Chelsea and Swindle

by James K. Pratt

  “No.” I didn’t like the idea.

  “No? What, we’ll beg? Maybe starve a little and in a week, if he is still alive, pay for the priest’s treatment? No. Tell me a better idea than that, but don’t just tell me no.”

  Though Swin did not speak much, when he did, he did it well.

  I’d planned on begging and maybe eating less for just a little while. And some of us could have raised more money by playing music on the street and having passersby drop coins. But twenty gold was a lot. We might not have raised it in time.

  “Fine,” I said. “We do it your way.”

  It was an easy job anyway, right?

  Chapter 6 Adventurers’ Guild

  We told Flick that he would be in charge for the next few days. He may have been annoying sometimes, but otherwise he was a good guy. I trusted him, and so did Swin.

  Our first stop upon leaving the orphanage was the Adventurers’ Guild Inn to hear the final details of the mission and to get a few things.

  We lived on a quiet street, but by the time I reached the King’s Road that led to the city’s royal gate, I could no longer hear my footsteps with the noise and bustle.

  Something was on my mind, and I had to get it out of my head. “You’ve talked with Dirk more about theology than I have.” Actually, I never talked about theology with Dirk, but I overheard Dirk talking with Swin several times. “What are Dirk’s beliefs?”

  “Dirk is an atheist. He believes in the nameless God.”

  An atheist? The term was more of an insult. Those who believed in the nameless God didn’t consider themselves atheist, rather, true atheists believed in no gods. The pantheon called believers in the nameless one atheists as an insult. Atheism was sometimes called “the superstition.” The gods must have figured that if these monotheists didn’t believe in them, then they may as well be atheist. Instead, they believed in one God—a God with no name. The nameless God was also called “the old God” because he existed before the pantheon showed up. Later, even if the term atheist was meant as an insult, some of the believers embraced the term. If the gods hated them, they took the insult with a bit of defiant pride.

  “Dirk’s an atheist? Why?” I asked.

  Swin leaned closer to me. “Dirk believes the gods are pretenders. Usurpers.”

  I knew the gods hated the word usurper.

  Swin continued. “The gods love power, and Dirk believes whoever loves power should never be trusted.”

  Would this nameless God of Dirk’s be any better? “Why then believe in this other nameless god?” I asked.

  “Because unlike the other gods, this one doesn’t ask much for itself and does not respect the powerful people like the new gods do. Instead, he sees through you to see your true character.”

  For a second, I wondered what that meant. “He sees through you to see your true character.” Then I realized he might be saying that this God favors those who are kind rather than brutes. But hearing him talk, I knew Swin well enough to understand that he wasn’t only telling me Dirk’s opinion, but his own as well. “You subscribe to this thinking, don’t you?”

  “A better question, Chelsea, is if you don’t like the gods, then why don’t you?”

  ***

  The Adventurers’ Guild Inn was quiet. Two men who I assumed to be adventurers sat at a table farthest away from the bar. Both were strong men. One had a pair of large scars on his cheek. They spoke in low tones, keeping to themselves.

  Morn greeted us. He had silver-gray eyes and barely any hair on his head. He unveiled weapons from under a cloth on his bar table. The man, unlike most of his patrons, was far too fat to do any adventuring himself. His sleeveless tunic revealed a series of scars hinting at days when he had been an adventurer too.

  He gestured at the half-dozen weapons, including short swords, a war hammer, and more exotic weapons like punching knives.

  “There shouldn’t be any trouble, but if there is, I recommend you take two weapons—one for close combat, one for long range. However, since you don’t have much training, if you can, run,” he added, looking to Swin. “You are not real adventurers yet.” Then to me he added, “I don’t normally give out armament, but Swin is a loyal friend. And you can keep the two of your choosing.”

  Looking at the weapon options, I thought about the fighting I might do. All I could think of was how I wanted to keep the enemy away from me. “Do you have a melee spear?” That might keep enemies away.

