Goblin Slayer
The workshop boss drowsed at the counter with his chin in his hands. His eyes drifted open at a slight noise.
Now, this won’t do. Maybe I’m feeling my age.
Maybe it was a thief, heaven forbid. Or maybe the apprentice boy had gotten in good with that waitress of his. If so, then the boss could pretend to sleep awhile longer. He’d had his own escapades as a young man struggling to evade the notice of a pushy shop owner. Couldn’t have the lad slacking off, but everyone needed a good time now and then.
It was just like with iron: Heat it, beat it, and let it cool; that was the secret of good steel…
“Er, um…”
The voice was so small. It was the first time he’d heard it, but it sounded like hundreds of others that had passed through his shop. Uneasy, lacking confidence, but tinged with excitement—the voice of a rookie. Someone who was here without their parents knowing, maybe, or who had fled home and made their way to the armorer’s.
Were they here before or after registering at the Guild? It was a minor detail. How much money did they have? And how much would they put into equipment?
Did they know how to handle a weapon? What was their body type? What kinds of weapon and armor would that inspire them to buy? As both a professional and a salesman, those were the things that interested the boss. And thus…
Low end of the middle, I’d say.
The customer was a young girl, small and skinny. She shuffled around the shop like a lost child, hesitant and withdrawn. A long, straight sword rested in a weathered scabbard at her hip, the weight of it causing her to lean to one side. She seemed focused on how the sword hung at her hip, but from the slight clatter, it would seem the tip was also scraping along the ground.
In spite of all of that, though, she was still the low end of the middle. Not the low end, period.
The girl groaned quietly to herself, looked at some products and then at their price tags, and crooked her fingers, doing the math—and then her eyes went wide. Clearly troubled, she shifted to the right, then to the left, picking up and inspecting various merchandise before lapsing into thought again.
Question is, when should I break in?
Suddenly, though, the bell on the door jingled, and the girl stiffened.
“Well, now…” A sensuous voice drifted into the workshop. It was followed a moment later by a shapely leg, then a voluptuous body. The woman with her wide-brimmed, pointy hat and her staff looked at the girl as if seeing something very strange. It was hardly the evil eye, yet the girl reacted as if she’d been put under a hex.
It was too much to ask this complete beginner to withstand that look. Most of the men on the frontier all too easily fell under its spell. Only a select few could meet that witch’s wiles and remain unmoved—for example…
“Hey, something wrong?”
He appeared from behind the witch, as soundless as a leopard or a tiger—a dashing, handsome man. Given that he was dressed in full armor and carried his famous spear across his shoulders, they must either be on their way to an adventure or just coming back from one.
The spearman glanced around the shop, and when he saw the girl, small as a rhea, he bared his teeth in a grin. “A rookie, eh?”
The girl worked her mouth open and shut, looking like she could hardly breathe, but finally she managed just two words: “Not yet…”
“So you haven’t registered, but you plan to, right? That makes you a fellow adventurer—just a much younger one. Look forward to workin’ with you.”
This time, the girl really was lost for words; just nodding her head seemed to be a life-or-death struggle.
The Silver rank tag that hung from his neck; the faint gleam of his enchanted spear in the shop’s dim light; the way he carried himself. They didn’t know where this girl was from, but if it was anywhere on the western frontier, she would at least know this hero’s name. Perhaps his achievements weren’t as grand as those of
the
hero, but it was said that this man had never known defeat at the hands of any monster in this world. He had hunted every fiend, pursued every outlaw, rising rank by rank and earning the respect that would put the true shine on his Silver.
No simple braggard could be like this man. Nor anyone who was simply softhearted. They said he had even received an invitation once to join the Royal Guard—no telling if it was true or not, but it was easy to believe it of him. And now this brave warrior, this character from a fairy tale or a minstrel’s song, was looking forward to working with her! You couldn’t blame the girl for being a little tongue-tied. (He pretended not to notice Witch giving a smile as if to say
All right already
.)
At that point, Spearman abruptly seemed to lose interest in the girl. “Okay, then. Where’s the master of the house…?”
No, he hadn’t lost interest—but if she wasn’t going to say anything to him, then he had other things to do. He worked his way nimbly among the close-packed shelves, moving with a grace one wouldn’t have expected from someone wearing all that armor.
“U-um…”
That voice, that tiny whisper—hardly more than an intake of breath—stopped him in his tracks.
The girl stood there with her fists clenched, appearing to regret having said anything, but she was looking straight ahead. Witch chuckled and smiled, then crouched down so her gaze was level with the girl’s. The young woman inadvertently took a step back, bumping up against a shelf full of armor, huddling into herself with fright at the clatter.
“And what…might…you need?”
“A h-helmet…” The girl swallowed heavily. She was embarrassed by the sound of her own voice, so quiet it could hardly have competed with the buzzing of an insect. “I’d like to buy…a helmet.”
Witch didn’t say anything. Neither did Spearman. Sometimes silence could invite a person to continue.
“I think probably…I need it. I don’t want people thinking it’s just—just because someone told me to. But…”
She was worried that if she bought a helmet,
someone
would think she had simply taken their advice, but if she didn’t—and failed—she worried the same person would point and laugh. It was clear to see that the girl had arrived here only after thorough ridicule.
Can’t exactly blame ’em
, the boss thought. After all, most people would laugh if they heard this gangly girl child say she was going to be an adventurer. It wasn’t an issue of weighing the pros against the cons: They’d laugh the moment they heard her voice.
