Goblin Slayer

Before Dwarf Shaman could call out, the new girl—the king’s younger sister—had trotted over like a tiny bird. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she peered into the gap…

“Eeek!” she cried and fell on her behind to cackling laughter from the elf. Dwarf Shaman scowled again and tried to jab her in the side, but she dodged him artfully—and triumphantly.

No, no, this didn’t even count as being rude.

§

As the festival drew closer, the town’s nights grew busier. It might not be as impressive as the water town, but as far as the western frontier went, this town was the place to be. The crowds, which had thinned out as winter approached, began to swell again, helping the streets feel warm figuratively if not literally.

Heavy Warrior’s hulking form could be seen among the crowd, albeit without his broadsword or armor. He walked carefully, so as not to run into anyone. That would be downright uncouth. Neither, though, did he walk as if he were in a dungeon looking for traps. Today was a day off. In other words, he was enjoying the anticipation of the festival just like anyone else.

There was still a while to go, of course. There were no shops set up and all too few decorations. Still, these moments as anticipation built in the air had a pleasure all their own.

Heavy Warrior worked his way through the easygoing bustle until he found the bar he was looking for. He hadn’t been to the Dear Friend’s Ax that many times, but it was where he went at moments like this. He pushed open the door, soft orange light filling his vision, the burble and hum of the place greeting his ears. The bar was doing brisk business, and setting foot inside was like stepping into another world.

“My friends should already be here,” Heavy Warrior said to the harefolk waitress who came to greet him. He hardly even had to search for them: They, like he, always stood out.

There, over at the round table.

“Hey. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“All good.”

“It’s not a problem.”

Spearman waved at him. He looked handsome as usual but didn’t have his enchanted spear with him; instead, he carried only a sword at his hip.

Guess it’d be a little funny to be here in full gear…

Unless, of course, you were tonight’s host, Heavy Warrior’s eccentric friend in the grimy leather armor and metal helmet.

Heavy Warrior sat down, the chair creaking under him; the table was already laden with food and drink. They’d started without him. Heavy Warrior, though, saw no reason to complain. “Sure you don’t need to head straight back home tonight?”

“Home,” the helmeted man repeated clumsily, then shook his head. “I’ve spoken with them. No problems.”

“Yeah? Fine, then.” Heavy Warrior called over a waitress—this time it was a well-endowed centaur—and asked for wine and meat. How could you have a good conversation without victuals?

As the waitress walked away (
clop, clop, clop
), Heavy Warrior settled into his chair.

Spearman grinned at him. “Her butt?”

“Jackass.” His friend was a capable warrior, but he had a flippant side as well. Some women liked that and others didn’t, but overall, there were probably more of the former than the latter. It wasn’t an issue of good versus bad; Heavy Warrior just wasn’t cut out to live that way. Sweeping his spear this way and that, a beautiful woman on his arm, and ahead of him some ancient ruins or a legendary monster. The bards’ songs didn’t lie. Surely some became adventurers, inspired by their example.

And…maybe mine, too?

Not to be immodest, but Heavy Warrior had heard the occasional troubadour sing a song about him. Although it had been some nonsense about a cursed warrior in jet-black armor making havoc. Female Knight had made a range of comical faces at that, but he remembered it fondly. Thinking back on it, it had been a powerfully moving experience the first time they’d heard someone sing a song about their own party. Some people might have sneered at the song or walked by without paying it any mind, but so what? Heavy Warrior, he’d had the thought that maybe now his adventures would be told ten or even a hundred years later.

The man sitting in impenetrable silence across from him—probably waiting for Heavy Warrior’s food to arrive—was the same. Goblin Slayer, the brave warrior of the frontier. As his nickname suggested, even in the songs, he hunted goblins. Albeit the lines about him wielding a truesilver sword were pure comedy.

His high elf companion, though—she’d been bragging that they’d run into a red dragon out in the desert. Heavy Warrior had tried to wheedle Goblin Slayer into telling him about his “dragon-slaying” adventure, but all he got out of the guy was that he had not, in fact, slain it.