  “Yes, I will get it.” He left the room and returned shortly with a spear.

  I took that and a bow with twenty arrows in a quiver.

  “Good choices,” Morn said to me. “So, you know magic?”

  “Not really. I only know a few spells. Most of them have to do with light.”

  “How did you learn?”

  “Our orphanage was once a part of the monastic order that is still next door. Its library is on the second floor. At night, I climb the tree next to the order…”

  He laughed. “I see. My kind of wizard! Some of the best were not the brightest, and the best had little to no formal education. Smarts alone don’t make good wizards. Passion is the heart of knowledge and mastery. How many spells do you know?”

  “I know only five…” It embarrassed me to say I knew so few. “…and they are simple spells.”

  “And they are?”

  “I can make a cone of light with a wand. I can create an orb light and slowly, slowly move it with my mind. I know a shadow spell, which I figured out myself from the two light spells. The only two spells I know that are not light-related are the invisible hand spell and recreate sound.”

  Morn nodded thoughtfully. “Don’t underestimate those simple spells. Yes, shooting lightning from your hands is powerful. Yet, take your invisible hand spell for just a minute. That spell can create a distraction, like shaking bushes, so you can turn a guard’s attention just enough for Swin to take them out.”

  I nodded at how true that was. I was starting to see what Swin saw in this man.

  Swin took a sickle and a boomerang.

  Morn’s eyebrows raised. “Unconventional weapons, I see.”

  Swin just smiled.

  “One more thing before you go.” He pulled something from his pocket and unfolded it. Morn looked to me. “Here is a map. Burn it when the mission is done. Follow the instructions on the map, and when you get to this point…” He pressed his finger onto a tree stump in the middle of Morella’s Forest. “…read these words aloud. Since you know magic, you will be best for this.” He pointed to some writing.

  With that, we thanked him and left.

  A few minutes later, we passed by several banners of the four heroes who beheaded the orc chief Alquin. The royal family spared no expense with the banners. They were put together quickly with magical help.

  The team of four took on a tribe of one hundred orcs. Swindle looked at the hundred-foot-tall banners.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that you look up to humans who kill your kind?”

  Swindle smiled. “I am half orc, and I’m half human too. And in any case, our hearts’ dictate what kind of people we are.”

  But would Swindle’s role models look at him as an equal? I didn’t believe so.

  Chapter 7 Morella’s Forest

  By evening, we were six hours into our journey and deep in Morella’s Forest. This was a young wood; most trees were as wide as a strongman’s arm. In the shade, fireflies flew. We traveled a small dirt road that wound into the heart of the forest.

  “Swin, are you hungry?”

  “Yes. Been so for about an hour.”

  “We should eat,” I said.

  We stopped by the side of the road. It was not long before we had company.

  Three adventurers trotted up to our campsite on horseback. I could tell them apart from normal travelers, despite them not wearing armor. Their expensive weapons for warding off trouble were visible. The first one I saw was a stout dwarf with a clean-shaven face. A dwarf withou
t facial hair was almost unheard of. The wizard wore a robe. The others were in clothes meant for rough travel—dirty, but by no means rags.

  “Hello,” the dwarf said. “Do you mind if we join you?”

  “Please do,” Swin said. “We do not have much to share, but feel free to join us.”

  They did. Swin sat to my right. The dwarf sat directly across from me on the opposite side of the fire, with the others sitting on either side of him.

  “What are you two doing out here?” the dwarf asked Swindle.

  “We are from the guild— the Adventurers’ Guild.”

  “Ah. How many adventures have you been on?” His eyes fixed on Swindle while he pulled jerked meat out of a bag.

  “Um, this is our first,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t your parents—”

  “They’re dead.” We both said.

  He nodded as if to absorb that information. “You know why bards sing tales of adventure?”

  “Why?” Swindle asked.

  “The same reason we both have become adventurers.” Before he got to his point, his eyes fixed on Swindle. “Because we want to be someone we are not.”

