The Adventurers Guild

by Zack Loran Clark

  The mass slurped forward, ever forward. The knife’s leather grip sagged and melted as it began to dissolve inside the creature.

  Not like this. Fear clawed at Zed’s thoughts. He opened his mouth and cried out for help again and again, all in vain.

  Soon the ooze was near enough that he could reach out and touch it. With a slosh, it crept toward him. The bear’s terrified gaze followed him the whole way.

  The corpses inside all watched Zed. Their skeletal faces grinned in anticipation.

  Not like this!

  His mother’s expression at the Guildculling. Her fingers pressed against her mouth. Tears running down her face.

  NOT LIKE THIS!

  Zed held out his hand. Tears burned hot against his own cheeks, and his vision blurred. Everything around him became cloudy, suffused with a sudden fog. The gelatinous mass lurched forward, inches away. Zed could see the other end of the corridor through its horrible body.

  And then, with a pop in his ears and a distant sound like a small explosion, Zed was there.

  The tunnel swayed and his head spun. Zed nearly collapsed, but fought to regain his balance. Looking around him, he was shocked to find he had somehow covered the distance of the corridor in a second. The mass was now behind him, pressed flat against the mural wall, right where he’d been standing.

  A strange, unearthly mist clung for a moment to Zed’s body, then evaporated slowly away.

  Hexam. This must have been one of the wizard’s protections. But then why did Zed suddenly feel so tired? Whatever had just happened, it had exhausted him.

  He fought through the fatigue. Who knew how long that awful creature would be content to dally at the end of the tunnel?

  Putting one foot in front of the other, Zed took a wobbly step forward, and then another, and then before long he was galloping through the corridor, pushing himself off walls for extra support.

  Belatedly Zed realized he had lost the invisible shroud. The otherwordly gauze had disappeared. He didn’t care. Brock was right—he needed to get out of this place.

  Soon he arrived at the crossroads with the pile of bones, and the way out.

  Zed paused. He glanced down the other fork, the one he hadn’t taken.

  The one that must lead to the focus.

  He muttered a long string of terrible words, none of them audible, then dashed at full speed down the untraveled corridor.

  This tunnel was longer than the other, much longer, with many more twists and corners. Zed’s mind was clanging like an alarm bell the whole way as he sprinted through it.

  Turn back!

  It’s coming right now, you fool!

  Still he plunged forward.

  Finally, the tunnel opened up into a small chamber. At its center was a pool of dark, glistening water.

  Perhaps once this had been a placid reflecting pool for the druids, a place of contemplation and serenity. Now it was a mass grave. A mountain of bones rose up from the depths of the water, ten times as high as the one that waited at the shrine’s entrance. And these were not just rat skeletons. Zed recognized cracked humanoid skulls sneering at him from the pile. Were these…the elves?

  His eyes darted around the small chamber, desperate to find the focus. What had Frond said? It was some sort of gem. It should be obvious. It should be—

  And then he saw it.

  On a raised altar, just behind the pool, a shattered crystal lay in pieces.

  No…Zed scrambled across the room, around the sluice. On a simple stone plinth, an enormous gem had been smashed into glittering fragments.

  Zed picked up the largest of the pieces, biting back a useless sob. The shard was cool and heavy in his hand.

  But the wards…the wards don’t work without a focus. Then how…? Zed thought back to their journey to the shrine, and the conversations outside.

  No one had checked to make sure the wards were intact.

  He wanted to scream. In fact, that would likely be the first thing he did when his magical protections wore off. But for now he needed to get out of this awful, cramped space.

  Zed slipped the chunk of broken crystal into the small satchel at his waist, then swept the rest of the fragments in as well. He took a step away from the plinth.

  “I see you.”

  A voice echoed in the chamber. Zed jumped and yelped silently. He searched around the shrine, but saw nothing.

  “You came for the stone,” the voice drawled. “Didn’t you?”

  Zed couldn’t answer even if he’d wanted to. He backed away from the altar, his eyes darting around the room. The space was so small…where could the speaker possibly be hiding?

