“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he continued, slowly spinning the gem between his fingers. The gormalons shuffled in closer, heads simultaneously tilting as their eyes flicked back and forth frantically in an attempt to capture each reflected facet of light. “Good lads, good lads,” murmured Rummy. “Now then,” he continued, raising his eyebrows and glancing quickly at Nadi, who nodded. “Who wants to see this beautiful gem disappear?”
The gormalons hooted and hollered; apparently, they didn’t think too highly of that idea. Nadi caught my eye and pantomimed a stabbing motion as she slowly circled around behind our opponents. Borg, moving at his natural speed, did the same.
I tried to act nonchalant as I followed suit, oohing a little as Rummy continued his patter. “On the count of three, then, boys—you are all boys, aren’t you? So it would appear from your plumbing, anyway. Regardless, on the count of three, I’m going to throw this gem up in the air, and whichever one of you can tell me where it lands gets it. Deal?”
The gormalons continued to stare at the gem with slack-jawed wonder. “One,” said Rummy, looking up to lock eyes with Nadi, who nodded again as she took up a position behind the gormalon in the middle. Borg stood behind the one on the right, and I had managed to get behind the one on the left. “Two,” said Rummy. “Watch closely now—you won’t want to miss this. Three!” Rummy flicked his hand up into the air and the gem disappeared; at the same moment, Whiska extinguished the light in her staff, plunging the cavern into darkness.
Before the gormalons could react, Nadi shouted, “Now!” and I could hear her sword hit its target even as I plunged my knife into the back of the gormalon in front of me. Borg’s strike followed a few seconds later, though there was no mistaking the resounding thud of his club smashing a gormalon skull.
Nadi and Borg successfully felled their opponents with a single strike; I wasn’t so lucky. The gormalon I had stabbed roared in pain (and presumably rage; I know I’d be pretty peeved if someone stabbed me in the back) and thrashed about, knocking me over in the process. “Watch out!” I called as I fell painfully on my backside.
To my surprise, it was Rummy who stepped in, driving his little mace into the creature’s face and dropping it cold. Nadi rushed in and plunged her sword into it for good measure, or maybe just because she likes stabbing things. (Oh, wait—that’s actually me.)
“That was almost competent,” said Whiska approvingly.
“Quiet!” hissed Nadi. She held up her hand to forestall any further comments as she listened intently. A moment later, apparently satisfied that no other threats loomed, she sheathed her sword. “Agreed—that was well done.”
“If we’re not careful, we might get good at this,” said Rummy.
“You won’t live long enough to get good at it,” I said.
“Thanks for the vote of support,” replied Rummy sunnily.
“Well, there is an encounter with a minotaur looming…and, you know, that whole dragon thing you still have to deal with.”
“Whiska—secure the perimeter,” said Nadi. “Borg—stand guard on that entrance in case any more gormalons come in. Rummy—watch the back side of the cavern.” The three adventurers moved to do as Nadi bid without question. “Heloise,” she said, turning to me. “A word.”
Nadi pulled me aside. “Look, I know we still have a long way to go, and I know we still need to face a dragon.”
“An incredibly deadly dragon. Not to mention a minotaur,” I said helpfully.
“And a minotaur,” she added, glaring at me. “But, that was a solid win. Right now, more than anything, we need confidence. It’s been a long road—”
“A much, much longer road than necessary due to occasional fits of incompetence and a series of poor decisions, and that ill-advised trek through a really stinky swamp,” I interjected.
Nadi glared at me again, and I had the good sense to shut up. “It’s been a long road, and we haven’t had a lot of moments where it felt like we knew what we were doing. Everyone needs to feel like that’s happening, like things are coming together. I need you to reinforce that—not undermine it.” She shook her head. “We brought you with us to lift us up, Heloise—not tear us down. If you can’t do that, then maybe it would be better to part company here and take our chances on our own.”
She walked away to check in with Rummy to see if he’d heard anything, leaving me to stand there with what I assume was a very abashed look on my face.
Being the hero of the story is easy. You say and do what you want, and people adore you. You can be sassy and clever and sarcastic and impossibly beautiful and everyone cheers you on. I’m good at being the hero of the story, even when there’s not much of a story, and even when I haven’t, in reality, been much of a hero—and I’m really good at telling those stories.
Turns out though, that for a world-renowned storyteller, I’m not very good at telling other people’s stories.
It occurred to me then that I’d never really told someone else’s story. I mean, not really—I’d told stories about other people, sure, but they were heroes of myth and legend, or they were bit players in stories in which one Heloise the Bard, adventurer nonpareil, was the star. I hadn’t told a story in which I’d played a supporting (and not very supportive) role.
It’s not that I have a big ego, mind you—after all, I was once named “Miss Modesty” in the famed Florcester Centarian Beauty Pageant (which I also won, incidentally, but that’s neither here nor there (though you should know that the Pageant only happens once every hundred years and features only the most beautiful humanoids in Erithea))—but, well, I’ll concede that I might enjoy being the center of attention. I mean, at least a little. Not a lot. I’m very modest, after all, having, as just noted, won an award for that very quality. But…
Nadi was right. My job wasn’t to make clever quips (though all good stories need someone who makes clever quips) and drop devastating bon mots; it was to tell the story of her adventuring band, and they really were starting to work together better, to function as a team. And, in their own way, to become heroes. I still didn’t think they had much of a chance against the dragon (and I didn’t particularly relish the thought of smelling Ratarian jerky flambé), but I was starting to have some faith in them. And, with a sense of duty and commitment that worried me a little because it made me think I might be maturing, I wanted to see it through to the end.
Which, of course, meant that I needed to do the thing I hate above almost all others: apologize.
“Nadi,” I said quietly. She didn’t hear me. I sighed. “Nadi,” I said, louder.
She turned toward me. “Yes, Heloise?”
“Can I talk to you for a moment?”
She shook her head. “I think that anything you have to say can be said to the group.”
I sighed again, louder. She was right, though. I was beginning to hate that about her.
Everyone gathered around me, save for Borg, who continued to keep watch on the tunnel (though it’s possible he just hadn’t started moving yet). “All right,” I began, “in an effort to be funny a few minutes ago—”