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  Like most such places not filled with those who fought magical beasts for a living, farming was the primary occupation of most of the town’s inhabitants. It was for this reason that the party’s weary horses set foot on land technically considered to be part of Briarwillow a full half-day’s plodding ride before they ever laid eyes on the town proper.

  Winding roads ran between fields dotted with half-grown wheat and corn. At first, it was an almost beautiful, homey view, but after the second hour every member of the group except Timuscor remembered why they’d never gone riding in the fields around Maplebark: the view got very monotonous very quickly.

  Despite not being farmers themselves, the adventurers did notice a few things that seemed out of place. Birds were gorging themselves unchecked, and masses of weeds were springing up in the fields at irregular intervals. It wasn’t exactly a dragon’s shadow flying overhead in terms of omens, but everyone did move their hands just a few inches closer to their weapons as they rode. Sick, weakened townsfolk made easy pickings for monsters and bandits. And given how far the rumors of Briarwillow’s struggles had traveled, it would have been folly to trust they were the first to ride its weakened roads.

  By the time the town finally came into Eric’s sight, his sharp eyes spotting the familiar outline of buildings as they crested a hill, he felt like his whole back was going to snap under the amount of tension he was carrying in it. Always braced for the attack that never came, always on the edge of a cliff that never fell out from under him, Eric realized he was either going to have to find a way to internalize his stress or buy a far more comfortable saddle; otherwise, he’d be hunched over like a broken tree in under a year’s time.

  “That strikes me as a bit odd.” Thistle had wormed his way around to the side, where he could gaze past Grumph’s back and get a view of the town they were heading toward. “Given how much neglect we saw in the fields, I’d expected to come upon a near ghost town. That place seems to be positively bustling.”

  Eric saw that Thistle was right in one quick glance. Dozens of people appeared to be milling about in the town square, with even more rushing about between buildings at irregular intervals. He strained his ears and could pick out the strangest selection of notes fluttering through the air.

  “Does anyone else hear music?” Eric asked.

  “Aye, picked that up a few moments ago.” Thistle might have the smallest, most misshapen body of the lot, but his awareness was second only to Eric’s. Unlike the human, though, it was a learned skill rather than a natural gift. Being a gnome with a crooked body and no talent for magic had necessitated that Thistle either stay constantly abreast of his surroundings or find himself in a deadly situation.

  “I kind of hear it now.” Gabrielle tilted her head slightly, golden hair falling down past her ears. “It’s . . . familiar. Sort of like the songs we played during the harvest celebrations.”

  “I do believe you’re correct,” Thistle said. “Which is all the more perplexing, as harvesting seems to be the furthest thing from what they’re doing in those fields.”

  “Maybe they’re celebrating people feeling better,” Timuscor proposed.

  “Maybe.” Grumph’s voice didn’t carry much hope, or if it did, it was the half-orc sort of hope that mostly centered on quick deaths and full stomachs.

  “You know, it is always possible that other adventurers came through here before us and fixed the problem,” Eric said. “We know better than most how many of them are out there. This could be the town celebrating being saved.”

  Thistle nodded, albeit slowly. “If that’s the case, then we best resupply, grab some quick rest, and get back on the road. Crowds are bad for fugitives, and I’m never one to trust the good mood after a curse is beaten. Seen one too many of them toss out an aftereffect as a parting gift.”

  “We could always just ride through the town entirely,” Gabrielle suggested.

  “Sadly, I fear our foodstuffs are a bit lean, and by all accounts it’s another week’s ride north to the next trading post. Unlike Solium and its density, Alcatham is a sprawling kingdom. We could turn west toward Cadence Hollow if we had to, though a city that size is something fugitives are best off avoiding.” No one asked why Thistle was familiar with this kingdom’s terrain. All but Timuscor knew the gnome had once traveled with a party of adventurers, so his curiously broad knowledge was simply dismissed as one of his peculiarities.

  “Perhaps we’ll get lucky and it’s just an honest-to-goodness celebration,” Eric said. “We had those all the time back in Maplebark.”

  “Aye, we did indeed.” Thistle said nothing more as he slid back into the saddle behind Grumph. It would take Eric—all of them, really—time to understand that more came with being an adventurer than mere danger and treasure. The very world seemed to react to the presence of adventurers differently, filling their paths with coincidence, plot, and potential death. Were they still simply Maplebark denizens playing at their roles, they might very well have happened upon a village’s earnest celebrations. But since they had accepted the mantles of their once-lies as truths, he strongly doubted they would have such fortune.

  Adventurers simply didn’t possess that sort of luck.

  * * *

  While Briarwillow wasn’t having a full-blown festival, there could be no doubt that a celebration was certainly under way. The town square was dotted with tables laden down by food and mugs of ale. A makeshift company of farmers who’d once dreamed of traveling as bards were gathered in the center, playing their formerly-stowed instruments with the fervor of those who are drunk on the joy of creating art. Shops had their doors wide open as people came and went, laughing with friends and strangers alike as the mood of the town seemed to virtually bubble with exuberance.

