Though they didn’t believe him at first and only pretended to after he bought everyone a round, after a few guys went out to check the graveyard and confirmed that the mist was finally gone, a real celebration broke out. There had been a few tentative celebrations last time when the unexplained fireball had burned away whatever it was that haunted the graveyard for a few weeks, but since no one had claimed credit, it had never been more than hope.
This news, though, spread like wildfire. Simon had just been hoping to brighten the night of the few regulars he recognized in the common room, but as word spread, the place filled up to standing room only, and he was forced to tell the story again and again.
People were feeding him free drinks for hours, and by the time he’d drunk enough to take some liberties with the truth, adding Blackheart’s wraith to the story, along with a part where he thrust his sword into its obsidian heart when the city watch’s Marshall showed up.
For a moment Simon thought that he was in trouble, but the man instantly joined in the celebrations, congratulating Simon for lifting the curse, and telling him, “The King himself will probably want to hear the story himself tomorrow, when news gets around, so I hope you’re ready to be drowned in gold!”
Simon toasted to that, but truthfully, he didn’t need any more riches than he already had, and if he was offered a fortune he’d gladly give it a way to a worthy cause. It wasn’t like he was going to start carting a backpack full of gold around with him. Truthfully the backpack would be the most important part of that arrangement, and he’d only just purchased one he liked.
He expected the one he had to last the rest of his life. That thought was enough to make him smirk as he listened to another man tell him about all the heroes who had died in the night trying to claim the reward. It was morbid humor and hardly a joke he could share, but his lives didn’t tend to be that long these days, especially not when he was coming up on the dragon level again.
Simon doubted he’d survive that one, but he hoped that this time, he could at least get a better lay of the land. He didn’t brood on that too much, though, or the premature loss of the artifact he’d destroyed. What really mattered was that he’d defeated this level cleanly, and he knew how to do it again pretty easily in case it reset on him.
Simon enjoyed the rest of his drunken evening, though not so much that he let one of the beautiful barmaids join him in his room and congratulate him personally. Maybe if the caravan guard or one of the other ladies had hit on him, he would have gone for it, but a barmaid hit a bit too close to home.
He did spare himself a lesser word of cure to remove the alcohol from his system. Only when he sobered up that he realized that this was one of the first times anyone had treated him like a real hero. Various villagers had thanked him for his help of course, but this was the very first time he’d slain a monster and there had been a true outpouring of gratitude. It was probably the best quest reward he could have asked for.
His minor miracle was enough to spare him a hangover in the morning and let him get an early start on the day. Simon didn’t have much in the way of clothes in this life. Nice was out of the question. But, he brushed up his armor as best he could and paid a copper or two for a bath and a shave, and by the time his face was smooth and he felt clean, a herald was sent to collect him.
Darndelle wasn’t as nice as Leipzin, which was the large city he was most familiar with to the north. That said, it looked a lot nicer from the back of a gilded and upholstered carriage, and Simon was happy for the attention as a growing parade made its way to the castle.
There, he was met by a number of functionaries. The priests confirmed he’d been to the temple on more than one occasion, the archivist confirmed that he was the man to find the grave’s location the other day, and a couple quiet men with white beards that he was fairly certain were some kind of court wizard glared at him hard enough that he was fairly sure they could see whatever darkness was in his soul.
They said nothing, though, and after his identity was confirmed, and he was made to swear on a holy symbol that he wasn’t a warlock, he was escorted into court. There, he found dozens of nobles and, of course, the King and Queen.
Simon didn’t quite know what the protocol for this sort of thing, but as they read of his name as “Sir Simon of the Northern Lands,” he stepped forward and knelt deeply. Most problems like this could be solved with a quick display of humility in his experience.
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“Rise,” the King commanded before following up with, “He does speak our language, doesn’t he?”
“I do, Your Majesty,” Simon smiled as he stepped forward.
The King gestured, and a different herald stepped forward to read another proclamation. Today was declared a holiday, and all subjects were to thank the gods for their deliverance.
