by Deck Davis
I’ve done something bad, and I need a spiritual cleansing.
Some people were scared of her but Kordrude had nothing but fond memories of her, because despite the sinister arura of her class, she was just a grandma to him. A wise old bird who always had a smile saved for when she saw him.
It was from her that Kordrude had learned witchery as a secondary class, though he’d never progressed to level 2. Past the novice stage, advancing in witchery required the slaughter of animals and you had to do things with their blood, and that had always turned his stomach.
Here he was, years after he’d last used witchery, preparing a ward for the lads’ guildhouse. Because, as his grandma always used to tell him, when houses sit empty too long, things take occupancy in them. Not just rats and wood-lice, either. Things you couldn’t see, things that were unwelcoming to folks of physical form.
The guildhouse might have been free from them. Kordrude certainly couldn’t detect any, though with just level 1 witchery, a strong malignant spirit might well pass him by, undetected.
Better to be safe than sorry.
Still, the boys would laugh when he told them about charms and wards, and they’d think that he was going senile. He didn’t think they’d do it cruelly, but it was true that people lived in less superstitious times now.
With a witchery-imbued ward set in the corner of the guild hall, he just needed to place another in one of the rooms upstairs. That would be enough protection on the slight chance that unwelcoming spirits had taken root in this old building.
He turned away from the ward bowl, happy with his work.
A shout came from elsewhere in the guildhouse. He listened again, and he heard Benjen shouting something. Or, shouting at something.
Chapter Fourteen
Was that a shout? Sound travelled strangely through the tunnel, almost as if it was warped. Even the wind had an eerie twist to it, as though noise was a physical thing that you could touch, and someone had taken the wind and wrapped it around their finger, squeezing the breeze into a high-pitch. Joshua scrambled forward toward the opening, where he could see the guildmaster’s bedroom.
He stopped. There it was again, the shout. Even all the way upstairs, he knew who it was.
Benjen.
When he heard Benjen shouting from downstairs, he knew one thing for certain; Benjen wasn’t shouting to proudly announce he’d discovered a hidden goldmine. People rarely shouted their lungs out to announce something good.
It drifted up to him again; more shouting from the far side of the guildhouse. It was unmistakably Benjen, but his words didn’t quite travel the distance. Joshua needed to hurry.
Facing the tunnel opening, he realized that it had been easy to get into but getting out would be tricky. There was nothing to grip onto to lower himself out, and if he reached down toward the chair below he’d be doing a kind of handstand.
Straining forward, he grabbed the portrait of the guildmaster that had swung aside like a door. Trusting that the utilarian mage spell would keep its frame firmly against the wall he put his weight on it, and he managed to contort himself enough to put one foot on the chair, and then the other.
He left the guildmaster’s bedroom and ran down the stone staircase. At the bottom he stepped onto something, and water splashed up and hit his face.
It was a metal bowl with a brown leaf in it, just like the one he’d seen Kordrude signing to. What was the crowsie playing at?
No time. Whatever Benjen had shouted at, it must have been extremely annoying to make him do that.
Joshua left the hallway and crossed into the armory. There, a weapons rack caught his eye. He smiled; there were a few dusty axes, a long sword, a broadsword, and a weird, curved blade that he didn’t know the name of. They were old and covered in dust, but Benjen would be able to use his blacksmith class to sharpen them up. Any heroes joining the guild would probably have their own weapons, but it couldn’t hurt to have a few spares.
He left the armory and next saw the kitchen for the first time. Here, there were rows of wooden cupboards, none of which had been open. It didn’t look like Benjen had inspected the armory or kitchen much, even despite Kordrude’s wager.
A doorway on the other side of the kitchen led to a larder – he’d have to remember to wear his coat the next time he visited it – and then to a cramped hallway. He followed this until finally, he saw Kordrude.
The crowsie was standing at the end of the hallway and staring down into a set of opened doors set into the floor.