He’s the most conspicuous of any of us…

Three men, three different ways of life. They each had their own path to walk, but it was undoubtedly Spearman who had made himself the most famous. Years ago, Heavy Warrior might have been jealous of that or felt a rush of competitiveness or hostility at the thought—but not now. He knew now that no matter what other people did, it was up to him to forge his own legend. Even if Spearman were to fall from grace or be completely anonymous, it would have no effect whatsoever on Heavy Warrior’s achievements.

That indeed was one of the great strengths of Goblin Slayer, who just quietly addressed whatever was in front of him, one thing at a time. Call it virtue, if you wanted. But not caring in the slightest about what other people thought—that was what had shaped the man who sat before them now.

“You know, you could at least stand to take your armor off when you’re in town,” Heavy Warrior said.

“No, I could not.” The usual annoyingly brusque answer. An exasperated smile crossed Heavy Warrior’s face, but Spearman frowned.

“Listen, you’re a Silver, too. Get yourself some, y’know, magic items or something!”

“I have several.”

“I mean ones people can
see
! And they need to be useful. People are watching, you know.”

“I was told something similar before.”

“And you didn’t
do
anything about it! That means you’re not listening.”

“Hmm…”

Spearman and Goblin Slayer argued back and forth—well, really, only one of them was arguing. Every adventurer had their own way of doing things, so what was it to Spearman?

He just likes to butt in
, Heavy Warrior thought. Happily, it was at that moment when a mug and a bubbling dish were set down before him. “…Ooh, food’s here.”

They gave a hearty toast with their mugs, and each took a good gulp of alcohol. When it was chilly outside and warm inside, a nice cold beer was all the more tasty. Then again, alcohol and food were always tasty.

“So what are we here for, Goblin Slayer?” Heavy Warrior asked.

“You’re not gonna ask us to hunt goblins again, are you?” Spearman said with a sniff. “If that’s what you want, I’m too busy.”

“Mm,” Goblin Slayer replied, shaking his helmeted head from side to side. “No, that’s not it.”

“Seriously?” Spearman asked.

“I want you to accompany me in a tabletop game,” the cheaply equipped adventurer said, and then he produced a partitioning screen and a roll of parchment and put them on the table. On the other side of the screen, they could see what appeared to be maps, playing pieces, and dice.

“Huh,” Heavy Warrior said, ignoring the way Spearman shot him a look of wonderment. “Is this about that dungeon exploration contest?”

“That’s right.” The helmet moved again, up and down this time. Goblin Slayer informed them brusquely that this was to be a test. “I’ve arranged the traps and monsters…the goblins…but I want to see if they’ll work while there’s still time to adjust things.”

“Aw, you’ve got our receptionist girl to give you all the feedback you need. Right from her own mouth. Her own sweet, beautiful mouth!” Spearman sounded like he could hardly believe it himself. He was all over Goblin Slayer, his eyes growing a little wild.

“Save the drunken tirades,” Heavy Warrior said.

“I ain’t drunk!” Spearman howled. “I’m
mad
, dammit!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Is that so?” Heavy Warrior more or less brushed Spearman off, but Goblin Slayer appeared to take him quite seriously. “But ultimately I’m the one who decides what to do. As such, the responsibility falls on me.”

“…Tch!” Spearman rested his elbows rudely on the table and clicked his tongue.

One of Goblin Slayer’s virtues was that he was unwilling to foist responsibility on anyone else, least of all a woman. It might seem condescending to praise him too openly, but needling him about it would only keep them from getting anywhere. Heavy Warrior resolved to remember it as something to tease him about later and took a big gulp of his beer. “Point is, you want to play a game. Fine by me.”

“………Yeah, I got no objection.” Spearman managed to at least nod.

“I see,” Goblin Slayer said, letting out a breath. Apparently even he could get nervous. Heavy Warrior raised one eyebrow ever so slightly and reached over.

“Hand me one of those Adventure Sheets, then. Gotta gin up an adventurer.”

“Right.”

This must have been why he’d chosen a relatively large table. The three adventurers slid their meals aside.

