Clara almost chose to give up right then and there. It seemed like something wanted to punish her, and the more she struggled the more was brought to bear against her. She knew that was foolish, though; she just had to persevere.
There was too much relying on her success, besides.
“Free me,” the Paladin said from behind her. “I can help you fight them.” She put his words out of her mind, trying to assess the situation.
There were at least two dozen goblins that she could count, completely encircling her and the Paladin. One in particular stood out to her, dressed in a garish robe of mottled purple and topped with a pointy hat of the same colour. The goblin bore a staff of gnarled wood that looked more like a fallen branch than anything crafted. At his side stood a goblin with a recognizably burned shoulder, whispering to the robed goblin and pointing at Clara.
Absurdly, it crossed her mind that she had never questioned whether goblins had wizards or not.
“Free me,” the Paladin repeated. Clara contemplated it this time. He was likely to resume attacking her once the goblins were dealt with, but she didn’t see any other way out of this situation.
“Fine,” she hissed at him, and snapped her burned fingers with a wince. The sorcerous bindings shattered into countless glimmering slivers that quickly dissipated and the Paladin stood up, the outline of chains burned into his armour.
The two stood back to back as the goblins thumped their crude weapons against the ground. The robed goblin shouted a command, and the horde rushed on.
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The first goblin died on the tip of Gideon’s blade, impaled as it tried to throw itself at the Paladin. He shook the corpse off in time to intercept a blow from another goblin’s chipped stone axe, answering with a riposte that carved a line of red in the goblin’s throat.
They were disorganized, unarmoured, and poorly equipped. Gideon doubted their weapons could harm him while he was still standing. The only thing they had going for them was their numbers.
Which were rapidly thinning, he noted, as he heard a gust of flame from the witch behind him.
The opportunity to think disappeared as the goblins surged in again, four of them flinging their bodies at Gideon. He started a slash that should have disemboweled one of them, but another grabbed onto his arm and blunted the attack, leaving his target with only a shallow cut.
He felt a weight land on his shoulders and a screech of triumph, but he tore his arm free and grabbed at the goblin before it could strike at his unprotected head, throwing the creature to the ground. He plunged his blade through its chest before it could rise. Stone weapons rattled against his mail, jarring him, but they were unable to puncture the armour.
He heard a shout of pain from behind him, and turned to see the Elwin girl being pulled down by two goblins. A sweep of his blade sheared the arm off of one of them, while her demon swooped into the face of the other and caused it to reel back, scratching at its head to no avail. The goblin that was missing an arm was dispatched a moment later by bolt of fire from Clara.
Gideon turned back to his side of the conflict. In the split second that he had looked away, two goblins tried to take advantage of his distraction by leaping at him. His blade rose up in time to cut one of them out of the air, but the other managed to strike a glancing blow across his brow with its stone club. He could feel blood trickle down, obscuring his vision.
Another stroke from the Paladin’s blade cut down the goblin that had managed to wound him, and he slew another goblin on the backswing. With so many dead at Gideon’s feet, the rest of the goblins were understandably wary, and they kept a safe distance.
The robed goblin started chanting something in its harsh tongue. The end of its staff began to glow purple as it waved the implement around in the air. Gideon started to rush forward to interrupt the goblinoid sorcerer before it could complete its spell.
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Clara heard the Paladin slump to the ground behind her in a clatter of metal. She whirled around, seeing the robed goblin with its staff raised, energy fading from the completion of a spell. She flung out her hand and a fireball followed, catching the sorcerous goblin in the head. His skull ablaze, the goblin danced around shouting for a few seconds before slumping to the ground.
The rest of the goblins grew even less organized upon seeing their apparent leader fall. Some of them outright fled back into the trees, as they had when Clara encountered them earlier. The others threw themselves back at her with frenzied vigour, perhaps angered by the loss of their leader.
