasn’t sure why none of this bothered him much. Perhaps it was because he’d known the price when he took the sword to his shoulder.
“That’s just part of it. See, normally, in this situation, you’d just pass on and that would be that. But at the moment, there’s a bit of a debate over ownership regarding your soul. Since your last prayer was to me, even as inadvertently as you made it, that gives me a certain amount of claim to you. However, Tristan, god of the rogues, is kicking up a mighty shitstorm over that. Seems your performance was respectable enough to warrant his attention.”
“Other gods were watching us?”
“Being a god can get kind of boring. Lots of us look to mortals for entertainment,” Grumble admitted, shrugging his scaly shoulders. “Besides, you were fighting over an artifact with a kind of power even we deities don’t fully comprehend. That’s the sort of thing that draws a viewership.”
“Makes sense.” Eric drained the remainder of his mug and set it on the table. “Let me see if I’ve got this: I should be dying, but if I do go, then it creates a headache between you and another god. I take that to mean you’re thinking of letting me live?”
“Thistle is a paladin of mine, and as such, it’s well within my divine rights to give him an extra boost of healing magic. Thing is, you aren’t really a follower of mine, at least, not yet. That means if I’m helping you, there has to be a price.”
“Had a feeling that was coming,” Eric said, leaning forward a bit. “What do I owe you?”
“It doesn’t work like that. We’re gods; you can’t just pay us off with gold. No, for something as hefty as a second chance at life, you’re going to be given a divine task. I tell you to do something, and you have to do it, or die trying.”
“Let me guess: you want me to assemble the rest of the artifact,” Eric said.
“That would be great, but no, I’m not that cruel. The artifact is something that exists beyond all known magic; it can’t be located by any known spell unless it’s actively being used. Not even gods can sense the pieces of it; they have to be discovered in person. It’s been centuries since the last one was found, so you’ll likely be long dead before the next one comes around. Your job is a much simpler one: don’t go back to Solium with the artifact. Right now, your group is on the border of Alcatham. Take the artifact, leave the kingdom behind, and never return.”
“Won’t the king send people after us?”
“Only if he knows you’re alive,” Grumble pointed out. “You’re a smart little group, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“But, never going back would mean…”
“Yes, Eric. Your old life is gone. That’s why they call it a price. Today, no matter what you choose, Eric of Maplebark, former guard of the mayor’s daughter, dies. Whether you rise again as an adventuring rogue, or simply rot in the ground, is your choice entirely.”
Eric pressed his hands to the surface of the wooden table, a table that no longer existed in his world. It had been eaten by fire, along with the rest of Grumph’s tavern. Yes, they’d abandoned their family and friends expecting to die on their quest, but now… now, they were so close to getting out alive.
“It shouldn’t be my choice. This impacts all of us. It’s wrong for me to tell everyone else what to do.”
“A wise sentiment, but a misguided one,” Grumble said. “This is your task alone, Eric. If the others want to go home, they can. Only you can never return.”
“Oh.” That single word stretched on in Eric’s mind as he realized the weight of this choice. If the others wanted to go home, then he would be an outcast, walking the world by himself, possibly for the rest of his life.
Then again… what would he be going back to? A life as a terrible guard, protecting a girl who didn’t need protection in the first place? Yes, he would miss his mother, but was that alone reason to go back to a town where he was a joke?
“I’ve got two questions,” Eric said at last. “First, does this have anything to do with the fact that I seem to hear The Bridge in a way the others don’t?”
“A little bit,” Grumble replied. “Like I said, being a god can get boring at times. We don’t really know what the resonance you have with it means, but we’re certainly curious.”
“A fair, if vague, answer. Second question: why do you even want me? My last prayer was, like you said, an indirect technicality. Wouldn’t it be easier to let the god of the rogues have me?”