The simple fact that she hadn’t given up in the face of a little mocking already spoke well of her prospects as an adventurer. Most people would have thrown in the towel then and there. And it was usually the right choice. Because if you
were
the type to quit because somebody laughed at you, then chances were you wouldn’t survive adventuring.
“Do whatever you want.” Spearman’s tone was blunt, but it was his way of showing kindness. “You’re gonna trust that equipment with your life. There’s only one person who can take responsibility for that, and it’s you, eh?”
She might decide not to wear a helmet, only to have a goblin or a troll or a bandit strike her in the head and kill her.
She might decide to wear a helmet, then find her head attacked by an otherwise harmless Rust Eater and die.
She might decide not to wear a helmet, only to have a slime fall on her from above, melt her face off, and kill her.
She might decide to wear a helmet, only to have a slime fall on her from above, get inside the helmet, suffocate her, and kill her.
And then, whether she decided to wear a helmet or not, she might run into a red dragon and be scorched by its poison or burning breath—and die.
In each case, it would be the girl who would die, not whoever had pointed and laughed at her.
“They can say what they like, but they don’t have to take responsibility—and it’s exactly because they don’t have to take responsibility that they can say what they like. Doesn’t matter what you do.” Spearman followed this up with a quick snort.
The girl was silent for a moment, chewing the matter over; then she nodded a couple of times. “Um…”
“Yes…? What…?” Witch smiled slightly and peered into the girl’s face. This time, the girl looked squarely back at her.
“Thank you…v-very much.”
The scraggly girl said she would think it over some more, then bowed to the adventurers. The weight of the sword threatened to pull her clean over, but she managed to get herself upright. Next, she fixed her gaze back on the helmets, pacing through the shop once more. The little figure flitted from this shelf to that one. That was when the boss picked his moment.
“…Gods, get too old and suddenly you’re napping when y’don’t even mean to.” The shopkeeper fought back a yawn and fixed his one eye on the two adventurers.
“Napping? Hell, I thought you were dead,” Spearman quipped.
“As if you could be rid of me that easily. I’d keep selling if I were on death’s doorstep—and I haven’t even passed on the secret of good steel yet.” The shopkeeper took Spearman’s jab in stride. Joking went hand in hand with adventuring. But he had business. “So what’ll it be today?”
The likes of them were unlikely to need anything with the weapons and armor in his shop. About the only Silver-ranked adventurer around who bothered to buy anything from him was that one oddball. Which meant these two were after some other kind of equipment, but what?
“We’re going…far away. We’ll need…outerwear.”
“Seeing as we’re going to the trouble of shopping anyway, wouldn’t mind if it was newly made.”
There were, for example, enchanted boots that could ward off the cold and enable the wearer to walk on ice. But then, it was the way of adventurers to want to look good while they did their jobs. Not all of them wanted to go around decked out in magical accoutrements like a living winter solstice tree.
Besides, even the least-distinguished spell user could spot the sparkle of magical energy if they looked hard enough. Adventuring pros knew that when it came to spying or infiltration, magic equipment had disadvantages as well as advantages.
“You won’t find the capital’s latest fashions around here, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t care whether it’s trendy. Only care whether
she
likes it.”
“Well, some women would look good in anything.”
Witch gave him a happy grin—good gods, but that woman could smile. He had a sudden impulse to lower the price on whatever she wanted.
He told them to wait for a moment, then went to the storage room and pulled out everything that might qualify as an overgarment. There was fur and every other kind of material. Different styles and sizes. The shopkeeper laid them all out on the counter so Witch could choose among them.
It would be uncouth for a man to try to explain too much about women’s clothing.
Just need to answer anything I’m asked; that’ll be enough.
“Going far away… So yer not gonna be a part of this dungeon contest everyone’s all abuzz about?”
“I’m too mature to get my kicks showing up newbies and not mature enough to be a decent mentor.” Spearman flapped his hand as if waving the subject away. “Anyway, I’m sick and tired of
his
dungeon.”
“Heh, heh…” Witch laughed even as she picked up a piece of clothing here and there and held it up to her ample chest, occasionally draping something over her shoulders.
Spearman glanced at her. “Black’s never a bad choice, but white looks pretty good on you, too.”
It was that moment the workshop boss chose to scowl and say, “Hey, you don’t happen to know what my apprentice is up to, do you?”
“Aw, yeah, that girl at the bar dragged him off somewhere. For leftovers or some new concoction or something.”
“Well, if y’see the boy, tell him I’m looking for ’im, and I’m mad as a plucked goose.”
“Sure, if I see him.”
“
If
, indeed…”
Spearman grinned pointedly, showing his teeth. The boss ignored him, of course. His apprentice thought he saw through the old man, but he needed at least another decade for that.
“All, right… This one, if you…don’t mind?” After a good deal of consideration, Witch had chosen a white fur garment and was clutching it to her chest.
Spearman nodded, dropped some gold coins on the counter, then said, “A’ight, then. We’re off on a date-venture!” He strode out of the shop.
“…‘
Date
-venture.’ Pfah!” It was a ridiculous way to talk. The old man watched the experienced adventurers go, the bell jingling again as they left, then he let out a sigh. Gods, but he hated getting old.
Suddenly he found a memory drifting through his mind, an image of a couple of youngsters who’d come through his shop some years ago. One of them a pathetic boy who couldn’t read, write, or do the simplest math, who’d arrived from the sticks with nothing but a single spear and an empty head. The other a young woman who kept her face carefully composed, walked self-consciously, and grasped her staff nervously.
They were the low end of the middle.
Then he snorted, so softly that even the girl picking out a helmet didn’t hear him.