  “I don’t trust it,” Thistle muttered softly, words quiet enough that only Grumph could hear him. The others were smart, strong, and brave, but they lacked experience in playing things close to the vest. Until he knew the situation, Thistle was determined to keep his suspicions to himself. No sense in wrongly worrying the others, or in making them so nervous that they started trouble on their own.

  “Oh my gods . . . do you all smell that?” Eric was leaning so far forward that his ancient horse was bending slightly, its weary legs not ready for the shift in weight. “That’s food. Real, cooked food. Does anyone even remember the last time we ate something that wasn’t dried or hastily roasted above a fire?”

  “Grumph managed to make a stew about . . . let’s see . . . three weeks ago,” Gabrielle reminded him.

  “And delectable as that was, I think we can all agree it wasn’t a substitute for real, delicious cooking.” Eric pulled himself back into his saddle through sheer force of will alone. His senses buzzed with all the activity and his mind whirred as it calculated different places they might be attacked from. As much as he wanted, needed, to unwind and enjoy some real cooking, it was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

  “Seems to me there’s only one thing to do,” Thistle said. “Let’s stable the horses and see if we can trade these lovely people a few coins for some of that food.”

  “Shouldn’t we be more careful than that?” Timuscor asked.

  “Seeing as we have to buy supplies here anyway, we’re already working off the assumption that the food won’t be poisoned. Plus, everyone else seems to be eating it just fine. There is always the chance that they’re either all immune to an ingredient or too far gone to care, but trying to get past here without stocking up is going to have us risking starvation in the woods. If I have to court death, I’ll take the quick one over a lingering, painful experience.”

  “Only Thistle could make eating at a town we know was recently plagued by magical sickness seem like the rational choice,” Gabrielle sighed. They were quickly drawing near to the town’s actual streets; already, heads were turning and children were pointing at their approach. Whatever plan they decided on needed to be set before arrival. Since she trusted Thistle’s judgment, and
had no better ideas to offer, Gabrielle decided to follow the gnome’s instructions.

  “I see plenty of places to post the horses while we find out where the stables are. Should we split up and investigate?”

  “Much as I am loath to do so in an unfamiliar environment, I fear it may be the only way,” Thistle said. “Gathering information and supplies are our highest priorities, and handling them independently of one another will allow us to exit the town quickly, should the need arise.”

  “Grumph and I can handle getting the supplies,” Eric volunteered. One might have assumed that he was bringing the half-orc along as the designated pack mule, but nothing could be further from the truth. As the only one of them to have actually run a business, Grumph possessed the best knowledge of what items were actually worth and how to haggle the seller down to that number.

  “I can help carry things as well,” Timuscor volunteered. Although he had bravery enough to face a hoard of veilpanthers or a small dragon, Timuscor balked at the idea of having to talk with lots of people. His social skills had never been particularly well-developed, as his training had always centered on how to dispatch an opponent before they could kill him.

  “Which leaves Gabrielle and I to schmooze the townsfolk and uncover exactly what is going on,” Thistle said. He’d have preferred Grumph for a situation like this one, but Gabrielle made a solid backup choice. Her skill with the axe was growing every day, and years of pretending to be a polite, proper young lady of society had taught her the art of selling a lie.

  “Do we have a plan for if something is secretly amiss?” Eric asked.

  “I guess if we can run from it, we do, and if we can’t, we try to kill it,” Gabrielle replied. “You know, our usual.”

  “If that’s our usual, then we should really work on that first part. By my recollection, we seem to get drawn into the fighting more than we escape from it,” Eric pointed out.

  “Well, we are all relatively new at this,” Thistle said. “Now, everyone put on big smiles and act friendly. Whatever may be going on here, we’re far more likely to get answers as jovial travelers than suspicious adventurers.” To sell the point, Thistle leaned out from Grumph’s side and gave a merry wave to the children who were staring unabashedly at the approaching party. The adults were also watching, but they at least had the politeness to pretend they weren’t.

  The others followed his lead, donning large grins and greeting the villagers as they approached. Grumph was the only exception, as he’d long ago learned that a smiling half-orc looked more like it was baring teeth in preparation for attack rather than conveying joy. Instead, he pulled in on himself, doing the best he could to seem less physically imposing. It was a trick he’d all but mastered throughout his younger years, though he was a bit out of practice.

  Grumph had just about gotten it right as the horses’ hooves clacked off the worn stones of the town’s streets, signaling their true arrival in Briarwillow.

  * * *

  Stabling the horses proved to be a quick affair, as the rosy-cheeked young boy who took them cheerfully informed them that travelers had become all but nonexistent in recent weeks. The stories of a whole town driven ill by a mystical plague had sent those who were wiser and less desperate than Eric and his friends in alternate directions. There was no sign of illness in the lad as he leapt about, moving with an energy that almost bordered on manic. Within moments, he’d collected a few coins for his service and was leading the horses into a sturdy, well cared for barn.

  “Maybe it’s just me, but that did not seem like someone who’d been recently ill,” Timuscor muttered. He unconsciously adjusted his armor, along with the shield strapped to his back. As the only member of the party with formal training, Timuscor had ingrained habits that made certain his shield was always ready to grab and his sword was always in easy reach.