Clara managed to catch one of their weapons with her staff, but two others landed on her back and arm, both drawing blood. Her arm ached, fingers still burning from sorcerous backlash, but she managed to raise it and direct a bolt of fire at one of the manic goblins. It was noticeably smaller than her previous attacks, drained as she was, but it still exploded against the goblin and sent it reeling to the ground, scorched and smoking.
She turned to one of the few that was left and spat a curse at it before it could renew its assault, causing it to spasm violently. It lashed out in a fit, catching one of its allies with an involuntary swing. The struck goblin dropped to the ground, briefly looking surprised at the betrayal before another gout of flame seared any expression from its face.
Clara leaned wearily against her staff, breath ragged. A moment passed before she realized there were no more incoming attacks, all of the goblins either fled or fallen. The one she had cursed lay on the ground unconscious, still twitching at random intervals. She slumped to the ground and closed her eyes, sweat dripping from her brow, and stayed like that for a several minutes.
Eventually she rose, body aching. She stepped over the corpses of the goblins around her and, after a moment’s hesitation, hissed an incantation at the unconscious goblin. The life was ripped from the unfortunate wretch in a stream of green and purple, and Clara felt some of her exhaustion melt away, her wounds closing. Her fingers still burned terribly, and it felt like the sensation was spreading steadily up her hands.
The Paladin lay sleeping on the ground, still afflicted by whatever the goblin had done to him despite the death of the sorcerer. Clara’s imp alighted on her shoulder as she stared at the slumbering man. He would be an easy target if any of the goblins decided to return, as they doubtless would at some point. It would be simple to just leave him here for the goblins to take care of. There wouldn’t even be any blood on her hands, technically.
But she had set out to prove that her actions weren’t affected by the demonic grimoire, hadn’t she? To prove that she could still do good, regardless of what powers she chose to use.
No one would ever find out if she just left him here, though.
Clara let out a deep sigh and stepped around the goblin corpses, reaching under the sleeping Paladin’s shoulders to start dragging him away.
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The Paladin was heavy, and Clara was fatigued. Nevertheless, she persisted in dragging him out of the forest. For the first time that day she felt lucky, as the woods gave way to open ground after only a short period of time. The muscles in Clara’s arms still screamed at her, though, and she could feel her burned fingers getting worse as time passed.
She took the Paladin out of the woods, and then some distance further before dropping him on the side of the road. He was snoring peacefully as Clara dropped to the ground, gasping. Her imp flew over and passed her staff to her, which she used to help herself stand up. Leaning against it, she contemplated the Paladin’s sleeping form. Even out of the woods, he might meet some misfortune as he slept the day away.
She pointed at him. “Guard him until he wakes up,” she commanded her imp. “Return to me when he does.” The demon swooped down and perched on the Paladin’s armoured chest, giving Clara a mock salute.
Reassured, Clara turned back to the road. She wanted to make it to Wayford before dark; looking at the sun’s position at the sky, she guessed that would only be a few hours. Despite her weariness, she started walking down the road.
The rest of the trip passed with a thankful lack of events. Clara saw Wayford from some ways off. It looked like a smaller town than Almerra, though it bore a similar palisade around it. She entered the town just as the sun finished its descent, her ragged appearance drawing a surprising lack of interest from the guards. “Are there any inns in town?” she asked one as she passed the gate.
The guard nodded. “For your type, I’d recommend the Drunken Pastor. It’s just down that way,” he gestured at one of the streets with a thumb. She thanked him and started down the street. She supposed that by ‘her type’ the guard meant adventurers. In her current state, she doubted anyone would mistake her for a noblewoman. If they were common in Wayford, it would explain the lack of concern about her bedraggled appearance; she expected adventurers streamed into town looking like that with some frequency.
The Drunken Pastor was a far cheaper establishment than Clara would have preferred, a squat and ugly building that was poorly furnished and seemed to creak with every gust of wind, however minor. By the time she reached the inn she was too tired to care, though, and had little coin to spare at the moment besides. It had separate rooms instead of bedrolls in front of the hearth, at least.
Her conversation with the proprietor was lost to fatigue, and she barely registered reaching her bed, little more than a pallet stuffed with straw. She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.