  On some level, Swin idolized heroes because he wanted to prove something. Though he was a half-orc, he wanted to prove that he was every bit as good as any elf or human. But was I a friend going along with this adventure? Yes, the reason this adventure was happening was to help Dirk, but also because Swin wanted to be an adventurer. But should I encourage him? I had to admit, when I saw most orcs or half-orcs, all I saw was a brute. Could others see Swin for who he really was? I doubted it.

  The dwarf continued. “In the end, wanting to be someone you’re not isn’t wrong. It means you have hopes and dreams. But I must tell you, there is no dishonor in being a farmer, a blacksmith, trapper, or shoemaker. And many good people choose that route. I warn you, in a few short months you will have wished you changed routes in life and stayed the normal path.”

  “And why is that?” Swin asked.

  “Because, when the arrow stands in your chest, you will see your life pass before you. Then you’ll see the moments that led you to adventuring, and you will wish you chose the easy route. Or, if that’s not the case, the arrow will be in someone you love. And believe me, I have gone on adventures with people I hated, but when that arrow stands in the chest of someone I dislike, the feeling of hate is gone.”

  Swin did not speak.

  “Now do you want all that?” he asked. The question didn’t sound like a joke.

  “No. I just want to get enough gold to heal my friend,” Swin said. I knew that wasn’t the whole truth; just part of it.

  “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any. I wish you luck. And if we meet on the road ever again, please share your stories with us. I would like to hear them.”

  “We’ve haven’t heard your stories,” I said.

  “Maybe later. We’re off to the city before nightfall.”

  “If you stop by the Guild Inn, tell Morn you saw us,” Swin said.

  The dwarf smiled. “Will do.”

  And then they were off. The other two had never spoken the whole time.

  Chapter 8 Our First Dungeon

  A few minutes after the adventurers left, we continued on our way.

  I opened the map that Morn gave us. It showed Morella’s Forest. The notes in the corner said, “Stay on the path going west. After you find a large oak tree, turn off the path and go south. Soon you will find a large tree stump...” A picture of the oak tree and stump were next to the instructions.

  I felt watched as we trekked into the forest. Only a lone woodsman passed by us. Otherwise we met no one.

  “That’s the tree.” I pointed to an oak that stood as tall as a palace, its trunk as wide as three large men standing side by side. It looked just like the picture.

  “I see it. Once we are next to it, we turn south. It says we will find ‘…a set of four dead trees with a large stump in the middle.’”

  After fifteen minutes, we found four dead trees, leafless and bare of bark, standing over a stump the size of a table fit for a king and his guest.

  The stump was supposed to be the trapdoor, but I found no crack to suggest it opened.

  I flipped the map over to read the notes on the back. The granddaughter of the alchemist had jotted down words to recite that would open the magical trapdoor. Each phrase was meant to be said to a tree encircling the stump.

  “No watchful eyes can bind us,” I said to the first tree. Then to another, “No air of conscience can stifle us.” To another, “All questions that lead to answers set us free.” And to the last tree, “Of all binding of ignorance we are free.” Whoever came up with that magical pass phrase must have been drinking the fool’s wine, as the expression goes.

  The stump’s top parted from the bottom and opened like a trapdoor. Inside, steps led quickly into darkness.

  I looked to Swin. “I’ll go first.”

  “But what if there is a trap?” Swindle asked.

  “On the slim chance there are magical traps that the woman who hired us doesn’t know about, I can detect them. I’ll go first,” I said.

  Swin’s shoulders sank. “Fine, but I’ll be close behind.”

  I took a wand from my pocket and closed my eyes. I wasn’t able to do these spells without giving my full concentration. First, I thought of light really hard. I did this by thinking of a point of light as bright as the sun but, for this spell, it had to be only the size of a pea. Then I said the magical word for light. “Ohr.”

  I opened my eyes and my wand lit up.