  “I came for it, too. I was ordered to take the stone far away. But its magic was already gone—just a few drops left. So I smashed it to be sure. Now…what was the second order?”

  Zed’s eyes fell on the glistening surface of the water. Glistening with…light. Finally, with growing dread, he thought to look up. And in that moment he realized the chamber wasn’t cramped at all.

  It was enormous.

  Huge tree branches extended upwards for what must have been hundreds of yards, linked by the crumbling remains of bridges and stairs into a spiraling tower. Though now a ruin, Zed could still see the wonder this structure had once been. This had been the home of the druids—a whole temple built vertically into the twin trees, twisting endlessly into the sky.

  Light poured in from broken arches like reams of cloth, draping over dozens of handsome statues of figures with long, elegantly pointed ears. A city full of elves looked down upon Zed, their stone faces kind and contemplative.

  And there, watching him from amid the statuary, was the owner of the voice.

  “Ah yes,” the figure said with a cheerful chirp. “Now I remember. Kill anyone who comes after the focus.”

  At first, the intruder appeared to be human. He was clothed, albeit in dirty, threadbare rags. Two bulging eyes and a thin-lipped smile watched Zed from a hooded face. He had two arms that were perched forward, supporting his crouched legs, and bare hands and feet that were filthy with grime.

  Then the figure’s face split open.

  It divided from the top of its head to the chin, as if tearing along a vertical seam. Within this grisly cleft were rows and rows of pointed barbs, extending down into a puckered gullet.

  Zed discovered he was running only after the fact.

  He’d just scrambled past the pool of bones when he heard a crash from behind him as the figure landed within the pile. Femurs and fingers whizzed past Zed, and he had to skip to avoid a waterlogged skull that rolled into his path.

  “Run, run, run, little adventurer,” the man-shaped monster warbled from behind him. “Creeper is always just behind you!”

  Zed did. He ran as he’d never run before. Fear pounded through his head like a drum. He sprinted down the long, narrow tunnel, not daring to look back, scrabbling around every corner. And then, after what felt like an eternity, he saw the fork in the tunnel and the small pile of bones—and on the other side was the gelatinous mass, slowly closing the gap that led out.

  “He-he-he-he-he.”

  The voice sounded so close that Zed imagined he could feel its breath on his neck. He screamed noiselessly, forcing himself to run faster despite his burning legs and flagging energy.

  “Can’t outcreep old Creeper,” the monster hissed in Zed’s ear.

  And Zed realized it was right. The lurching ooze ahead of him was halfway through the fork. He’d never make it. Either he would slam into the jelly and die a slow, agonizing death, or his pursuer would catch him in that gruesome maw.

  He tried to think, to form some plan. But he had nothing. No way out. Panic clouded his thoughts like a choking mist, obscuring his vision.

  A mist.

  Zed remembered the strange magic that had gotten him past the gelatinous mass earlier. He’d thought the spell was Hexam’s, but somehow using it had drained Zed himself, like…like he had used his own mana.

>   Could he have…?

  Zed squinted his eyes and tried to remember what the effect had felt like. Tried to picture the odd swirling mist that had come with it.

  And then, unbelievably, the mist was there, clinging to his arms, filling the edges of his vision.

  Zed cast his eyes desperately to the exit tunnel, to the pile of bones that marked the path to freedom.

  His ears popped. There was a sick careening sensation as his viewpoint exploded with silvery fog, then lurched suddenly forward. He heard a soft plop from behind him, and a high-pitched scream.

  Zed crashed forward, falling face-first into the mound of bones. Instantly he twisted around, and was met with a horrifying sight.

  The man-shaped creature that had been chasing him was caught by the jelly. He howled as he fought to escape, but whatever substance the ooze was made of, it wasn’t letting go.

  “It hurts! It hurts!” the creature shrieked, writhing his body in an effort to break free. His red, bulging eyes looked ready to pop out from their sockets. “Mother, help, IT HURTS!”

  Zed heard hissing and sizzling sounds as Creeper was dragged farther and farther inside. After several agonizing moments, his pursuer was entirely subsumed, and the corridor became silent once more.