  “It’s not just you.” Eric glanced around the town, noting the bustling array of villagers. They were darting about hurriedly, wide—almost too-wide—grins plastered to their faces. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Still, I suppose this is better than a whole town of people at death’s door.”

  “Death has many doors.” Grumph began walking down the street slowly, making sure his movements couldn’t be interpreted by anyone as threatening. Eric and Timuscor followed behind, noting the exuberance that seemed to have infected every person they saw.

  The walk from the stables to a large shop that sold smoked meats was a short one, made a touch longer by the pains in their bellies that the drifting smells caused. Thistle had not exaggerated the shortness of their supplies, and the last few days’ meals had been little more than a few bites of stale bread and dried meat. Monsters and animals alike had grown scarcer as they drew near Briarwillow, a fact that everyone had noticed and no one had commented on.

  Eric took the lead, entering the shop and barely stepping aside in time as a gaggle of bright-faced children darted past him, hands filled with various meat treats. He then quickly found the shop’s proprietor, a wide man with the standard Briarwillow grin. The owner waved them over toward the counter with large, exaggerated motions that sent small droplets of sweat cascading off his arm. Eric was momentarily perplexed by the sweat, until he remembered the man worked around fire all day. That would drive anyone to shed moisture.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Eric greeted, for the sun was indeed on its downward slope through the sky. “We’ve come to see about purchasing some of your wares for the journey ahead.” Through trial and error, they had learned that having Grumph speak first could take people off guard, and be interpreted as unintentionally intimidating. Haggling worked better if they let someone else open the dialogue, see if the merchant charged a fair price. If they didn’t, then Grumph got involved, and there was nothing unintentional about his intimidation when he haggled.

  “Travelers, eh? We haven’t gotten any of your ilk for some time. Of course, that was when the plague beset us, so I can hardly blame you all for keeping a distance.” The man laid his sweaty palms on the thick wooden board that ran the length of his countertop. His face was slightly flushed, just like the stable boy. Just like almost all of the town’s folk, Eric was realizing.

  “You’ve got a touch of luck traveling with you, though. If you’d come three days ago, I’d have had almost nothing to sell. But then a miracle hit our humble hamlet. The plague broke, all at once; no doubt thanks to the intervention of the gods themselves. After we decided to celebrate with the festival, I started cooking up every scrap of meat I could find. Let me get you a few samples so you can see what you like best.” The man turned and began lumbering into the back, droplets of sweat falling down the back of his bald head.

  Something wasn’t right. Eric could feel heat coming from the back, but the man was sweating like he was standing over a campfire. And his skin . . . a flushed complexion made sense on a stable boy who worked in the sun. On a man who spent his life indoors, though, it was peculiar. Then there was the way everyone was acting. Too energetic, too cheerful. It was like the time his mother had taken ill and he’d caught her outside trying to box one of the sheep. In fact, they looked exactly like his mother had that day.

  “It’s a fever,” Eric said, quiet enough that he hoped only Grumph and Timuscor would hear. “That sickness didn’t lift at all. It just turned into a fever. And it seems like it’s infecting every single person in this town.”

  “I’m not a physician, nor a cleric, nor any kind of healer,” Timuscor said. “But I have to imagine that can’t be a good thing.”

  Grumph nodded slowly, letting the idea sink in. “Definitely not good. For them, or us.”

  Chapter 3

  Thistle had a bad feeling in his stomach. It wasn’t some strange pang of intuition making itself known through discomfort; there was no need for anything as subtle as that. He was keenly aware something was amiss, and after a few moments of gazing into glassy-eyes, too-wide smiles, and flushed faces, he’
d quickly put together that the “miracle” everyone seemed to celebrating was in fact little more than a new type of sickness.

  The bad feeling certainly wasn’t hunger either, as he had already helped himself to an array of dishes that were set out for the townspeople to enjoy, and had gone back multiple times for meat pies from a woman with great culinary talent. If he was going to get ill here, Thistle was determined to at least gain some pleasure from the manner of his infection. He was also reasonably certain that being a chosen servant of Grumble offered him a hardier constitution than most. At the very least, he’d been the only one not to get stomach pains after they let Timuscor try his hand at trail cooking during their travels. Then again, that could have been mere coincidence. Being a paladin didn’t exactly come with a handbook.

  Gabrielle seemed to be aware of the strangeness too, her hand twitching involuntarily whenever one of the grinning, slightly sweaty townsfolk drew too near. He knew she was resisting the urge to rest her hand on the axe strapped carefully to her back. In truth, Thistle had been holding out a slim hope that this town might have a still-functioning blacksmith, as the axe Gabrielle had lifted from the dead adventurer in Grumph’s tavern had taken quite a beating during their travels. Between the scales of the demons and the rough hide of a transformed wizard, Gabrielle’s axe bore many nicks and dings. She was the only one still wielding a pilfered weapon, although if it wasn’t repaired soon, Thistle doubted that would be the case for many more weeks. Sadly, it seemed her equipment issue would have to wait, as, at the moment, information trumped finding a smith.