  Before I made a first step, I aimed my wand’s light down the staircase. The cream-colored stairs went twenty feet down at a steep incline. Though the stairs were wide, each step was narrow, as if the people who built it had small feet. On the walls were red paintings of simple icons of men and horses. Down below, my cone of light caught upon a single desk.

  I stepped down, not speaking a word. I suspected that the old alchemist died of a heart attack, and I believed Swin thought the same. But I also worried that goblins or kobolds may have taken over his underground laboratory in his absence.

  Swindle followed a few steps behind me.

  As we reached the bottom, I spotted a shadow on the wall next to the desk. The shadow didn’t move, rather, it was a smudge on the wall. The shape of the black mark was that of a person shielding himself. I touched the shadow. Ash. I wondered if the alchemist blew himself up. That was the stereotype anyway.

  Swindle lit a torch and looked around. “How did he light the place up, Chelsea?”

  “Good question.” I looked around. Everything looked to be in place, but there was no light. “Don’t know. Let’s keep looking.”

  Near the bottom of the stairs, I saw another table. Books and finger-thin glass tubes filled the table’s surface. I had been told these tubes were the alchemist’s tools for elixirs. The book titles were: Commentaries on the Cities of Purgatory, Animus: The Nonliving and Mortal Shell, and Attachment and the Soul.

  Reading the titles, I realized, “Swin, this is not an alchemist lab. This man was doing necromancy.”

  Swin yelped.

  I spun around with my cone of light and found Swindle stepping back from a mirror that hung on a wall.

  “Who are you?” Swindle asked the mirror.

  I stepped closer to see why he spoke.

  “I’m the one who hired you,” said a woman in the mirror. A few steps closer I saw she was a girl, maybe nineteen, with a pretty, pale face and short, raven-black hair cut like a boy’s. She had a ruby clip in her hair. Behind her in the mirror I saw her lab that was, no doubt, miles away. “Have you seen any signs of my grandfather?”

  “No,” I said. “Well…we might have.” It was strange seeing a young woman in the mirror. I had heard of these things. Kings and wizards had them, and many rich did too. She must have been waiting for us to get here.

  “Take me off the wall so I can look around and see
what you’ve found,” the girl said. She could not leave her work, but she could have people come into the lab and guide their search with the help of the mirror.

  “What’s your name?” Swin asked, putting down his torch on the stone floor.

  “Mina.”

  Swin took the mirror off the wall and pointed it at the smudge.

  She blinked. “That’s not enough ash to explain my grandfather’s death. If it were my grandfather’s, I’d think there would be more. But it does appear to be his shadow.”

  “Then what is it?” Swindle asked.

  She did not answer right away. Fear weighed down her next three words. “I don’t know.”

  In a dark corner of the room, I found a door. The door would not budge.

  “Before you go in there, be ready,” Mina said.

  “We know it’s a necromancy lab,” I replied.

  “Did you go in there already?” she asked, confused.

  “No. What clued me in were the titles of the books.”

  Swindle finally forced the door open.

  I looked in and my heart missed a beat. It took half a second to realize what I saw. In the room were three tables. On each were things deformed by undeath. Their skin had shriveled up and hugged tightly to muscle and bone. Their front teeth protruded beyond the lips a few inches. I had read about these creatures. Ghouls.

  “These were killed by adventurers, and my grandfather paid for them. And relax. Necromancy has been legal for three years.”

  “Laws make everything okay,” Swindle said.

  “Thanks, orc.” Mina said.

  “Half-orc.”

  I gestured for Swindle to shut up.

  I didn’t want to enter the room, not with those undead creatures cut open and lying about like that. I understood they were…um…dead-dead—well, undead-dead—but still I didn’t want to step into the room if I didn’t need to. I needed to do another spell, a much harder one than my wand-of-light spell. I told everyone it would get dark since I could only have one spell working at a time and Swin’s torch was on the floor not doing much good.