Chapter 16
WELL, MAYBE THE SKENDRICKIANS COULD HAVE SHOWN A LITTLE MORE ENTHUSIASM
It was a pensive adventuring crew that made an uneventful journey to Skendrick.
The only one who seemed unaffected was Whiska, who not only managed to insult a tree root that she tripped over on one particularly rutty path, but to do so using a string of epithets that made even me blush, and I didn’t even blink when I accidentally walked in on the legendary Mithral Mine Dwargy of 1027 (Fentenian Reckoning, of course).
Elven pensive moods can literally last for months, during which the pensive elf might not say a single word the entire time, so I pulled Nadi aside late in the afternoon on our third day of walking to try to snap her out of it. “I’d offer a copper for your thoughts,” I said as we walked ahead of the group, “but I’m kind of cheap, and I hate to overpay for things.”
Nadi frowned. “Is there a point to your being mean, or do you just want to torture me?”
I shrugged. “You just seemed a little distant.” I looked behind us. “Though I guess we’re all processing what happened back there in our own way.” I gestured toward Whiska, who was cackling about having used an enormous fireball to incinerate a fly. “Some more combustibly than others. Is ‘combustibly’ a word?”
Nadi looked at Whiska and shook her head before fixing her eyes on mine. “I suppose.”
“So,” I said, figuring I’d get right to the heart of the matter, “that whole thing with the orcs didn’t really go according to plan, huh?”
“You think?” replied Nadi with a sarcastic edge I’d never heard from her.
I pretended not to notice. “That High Chieftain Gnurk was really something.” I knew she would take my comment at face value. Nadi was astute when it came to strategy and tactics, but social nuances were lost on her, so I didn’t think she had any idea about what may or may not have taken place after Gnurk and I had disappeared from the festivities within a few minutes of each other.
“I’m not sure I want to talk about this.” Her look softened. “At least, not yet.”
“I understand,” I said.
We walked in silence for a few moments before Nadi spoke again. “It’s just…hard when something you’ve assumed to be true your entire life, something that’s informed who you are, turns out to be…well, maybe turns out not be what you thought.”
“I felt the same way the first time I saw a dwarf naked. In that case, though, the surprise was a pleasant one.”
Nadi gave me a strange look before bursting into laughter. “I’m glad you’re here, Heloise.”
“So am I,” I replied, “though I’m less excited about being there.” I nodded up the road, where the outskirts of Skendrick had come into view.
“Why’s that?” asked Nadi. “You’re the one who convinced us to go to help them.”
On the one hand, I wanted to tell Nadi that the Skendrickians were an intellectually stunted group of subhumans whose collective intellect could fit into the hollowed-out body of a gnerfly with room to spare. (Gnerflies, for those unfamiliar, are pint-sized versions of gnats.) On the other hand, I did talk them into this ridiculous quest, and I didn’t want to undermine their confidence in their chosen path (or their beautiful bardish guide), so I just shrugged. “Let’s just say I prefer more cosmopolitan areas.”
Nadi shook her head. “Give me the forest canopy over a town anyday.”
“Village,” I said reflexively.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
We continued in silence until we reached the gates of Skendrick, such as they were. The bored guard blanched when he saw Borg and brandished his polearm in a way that suggested he was unused to handling anything larger than a baby carrot. I quickly explained the situation, and the guard heaved a sigh of relief, waving us on but backing up a few steps as Borg walked by. He underestimated Borg’s reach, however, and the too-friendly rock giant reached out to pat the man on the shoulder, missed, hit him in the head, and knocked him unconscious. It took several minutes to revive him, and by the time we managed to get him upright and convince him that we were not, in fact, a conquering force sent to destroy the village masquerading as its would-be saviors, the sun had begun to set. Just once, I wish a military commander would recognize the value of putting someone with the faintest semblance of intellect on guard duty; so many unnecessary conflicts could be avoided. Then again, given the general dearth of intellect in Skendrick, I supposed it was possible that our brain-addled friend was the town’s best and brightest.
I led our merry band to the only decent inn in Skendrick and proceeded to barter my services for room and board. Even on short notice, the crowd turned out in force, though the inn’s promise of half-priced ale (watered down sufficiently to offset the potential lost profits) might have had something to do with it. Skendrickians, never the most enthusiastic supporters of the arts, tend to be even less enthusiastic than normal when they’re stressed about potentially being immolated by dragon fire.
Pussies.
(It’s come to my attention that in addition to suggesting cowardice, “pussies” is a word used in certain cultures to refer, in quite vulgar fashion, to certain parts of the female anatomy. I’m using it here in the Cervarian sense, which, as everyone knows, is in reference to the seeds of the pusing plant—or pussies—which have the odd ability to float away when confronted with the threat of wildfires. Which means, of course, that I’m not really calling the Skendrickians cowards, but, rather, suggesting that they are behaving sensibly in response to the threat of some domineering asshole trying to do them harm. Like a pussy.)
Toward the end of my performance, I started building the case for my companions, selling my fawning admirers on the notion that these people really could defeat a dragon. After finishing a well-received Heloise original called “In Skendrick the Beer Tastes Like the Seven Heavens,” I called Nadi up to stand next to me.
(Confession: when performing that particular song, I just plug in the name of whatever town I happen to be performing in. When I’m in Tollton, then, it’s “In Tollton the Beer Tastes Like the Seven Heavens.” It only becomes problematic when the city/town/village names get long. I don’t tend to perform the song in Norblunderingtonvillburg, for example. Then again, I don’t tend to perform in Norblunderingtonvillburg at all—they take a pretty racist view toward elves. And anyone who’s not a gnome, really.)
“This brave warrior,” I said to the adoring crowd, “is Nadinta Ghettinwood.”
“Me neither!” slurred a drunk man at the back of the room.
“You’re an idiot,” I replied. “Nadi is the leader of a band of adventurers who have traveled to Skendrick, braving considerable challenges along the way, including a fierce struggle with the Orcs of the Gloom Forest, to answer the call for aid in slaying the mighty red dragon that threatens your town’s very survival.”
“Village!” shouted an angry woman in the front row.
“Whatever. Gods. The point is, Nadi and her companions are the heroes you have so desperately sought.”