“That’s the basement,” said Joshua, remembering the floor plan.
“It appears so,” said Kordrude, “I was suspicious of that when I saw how basement-like it was.”
Basement. Certain words brought certain images to mind instantly. It was the same with anyone. Thinking about a tavern conjured the image of a roaring hearth, a portly barman, and tables covering in beer glasses and spilled ale.
Tasting the word basement on his mental tongue brought something else to Joshua’s mind; darkness, a musty odor, perhaps a wine rack filled with forgotten bottles of an old vintage, and, of course, rats. Basement and rats went hand in hand like a beggar and his coin cup, like an actor and his giant, inflated ego.
If it was rats, then there was the problem. See, years ago, Benjen had learned swordmaster. It was something they’d agreed on pretty much right away – if there was any sort of low-level fighting to be done in and around the guild before they recruited a hero, then big, strong Benjen was the guy to do it.
And then…Benjen had made an unfortunate visit to a chicken farm, the result of which was not only a distaste for eating meat but a growing acorn of thought in his mind, one that he must have watered each night in bed while he thought about the poor old chickens.
The acorn was a deep regard for the sanctity of life. First poultry, then extending to all the beautiful – and even ugly as hell – creatures under Fortuna’s schizophrenic skies.
So, Benjen’s swordsman class was just about as useful as a zeppelin with a balloon made from rice paper.
He glanced at Kordrude. “Well, what’s going on with Benjen? Shouldn’t we go down to help?”
“Don’t come down,” said a voice.
It was Benjen, speaking from the depths below, down in the basement where it’d be dark and musty.
“Sorry?”
“I said, don’t come down.”
Joshua cupped his hands around his mouth, as it was a truth known around all of Fortuna that this action amplified a person’s words. “Is it rats, Benjen? I know you don’t want to kill them, but they’re mostly harmless if you don’t corner them or something. But if you do corner them then watch out; they go for the eyes. Or is it the throat?”
Kordrude leaned toward the basement opening. “It’s throat, Benjen. They seek the veins on your throat.”
“Thanks…but it’s sure as hell not rats.”
“Then what is it?”
“Some kind of mana trap.”
~
While chubby Reben lumbered over to the bar to get them all a drink and Miana breezed past a group of drunken young men and flirted with them while surreptitiously freeing them from the burden of their money pouches, Terry of Yarn hobbled over to the nearest table.
There was a couple of brutish-looking men sitting around it, just as there seemed to be on almost every table in the inn. He’d never known a tavern so busy that you couldn’t get a table. This particular table was the one he wanted; tucked tight in the furthest corners of the tavern, it offered the most protection from eavesdroppers.
Terry of Yarn bent his back as far forward as feasible while still being able to walk, and he changed his expression into what he hoped would be a poor old man type of look. The sort that said ‘oh, haven’t I had a hard life?’
One of the brutish men – a warrior of some sort from the looks of his blood-stained sword – stood up. “You take the table, old fella,” he said.
His friend screwed up his face. “We only just got
here.”
“There’s a house down the street. Ladies of the night. You know…”
“Ah. Great idea.”
Terry of Yarn gave them a small wave as they left. “Thank you. Such kind lads,” he said. Then, when they were out of earshot, “Bloody mindless warriors. Brains like peas.”
He straightened his back and sat down normally and he looked around the tavern.
They were in a city called Trock, a place just fifteen miles away from Ardglass. Trock had a predominantly orc population, and as such it was one of the liveliest, warmest, most welcoming cities in all of Fortuna. This was all part of the orc mayor’s plan.
The mayor, whose real name was Mulush Sahgigoth but had recently changed it to Gary, had been voted into office a decade earlier with grand plans to revitalize the orc image. Down went the signs saying, ‘Humans better bugger off.’ Up went signs declaring ‘Humans! Come and stay in Trock for a while!’