  Zed was grateful when the mass continued slowly away down the tunnel. He didn’t want to see any more of what would follow.

  Breathing heavily, more dazed and sickened and suddenly hungrier than he’d ever been in his life, Zed finally found the strength to stand. Bones clattered away as he righted himself.

  His hands were shaking uncontrollably. It took all of his resolve not to break down and weep right there. Zed squeezed his eyes closed for a moment and fought back against stinging tears.

  Finally, summoning what was left of his willpower, he opened his eyes.

  He was about to turn and head back up the exit, when something caught his attention. A small pendant lay on the floor of the tunnel, right where the monster had been struggling against the ooze. Zed bent over and picked it up with trembling fingers.

  It was a wooden charm, carved into the shape of a grinning mouth full of sharp teeth.

  Zed had seen charms like these before, of course. Hundreds of them.

  They were carved by Old Makiva.

  Brock paced the tree line, unable to remain still, though his eyes did not move once from the pitch-black entrance to the shrine. He wasn’t sure he even blinked in all the time Zed was gone.

  He could feel the fury like an aching heat behind his eyes. He could taste it at the back of his throat. It made him feel dangerous, like a thousand sharp edges piled together in the shape of a boy. Anyone who got close to him now would be sliced to ribbons.

  He wouldn’t look at them, but he could feel the others hovering about the clearing, pretending not to worry but steadfastly ignoring one another. His companions were good at looking tough, but for all the confidence they had on display, Brock could see the chinks in their armor, just big enough for a dagger to slip through. A dagger, or a barbed word.

  It was something thugs like Alabasel Frond would never understand: Hurting people was easy. Choosing not to—sometimes that took real self-control.

  Brock rubbed his cheeks, remembering when she’d struck him. This was why she’d brought the apprentices along, endangering them once again—so that she could use Zed. It was probably why she’d drafted him in the first place. The longer Zed remained out of sight, the more Brock felt his control slipping away.

  His friend hadn’t even said good-bye.

  Despite the fact that Brock cast his glare down the tunnel like a lifeline, it was Frond who saw Zed first. She leaped into action, fast and silent as a snake, darting to the shrine’s entrance and beyond, into the dark, where Brock saw Zed teeter and fall into her arms. Brock and Liza both ran to the opening, but Hexam shooed them away so that Frond could pass, carrying Zed in her arms as if he weighed nothing. His arm hung limp.

  Liza gripped Brock’s shoulder in a way that might have been supportive—or might have been an attempt to hold him back. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

  Frond ignored the question. “Syd, Fife, guard that doorway,” she said, wincing as she placed Zed upon the ground with great care. Hexam dropped to his knees beside the boy and put his fingers to Zed’s neck. Then, quick as a snare, he pulled away once more, shaking his hand furiously as if stung.

  “Fie,” he said. Then he chuckled to himself. “Well, whatever he found in there, it didn’t set off Gestalt’s Lightning Nettle.” He made a precise gesture, dispelling whatever protective spell had caused him pain, and Zed stirred.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “I’m just…really tired.”

  Hexam produced a water skin and held it to Zed’s lips. “Drink your fill, son,” he said, and Zed gulped eagerly at its contents. The color came back to his cheeks almost instantly.

  Brock exhaled deeply. The knot of anger in his chest uncoiled, his sharp edges eroded by the passing storm of anxiety and dread and finally relief.

  He realized Liza was still gripping him, leaning her body against his, and he quickly detached himself, rubbing his hand over his hair.

  “You’re famished,” Hexam said, eyeing Zed like a curious hound. “What did you cast?”

  Zed wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then licked them, then licked the back of his hand. “Yum. Uh, I don’t know. I sort of…moved down the corridor just by looking.”

  “You elf-stepped?” Hexam asked, helping Zed to his feet.

  Brock frowned. “Is that a dance? Or a racial slur?”

