“A very poor effort,” interjected Nadi.
This time, it was my turn to glare, but she just shrugged. “Fine. In a very poor effort to be funny a few minutes ago, I suggested that the challenges that remain ahead of us—namely, the minotaur and the dragon—will be tough...which is true.” I looked pointedly at Nadi, who tilted her head slightly to concede the point. “I also suggested that this hearty group had made some less-than-excellent decisions along the way that resulted in a longer road than was necessary.” Nadi started to speak, but I held up my hand. “Let me finish. Sure, we probably could have done things better—but, hey, that’s true for all of us in life generally.”
“Speak for yourself, lute licker!” retorted Whiska.
“I’ve never once licked my lute.”
“That’s not what I heard,” muttered Whiska.
“From who?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
Whiska looked away and said something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “your mom,” but I didn’t press her on it.
“What I’m trying to say is that, well, look—I’ve been around.” Whiska’s eyes lit up. “Not like that,” I said before she could say anything. Then, I shrugged. “Maybe a little like that. The point is, I’ve met a lot of adventurers—some of them were successful, but most of them failed spectacularly. Why? Because adventuring is hard. Really hard, and it’s kind of insane. I mean, who honestly thinks it’s a good idea to walk into a dragon’s lair for kicks?”
“Not for kicks,” said Whiska solemnly. “For treasure. A fecal ton of treasure.”
“Even for that reason, it’s an absurd thing to do,” I replied.
“If this is your big, inspirational speech, you might want to kick it up a notch,” said Rummy politely.
“I’m getting there. I need to set the stage. I’m a storyteller, remember?”
“You’re the professional,” replied Rummy amiably. “Continue.”
“Absurd though it may be, someone has to do it, or else good folks suffer and die. So, anyone who decides to take up the adventuring mantle is a hero from the start in my book. Even if they get killed by goblimites their first time out.”
“What are goblimites?” asked Nadi.
“Really tiny goblins that are about the size of a squirrel,” said Whiska, “and about half as dangerous as one.”
“Yet, I know an adventuring group that was killed by some,” I said.
“Really?” asked Rummy. “Like, knew them personally?”
“I know of an adventuring group that was killed by some,” I amended.
“Think that really happened?” asked Rummy, looking around at the group. “I bet that’s just a story.”
“Fine. Whatever. The point is, adventuring takes courage, and you’ve all got that in spades. And, now that you’ve been through some scraps, you’re starting to show more than just courage—you’re showing competence. And chemistry. And charisma. And all sorts of other qualities that start with ‘C.’”
“Coitus?” asked Whiska.
“Not a quality,” I replied.
“Maybe not the way you do it,” she said.
“I’m not sure you want to challenge me on that one.”
“Goblimites are…delicious,” said Borg over his shoulder.
“Wrap it up, maybe, Heloise? We’ve got a minotaur to find,” interjected Nadi.
“Right. Look, I’m a little bit self-absorbed and I like to make fun of people. But, do you really think I’d be here with you now, hanging in on this crazy adventure, if I didn’t believe in you? If I didn’t believe you have the chance to do something special? The fact of the matter is that most adventurers don’t do anything great—they either quit or get killed before they do anything noteworthy. Actual epic, legendary quests are few and far between. So, to be on a quest to fight a dragon—and a minotaur to boot—alongside a group that I think is actually capable of defeating both of those creatures? That’s pretty much a bard’s dream.” I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you for letting me be here with you, and for the chance to tell your story. I know it’s going to be a great one—in some ways, it already is.”
Much murmuring ensued, the cacophony of polite noises people make when they want to say thank you but don’t really want to get into specifics or create any particularly emotional moments, which suited me just fine—emotions that aren’t rapture, joy, or derision make me uncomfortable.
After a few minutes, we gathered up our gear and set off down the tunnel we thought might lead us to the minotaur—and, after that, the dragon.
Chapter 23
TURNS OUT MINOTAURS HAVE A FLATULENCE PROBLEM (ONE OF THEM, ANYWAY)
After a while, Whiska’s map started to look like someone had plopped a bowl of spaghetti on top of a bowl of linguini. There were so many choices to make that we stopped trying to double back and apply any logic to our passage through the maze and started making directional choices based on who had the longest middle finger (Whiska, surprisingly—not Borg), the smallest feet (Rummy), or the silkiest, most beautiful hair anyone had ever seen (yours truly, naturally). We’d moved so far beyond hopelessly lost that hopeless would have been a welcome upgrade.
Rummy, of course, remained annoyingly cheerful, causing at least one of us to want to shove a long-heeled boot up his rectum (though all of us refrained from acting on that impulse, even if one of us surreptitiously sharpened the heel of one such boot just in case one of us decided to change her mind about not doing it). The rest of us alternated between grumbling and whining, and even even-keeled Nadi began scowling every time someone questioned our progress.
Telling time underground is a little bit like shaving a Borillian wiggle yak—difficult under even the best circumstances, but impossible without the right tools (and, frankly, not really worth the effort in either case—in the former situation, it doesn’t really matter; in the latter, wiggle yak fur is coarse and you can never really get the smell of the beasts—which is like pine tree mixed with milk vomit—out of it). It’s hard to say how long we stumbled around, but, based on consumption of our limited foodstuffs, at least a day and a half passed before our next notable encounter.
Tunnel goblins aren’t the most intimidating or skilled of foes, but they are fast, numerous, and persistent. It turns out they also happily throw themselves into confrontations even where they’re at an extreme disadvantage, as we discovered when a pack of them—around a dozen—ambushed us when we entered a small, low-ceilinged chamber somewhere around the time we finished the last of the dried cherries, which had saddened me (I love those things). Their shrill voices sang out gleefully as they rushed in, but their little swords and tiny clubs didn’t do much to Borg, who stood closest to where they entered the chamber. He paused, swatted two of them out of the way with one giant fist, and then reported, “I think we…are under…attack.” Pause. “By something…very small.”
Nadi leaped into action, her sword slashing, cutting, and thrusting, sending four of the goblins to an early grave (or, at least, incapacitating them to the point where they could no longer ineffectually punch Borg). Whiska shouted something in the language of magic and shot spectral, acid-tipped arrows into three more of the creatures, and even Rummy and I got into the act, mace smashing and dagger stabbing our way through a few more. Borg squished the last one with his foot and then laughed. “Feels like…stepping on…jelly.”