In this tavern, what was once called Hurgoth’DeJo-Loghtothhengathno and had been changed to The Ape and Apple, there was a lively crowd of dozens of races, from a bunch of dwarven women in the corner who were dancing to the upbeat tune of a bard’s lute, to a gang of serious-looking half-trolls who were deep into a game of runto. There was a happy aura in the air, and the dwarven women especially, who seemed to be celebrating one dwarf’s upcoming nuptials, were having a great time.
Terry gave an inward humph. That was the sound that fun and joy made him make in his mind. If he had time, he’d go and tip the bard a silver coin to stop playing his upbeat songs and instead play the Ballad of Old Georgie, a song about a boy and his deceased dog. That tune was a sure-fire fun killer. But, he didn’t have the time nor the money for such frivolities.
Reben lumbered toward the table now, plopping three glasses on it. There was a wine for himself, a big pint of dark-brown beer for Miana, and a tiny little stout glass for Terry.
Miana retuned too, and she arched an eyebrow at Terry. She gave him a brief view of a money pouch in her coat pocket that he, if he was to be cynical, guessed hadn’t belonged to her until very recently.
Reben and Miana sat down. The girl took a long gulp of her beer and set the glass down. She wiped a moustache of foam from her upper lip.
“Are we staying here tonight?” she asked.
Terry nodded. “We’ll have to. I don’t want to stray too far from Ardglass.”
“Well, the guildhouse,” corrected Reben. “Do you think they’ll find it?”
Terry nodded. “They’ll be stripping the place, no doubt. Selling anything they can sell, tearing down walls and replacing them. I have no doubt that they’ll go into the basement.”
Miana leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. Her eyelids fluttered sleepily. “The worst timing,” she said. “If we’d had just a day of warning…”
“We weren’t supposed to need warning,” said Reben. “Nobody was supposed to go into the guild. That was the whole point of keeping a dragon outside it.”
Terry sipped his stout. “Exactly. With a dragon sleeping outside, I honestly didn’t imagine that we’d have to worry about this. To think, the stupid overgrown lizard stayed with them, too.”
“So now we can’t get into the basement, and we’ve lost our main scam,” said Reben.
Terry nodded. “Don’t worry. I have something in mind.”
“Like what?”
“We just need to get the boys away from the guild long enough to dig it up.”
“And what if they find it in the meantime?”
“The basement is full of rats and mana traps. Anyone who goes down there won’t be in a hurry to visit it again, and they certainly won’t think to dig it up. I mean, why would they?”
“So, what’s the plan?” asked Reben.
“I’m still thinking, but we may need to visit the harpies.”
Chapter Fifteen
Joshua wasn’t a dungeon-crawler by any means, but he guessed that the way you approached defusal of a trap – be it mana, cogwork, or spring-loaded – hinged on two questions.
Was it completely vital you lived through the defusal? If so, did you really need to keep all your limbs?
If the answer was yes and yes, then it was insanity to try and diffuse or reset a trap of any kind yourself, unless you happened to be an expert.
So, when Benjen described the trap he’d stepped into, Joshua felt worried.
“It smells faintly of sulfur, and it’s making a ringing sound. It’s glowing.”
“Is it wrapped around your foot?” asked Kordrude.
“No. It’s a plate on the floor.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Nope, but I’m getting cramp in my leg.”
“For God’s sake, don’t move your foot,” said Kordrude.
He turned to Joshua. “Sulfur, light, ringing. It sounds like a mana trap.”
Joshua did what he always did when he faced a problem; he paced around. That was an issue in itself, because the cramped tunnel didn’t give much pacing room at all, and Kordrude had to move out of the way several times to allow for Joshua’s circular steps.
“We need a mage. What’s that mage class? You know, the really obscure one. The low-levels make magical props for theatres groups, and the higher levels dabble in traps and bombs and stuff.”
“An instrumental,” said Kordude.
“Right. But they’re rare, aren’t they? There’s not much chance of one living in Ardglass.”