  “It’s a spell,” Hexam answered. “And not an easy one. Its proper name is hel’andora moor, which would translate to something like ‘the long stride through mists,’ although elven conjugation being the quagmire that it is, you might just as easily say veil walker or even, yes, dancer, which only goes to show—”

  “Zed, you cast a spell? Without a staff or anything?” Brock gripped his friend by the shoulders and shook. “You cast a spell!”

  A shy smile spread across Zed’s face. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “Hexam cast, like, twelve spells.”

  “Hexam’s been studying magic for sixty years,” Brock countered. “You’re a natural!”

  Hexam cleared his throat. “I am thirty-nine years old.” He turned to Frond. “And yes, you missed my birthday, Alabasel. It was last week.”

  Frond was unmoved. “Enough,” she said, and Brock turned to look at her but didn’t stop jostling Zed until Zed ducked out of his grip. “I assume the fact that I was able to enter the shrine means you have the focus.”

  The smile fell from Zed’s face. “Sort of,” he said, and he pulled a crystalline shard from the pouch on his belt. “It was in a dozen pieces. I grabbed them all, but—”

  “That shouldn’t happen.” Hexam appeared stricken as all eyes turned toward him. “A focus is all but indestructible when charged. And even if the focus ran out of magic, it wouldn’t just—”

  “It was sabotage,” Zed explained. “I…met the thing that did it. It called itself Creeper.”

  “It spoke?” Frond demanded. “A Danger?”

  Fife gulped audibly, and he and Syd both held their blades higher.

  “Yes,” Zed said. “It looked like a person, but then its head sort of…split open. It’s dead now,” he added darkly, and Brock felt a little chill. “It wasn’t acting alone. It said it was following orders.”

  “Then there’s another one lurking about,” Hexam said, casting an anxious look into the trees.

  “Maybe,” said Zed. He opened his hand to reveal a wooden charm in a style Brock instantly recognized. “Or maybe its master is a human. Maybe it’s someone we know.”

  They left for Freestone immediately, moving at a pace Brock suspected they couldn’t keep up. Yet as the sun dipped lower and the darkness between the forest’s trees grew deeper, the adventurers moved ever more swiftly. Brock felt sweat trickling down his back and a blooming
ache in his feet, but he didn’t complain. He couldn’t spare the breath.

  Liza evidently had some breath to spare, though.

  “What happens if we’re outside the walls after dark?” she asked.

  “Maybe nothing,” Frond said. “But night is when the worst of the Dangers grow bold.”

  Zed shuddered, and Brock found himself wondering just what his friend had experienced within the shrine. He grasped about for that familiar feeling of righteous anger, hoping to dispel the roiling anxiety in his stomach, but all he could manage at the moment was irritation.

  “I guess the Dangers are pretty bashful in the daytime, then?” he said.

  “It is a little troubling we’ve seen no sign of anything,” Hexam said, even as he kept his eyes on the overgrown trail that had once been a thoroughfare, before being mostly reclaimed by nature. He was leading the party, with Frond bringing up the rear this time. “Not unheard of, but usually the forest is only this quiet when a, well, when an apex predator of some sort has moved into the area. That tends to spook the rivals.”

  “Dangers get spooked?” Brock asked. “By…bigger Dangers?”

  “Most are no more than wild animals,” Hexam explained. “Dangers follow their instincts, look for food, protect their territory. Most are just intelligent enough to avoid bands of armed humans. They are deadly, certainly, but they aren’t evil.”

  Zed shuddered again. “That thing in the shrine…it taunted me,” he said. “It laughed.”

  “There are notable exceptions,” Hexam added.

  Brock, walking alongside Zed, gripped his friend’s shoulder. “It can’t hurt you now.”

  “I know it can’t,” Zed said. He turned his dark brown eyes on Brock. “Because I killed it.”

  Brock hesitated, then nodded, unsure what to say. Suddenly he remembered how Hexam had recoiled from contact with Zed after he’d emerged from the shrine. The boy’s skin had been electrified. But Frond had carried him, hadn’t she?

  He turned to look at her and saw for the first time the new pink welts running along her bare arms. She hadn’t been immune to the spell. She must have been in agony, holding Zed the way she had.