Simon stood there stiffly, noting the fine print that no reward would be given until the mist had been gone for a year and a day, but that didn’t bother him. He’d be gone long before that.
Afterward, a banquet was held in his honor. He was given a seat at the high table next to the King’s own heir, and he was asked to regale everyone with the story of his victory. Simon had only had a single glass of watered wine by that point, so he stuck to a version that was mostly the truth.
He told everyone that after finding the true name of the Blackhearted one, which he dared not repeat, he went to the graveyard and summoned the creature before destroying it utterly in the light of the setting sun. When he was asked for proof, he offered to draw a sketch of the heart but said that as soon as the wraith was defeated, it crumbled to dust.
One of the young men asked if he’d used magic to defeat the thing, but Simon merely laughed. He undid his sword belt and passed the man the scabbard as he said, “If I had magic, I assure you I’d be able to afford a nicer sword.”
Everyone laughed at that, but Simon continued. “The only magic I possessed was research. There’s a great power in words, especially in learning the names of evil!”
Everyone agreed with that, though only one of the gray beard from earlier seemed to understand his joke about the power of words. The man chuckled dryly, which moved him right to the top of Simons list of people that he wanted to get to know better. Unfortunately, by the time the feasting was done, the Kings advisor — Archiman as he was apparently called — had retreated to his own rooms and made it clear that he didn’t wish to be disturbed.
So, instead of seeing if someone could finally explain the nature of magic to him, Simon spent more time with the King’s family, and at the end of the evening, he announced that he was going to renounce the reward in its entirety.
“But Sir Simon,” one man gasped, “A chest of gold is a fortune!”
“Aye,” Simon agreed. “A heavy fortune, and I travel light. Use it for a good cause instead. A hospital, or an orphanage. Do something to better the lives of those that dwelt in the shadow of that curse for far too long.”
There was more drinking and more cheering after that, and when a couple of the ladies of the court snuck into the room he’d been given for the night, he was far too drunk to think that was a bad idea and far too smart to make himself sober. Thankfully, that night was a blur, and he woke up in the morning to an empty bed.
He probably should have been surprised he wasn't assassinated during the night, but really, he was too busy basking in the half-remembered afterglow to bother. It really was the best of both worlds. All of the pleasure and only a little of the guilt to go with it. He wasn't sure he'd ever gotten either of their names, but he hoped they'd had as good a time as he had.
Simon lingered for another few days, enjoying the town’s enthusiasm and basking in the adulation of the common people while he got his gear in order. Once he had everything he thought he’d need, including a paper mâché masquerade mask that he’d gotten because it looked somewhat like the devil on the upper floors, he made his way into the temple and forced the door open.
Beyond the door he could hear the sounds of music rather than screaming, which told him, that he wasn’t too late. Simon quickly donned his mask and then moved inside. He didn’t remember exactly how to get where he was going but as soon as he found the servant that stopped him last time, he said, “Can you direct me to the wine cellar? I’m running a little late for a private party there.”
“But guests are in the…” the man said, but he stopped talked as soon as Simon slipped him a couple silver pieces. Then he just nodded and said, “Right this way sir.”
Simon reached the cellar just after Kaylee had opened the door to the side passage that let the men in, and all of them turned toward him. He didn’t draw his sword yet. Instead, he looked down at everyone and said, “Why would you ever think that a bloodbath would help your cause?”
“Who are you?” a couple of the men shouted, but Simon ignored them, walking slowly toward the knot of men, trying to figure out who the mage was. He was ready with the words of fire protection on his lips, but he wanted to wait until the last possible moment.
When no one cast or attacked, he finally said, “I’m here for your confession. Tell me what’s happening here, and maybe this can be ended without bloodshed.”
Most of the men here didn’t have weapons. That made sense because they were all dressed as servants, and they’d stolen weapons previously upstairs. As he spoke they produced knives, broke bottles, and picked up planks. It was clear to him this wasn’t going to end peacefully.