those very same friends. Thistle had never thought much about how he would die, but this seemed like a pretty good way to go, all things considered.
The demon advanced slowly, wary of the knife still dancing in Thistle’s hand. For all the broken bits of his body, Thistle’s hands had always been shockingly nimble. Truthfully, he credited luck, or the gods, for that last throw. He was talented, but that had been spectacular. Thistle moved back slowly and carefully. It wouldn’t do much good if he died before Grumph had a chance to pull himself up and escape. Though curious to check on his friend, Thistle didn’t dare turn away from the approaching monster. This was why he didn’t see Grumph making the strange gestures with his hand, nor hear him muttering something in his deep, half-orc voice.
There are precious few things that can draw the attention of a demon that has just had a dagger planted in its eye, but one of them, it turned out, was a freezing blast of ice magic striking it in the back. The cold was so intense that, for a moment, Thistle’s teeth tried to chatter, even being several feet away from the impact. The demon whirled around and Thistle couldn’t help but look too.
Sure enough, still slumped over, a swirl of blue magical energy dissipating off his fingers like fog in the sun, Grumph was looking at the demon with an expression of triumph. Thistle didn’t even have time to wonder what had his friend so happy as the demon immediately charged. That made it clear: the big idiot was trying to save Thistle, while Thistle had been trying to save him. The futility of it all would have made Thistle stamp his misshapen foot, if there’d been time.
The gnome’s brain kicked into high gear, immediately assessing the situation. He had no hope of getting between the half-orc and the demon in time; the monster’s back was to him, so another eye shot was out of the question, and he doubted verbal taunts would draw its ire more than the ice spell had. Since he was out of any practical options, all that remained was banking on the impossible.
“Grumble,” he prayed, lifting up his remaining blade and taking aim at the moving demon’s spine. “Though I know I am not actively henching right now, I would still dearly appreciate any assistance you’d be willing to give.” A strange tinkling sound, like bells he’d known in childhood, filled his ears, and Thistle let the dagger fly.
It struck the demon square in the back, though it did not sink in and sever the spine, as Thistle had hoped. Instead, it continued onward, carving through the demon’s bones and flesh and exploding out the other the side in a shower of muscle and blood. The goblin knife had somehow left a hole in the demon’s chest so large that Thistle and Grumph were able to make eye contact through it. The demon fell down dead, and the knife clattered to the ground some feet away, tendrils of white smoke rising off it.
For a moment, there was only silence between the two, neither one certain of what to say in such a strange situation. Then, a cheer went up from the center of the camp as the goblins killed the final demon. The outpouring of elation was enough to loosen Thistle’s tongue, just a bit.
“I might need to buy some of these daggers before we go,” he commented, moving toward the blade that was finally beginning to cease smoking. “That is some fine craftsmanship if ever I’ve seen it.”
Grumph snorted in agreement, then set about the cumbersome task of getting himself off the ground.
8.
It was several hours before the chaos finally gave way to some semblance of organization. The warrior goblins conducted a thorough sweep of the perimeter, ensuring no other demons were waiting to ambush them once their guard was down. Non-warriors and children were brought back into camp and immediately herded to the most fortified buildings still standing. The fires were put out, and the corpses of the fallen were gathered in a
The demon advanced slowly, wary of the knife still dancing in Thistle’s hand. For all the broken bits of his body, Thistle’s hands had always been shockingly nimble. Truthfully, he credited luck, or the gods, for that last throw. He was talented, but that had been spectacular. Thistle moved back slowly and carefully. It wouldn’t do much good if he died before Grumph had a chance to pull himself up and escape. Though curious to check on his friend, Thistle didn’t dare turn away from the approaching monster. This was why he didn’t see Grumph making the strange gestures with his hand, nor hear him muttering something in his deep, half-orc voice.
There are precious few things that can draw the attention of a demon that has just had a dagger planted in its eye, but one of them, it turned out, was a freezing blast of ice magic striking it in the back. The cold was so intense that, for a moment, Thistle’s teeth tried to chatter, even being several feet away from the impact. The demon whirled around and Thistle couldn’t help but look too.
Sure enough, still slumped over, a swirl of blue magical energy dissipating off his fingers like fog in the sun, Grumph was looking at the demon with an expression of triumph. Thistle didn’t even have time to wonder what had his friend so happy as the demon immediately charged. That made it clear: the big idiot was trying to save Thistle, while Thistle had been trying to save him. The futility of it all would have made Thistle stamp his misshapen foot, if there’d been time.
The gnome’s brain kicked into high gear, immediately assessing the situation. He had no hope of getting between the half-orc and the demon in time; the monster’s back was to him, so another eye shot was out of the question, and he doubted verbal taunts would draw its ire more than the ice spell had. Since he was out of any practical options, all that remained was banking on the impossible.
“Grumble,” he prayed, lifting up his remaining blade and taking aim at the moving demon’s spine. “Though I know I am not actively henching right now, I would still dearly appreciate any assistance you’d be willing to give.” A strange tinkling sound, like bells he’d known in childhood, filled his ears, and Thistle let the dagger fly.
It struck the demon square in the back, though it did not sink in and sever the spine, as Thistle had hoped. Instead, it continued onward, carving through the demon’s bones and flesh and exploding out the other the side in a shower of muscle and blood. The goblin knife had somehow left a hole in the demon’s chest so large that Thistle and Grumph were able to make eye contact through it. The demon fell down dead, and the knife clattered to the ground some feet away, tendrils of white smoke rising off it.
For a moment, there was only silence between the two, neither one certain of what to say in such a strange situation. Then, a cheer went up from the center of the camp as the goblins killed the final demon. The outpouring of elation was enough to loosen Thistle’s tongue, just a bit.
“I might need to buy some of these daggers before we go,” he commented, moving toward the blade that was finally beginning to cease smoking. “That is some fine craftsmanship if ever I’ve seen it.”
Grumph snorted in agreement, then set about the cumbersome task of getting himself off the ground.
8.
It was several hours before the chaos finally gave way to some semblance of organization. The warrior goblins conducted a thorough sweep of the perimeter, ensuring no other demons were waiting to ambush them once their guard was down. Non-warriors and children were brought back into camp and immediately herded to the most fortified buildings still standing. The fires were put out, and the corpses of the fallen were gathered in a
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