Then there was the bustle. Someone trying to eavesdrop for details of the contest wouldn’t be likely to pick much up over the noise. If they’d set up shop in a corner of the Adventurers Guild to do their test, it would probably have just attracted attention. But this was…

Practically runner-esque.
Maybe Goblin Slayer should try an urban adventure every once in a while. Heavy Warrior felt the corners of his mouth lift into a smile. The man would no doubt say he wasn’t cut out for it.

Now, how’s this gonna go?
It had been a long time since he’d last played a tabletop game.
I’ll have to keep my wits about me.

There were four basic classes: warrior, scout, priest, and wizard, along with a variety of other skills and jobs the world had to offer. You had to think about the overall composition of your party when picking a class. Especially today, when the party was only the two of them. It would depend somewhat on what kind of adventurer his partner came up with, but he suspected a spell user or scout would be necessary…

So maybe a scout—or a priest who’s a disciple of the Trade God. Or no…

Maybe a rogue who could use magic, like the famous Gray Mouser. An excellent example to follow. Trying to dream up a self who wasn’t him was at once agonizing and thrilling. They could be a different race, have different abilities. They could be a different gender or age—but like him, they would still be an adventurer.

In the seat next to his, Spearman seemed to be enjoying himself as well, for he added: “Since we’re doin’ this, maybe I’ll try a dwarf…scout.”

“Hey, now,” Heavy Warrior said with a grin. “Do those really go together?”

There were probably more disadvantages than advantages in a dwarf scout. Dwarves weren’t known for their nimble fingers or for being light on their feet.

Spearman, though, simply replied, “Jerk. Nobody said only the perfect need apply to be adventurers.”

“Sure, fair enough.” Spearman was absolutely right, and Heavy Warrior accepted his remark earnestly. It was true, after all. Advantage and disadvantage, suited and not suited to a particular pursuit—those were based on other people’s standards. Who would let something as trivial as that determine whether or not they could be an adventurer?

“Spell user, scout, front row all filled, fireballs, miracles. A perfect party with all the fixings—and it only exists on paper.”

“You said it.” While Spearman scratched away with his stylus on the parchment sheet, Heavy Warrior lapsed into thought.

So what do I want to be?

It could be anything he wanted. Well, all right then.

He leaned over the table, grabbing a handful of dice, and as he rolled to determine his birth and whatnot, he said, “I’m gonna be an elf fighter. Spinnin’ and shinin’.”

“…That’s what I’m hearing, but it ain’t what I’m seeing.”

“A guy can decide how strong he wants to be, right?”

This time it was Spearman who said, “That’s true,” and nodded.

Heavy Warrior smiled, satisfied, and made some notes with his stylus, then looked at the man on the other side of the partition. “Say, Goblin Slayer. This dungeon isn’t gonna kill us if we don’t have a spell user or a scout, is it?”

“I don’t know.” This was the man who wouldn’t say a word about their stats. It seemed he was speaking the truth: He appeared to be thinking very hard about what might be coming. “That’s why I want us to try it out.”

“All right, works for me.” If he was going to ask sincerely for their help, then they would sincerely help him.

It took almost no time at all for these experienced adventurers to fill out their Adventure Sheets.

“Today is a good day to get wiped clean off the map,” Spearman, the first to finish writing, said with a furrowed brow. “I can guarantee any dungeon of yours is gonna be one brutal affair.”

“Well, try, try again. Maybe he’s been nicer than you’re assuming, and we’ll just waltz right to the end—you never know, right?”

This was a test session, after all. They would need to approach it with a number of different party makeups. But there was one thing above all others they would need to be careful of. Heavy Warrior looked at his completed sheet in satisfaction and jabbed Spearman with his elbow. “Try to act like a novice, eh?”

“I’m not stopping to swing a damn ten-foot pole around every step.” Spearman harrumphed. Then he picked up the dice. “Okay, game on. You ready, Goblin Slayer? No fair making the monsters act, you know, funny.”

“I intend to make them act like goblins.”

“Can’t trust this guy…”

Heavy Warrior laughed out loud at the exchange, then took a swig of beer and a mouthful of boiled potato. “Okay, brothers, let’s do this.”