“The trap must have come from somewhere,” said Kordrude, moving out of the way of Joshua as he completed another circle of pacing.
“Hello?” said Benjen. “Any advice for me?”
“Yes. Don’t wander into strange basements without a torch,” said Kordrude.
“I hardly expected my own basement to be trapped, did I? Besides, I brought a torch, and a gust of wind blew it out.”
“Don’t worry, pal,” said Joshua, forcing more optimism into his tone than he really felt. “We’ll think of something.”
“I would suspect the instrumental mage lives close by,” said Kordrude.
“Not necessarily. You can buy mana traps from specialized shops, so the mage who made it could be a thousand miles away. Maybe a utilarian could help?”
“They’re creators,” said Kordrude. “This doesn’t seem like a way they’d use their magic.”
“Okay, then what about a tinker? They make bombs, don’t they? I suppose they must know about traps, too. Or there are goblin bomb-makers, dwarven trap-experts…there must be someone in Ardglass we can try.”
Kordrude drummed his long fingers against his beak, making a tap tap tap sound. “Given our predicament, any person who could help with this will certainly see how the situation benefits them. I’d expect their prices to suddenly shoot up once you tell them the problem.”
“I’ll agree a price first,” said Joshua. “Then I’ll explain the details.”
“They’ll need to know what they’re dealing with before they agree on an amount.”
“Well, what about this? The gods gave me a one-use blessing of minor luck. Maybe I could…”
“The gods gave you a blessing?” said Kordrude, amazed.
“For helping Gobber.”
“Really? Oh my.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, it’s just that it was years before the gods took an interest in me, and that was only through my bureaucracy work, after I found a house for a homeless family of elves. They gave me a blessing of happiness, a one-use blessing that would make me cheery. I used it after my wife passed away, but it hardly even helped.” Then, he looked at the ground, sadly. “I have never told anyone that. Not even my good friend Janda.”
Binding of the Seeker updated
Store of Secrets updated
[Minor] Secret added: Kordrude’s Secret Blessing
[Minor] Secret Completed: Kordrude’s Secret Blessing
Seeker knowledge +2
Seeker Knowledge Level: 1 [47/50]<
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“I’m sorry about your wife, Kordrude.”
“It has been years since she passed, and I still feel a heaviness in my heart when I think about her. But come, I don’t want you to dwell on it. We have a rather pressing issue at hand. Still, it is strange that the gods took an interest in someone so young.”
“I never expected them to even care about me. It’s not like I did anything that another person wouldn’t.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Kordrude. “But in any case, mana traps are often designed with counter-wards that negate luck spells and blessings. After all, there’s no use having a trap that could be disarmed by chance.”
Joshua stopped pacing and stared into the darkness of the basement. He wanted to go down there and comfort his buddy, but there was no telling how many other mana traps were placed. It was bad enough that one of them had stepped on a mana plate of some sort and was stuck in the darkness. Two of them in the same jam would be ridiculous.
“Benjen, what else can you tell us about the trap? I’m gonna need as much detail as possible.”
“Get lost,” said Benjen.
“What?”
“Not you. A rat is standing on my foot. Er, well, what else can I say about it? I can’t really see it, except for a glow.”
“What color is the glow?” asked Kordrude. Then, he turned to Joshua. “Colors matter a great deal to mages, and it may give whatever expert we find some insight.”
“A sort of minty green. Or perhaps pastel. Like a frog, but sort of washed out a little. You know. A leaf on a tree when it’s still summer but almost autumn, and the color fades…”
“Green, then. Anything else?”
“When I first stepped on it, it made a sound. Something as well as the ringing. It sort of spoke a word.”
“What did it say?”
“Huytum? Heetum? Something like that.”
Joshua felt irritation tugging at him now, the unmistakable knowledge that this was a question posed to them and that he didn’t know the answer. Whatever word that was, it wasn’t in any language he knew.