Goblin Slayer

After the roar and the rush of hot air had passed, only the blackened, smoking floor was left behind. This new stain on old stone—well now, was it a five or six?

An elegant foot stepped onto that spot, and Witch’s face relaxed into a lovely smile. She held a short staff of wood, the metalwork on it glowing with magic power.

“I knew this…would come in handy…”

“Yeah, but ain’t this a little boring?”

Witch put the Fireball Wand away while Spearman grumbled. When you walked into a room full of squirming, amorphous monsters, but you had the initiative, there was only one thing to do. A good old-fashioned Fireball spell. Any adventurer worth their salt knew that.

Adventurers didn’t have unlimited strength and endurance, after all. Even on a basic hack and slash, you had to conserve your resources. Open with a big ball of flame, then pile into the room and stomp whatever was left. Spells were likewise a limited resource, though—and that was why magical items like this were so useful.

That first spell I learned was for attack
, Spearman thought as he entered the room, scanning the area and keeping Witch behind him for safety.

There was Thunderwave, which sent electricity rippling in every direction, and Shatter, which unleashed a shock wave. Lots of perfectly good spells for magic users: stuff those Rainmakers and wind herders never even dreamed of. He knew from experience that magic was a lot more than just lobbing fireballs and slinging lightning bolts, but still…

Wouldn’t blame anyone who thought that stuff was awfully cool.

He gave Witch the all-clear signal, motioning her inside. She immediately walked in without the slightest hesitation, as she placed her complete trust in him. Her voluptuous body’s movements when she walked were reminiscent of a lady in the ballroom. How appropriate: It made Spearman’s heart dance, the way she appeared totally aware of her own power.

“So what is it we’re after again?” He certainly wasn’t asking because he’d forgotten the objective of their adventure or hadn’t been paying attention to the quest.

“Good, question… I believe it, was…a medicine that bestows, immortality.”

She was perfectly eager to talk about this subject—he’d heard that most mages were. Anyway, there would have to be something wrong with him for him not to listen to a beautiful woman who was speaking to him personally.

“Immortality, huh? Sure that’s not bullshit?” Spearman hardly believed it. As if the gods would allow such a thing to exist. They would never permit something that would so completely upset the balance of the scales. How could they? True, some extremely advanced necromancers and the like quit their personhood and became undead. But even lichs could be destroyed. If you wanted to kill them badly enough, you could do it.

“If it were, true…it would be, trouble…I guess.”

“So we’re here to find out. Makes sense to me.” He headed toward the hallway to the next room, stepping on the scorched tile as he did so. However much the story might strain credulity, the quest giver wanted them to see what was in here, so that’s what they would do. It wouldn’t be very adventurer-y to quibble about the logic of the tale. As long as money equal to the task was on offer, a real adventurer had just one response to any request: “You’ve got it!”

That was how Spearman always aspired to act, but now he asked Witch, “What do you make of it?”

“Another…good, question,” she said, her heels clicking on the stone. “I think it should be…fine.”

The hallway was dark, too dark for human eyes to see easily. Spearman reached into his bag and came up with a palm-sized sphere that he tossed into the gloom. It began to glow faintly—it was something he’d acquired on an earlier adventure, a glass orb filled with lightmoss. It wasn’t some important magic item, but it was helpful often enough that he considered it a treasure. Not every magic item had to be an enchanted spear, after all. More than one adventurer had blown themselves to pieces when they accidentally wandered into a gas-filled area with their torch lit.

Just suppose…
, Spearman thought as he drifted through the dark corridor, grabbing up the ball of light as he went. Suppose he were to die at this very moment. Would “the Frontier’s Strongest” go down as another adventurer who was killed by a stupid mistake? Or would they remember him as someone who had carefully considered the situation, then acted knowing he was going to die?

Or perhaps—perhaps nobody would know where he was or what had happened to him, and he would go entirely forgotten.

All real possibilities.

There was no way for anyone to know what a dead person had been thinking or feeling in their last moments. Necromancers were sometimes said to hear the whisperings of departed spirits, but even that, one had to be skeptical of. After all, no one could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that those were the souls of actual dead people. For one thing, you often heard that the shock of death caused memories and sense of self to become fuzzy…

“Don’t see any problems,” he said.

“Ah…”

Without a scout’s abilities, Spearman had to rely on his exceptional physical talents. It wasn’t exactly fun, but it made things go a lot quicker than just complaining.

First and foremost, it was impossible to do everything alone. Nor was it necessary. Still… Here, pushing deeper and deeper into the ruins with Witch, he couldn’t help mumbling, “Having Other Self would sure be nice when you’re exploring.”

“Nice, yes. Yes, but…” Witch sounded unusually hesitant. She loved the ambiguous, roundabout pronouncements so characteristic of spell casters, but she was rarely at a loss for words.

Spearman cast a glance over his shoulder at his partner. “Don’t think you ever learned it, right?”

The wide-brimmed hat shook briefly from side to side. She knew it. But he didn’t remember ever having seen her use it.

“I don’t…like it…very much.” It was, she said, a most terrible spell. People thought it was a great thing to know. That it was “nice.” Everyone wanted to use it—but that wasn’t the kind of spell it was. She sounded like a woman talking about monsters under the bed or hiding in the closet, but Spearman only replied, “That right?” If Witch said so, then he had no doubt it was true.

“Besides…” Witch’s eyes flitted back and forth as if looking for the words in thin air, then she murmured, “Balls of fire…I
do
, like.” She pushed down the brim of her hat to hide her face.

If a smile happened to pass over Spearman’s lips, it wasn’t because of the childishness of her words. It was because the beautiful woman beside him had been so generous as to show him this innocent, girlish side of herself.

There was the famous story of that great, brave fae-magicker, who had cleared all the evil souls in hell with a single Fireball spell.

Or was that a thunderbolt?

Whichever, it wasn’t for a young boy to judge who had nothing but a spear on his shoulder and a fascination with heroes. He could understand: If you were powerful enough to cast Other Self, you would just want to use Fireball instead. Even if it did come from a magic wand…

“Something…the matter?”

“Nah, it’s all good,” Spearman replied the next moment. He’d learned a little magic (emphasis on
a little
), so he understood. Magic users—spell slingers—got that name because, well, they slung spells. But if you thought it was enough just to stand there and chant some magical incantations, then you weren’t controlling the spell; it was controlling you. Be it a fireball, be it a thunderbolt, or be it the smallest of magics as you lit your pipe…

None was better or worse than another. There was only learning the spell and using it; better or worse was determined by the caster.

“So what’ve we got next?” Spearman grinned as he kicked down the door to the next room. He hoped it wouldn’t be all fireballs. He wanted a chance to use his spear.