The Adventurers Guild

by Zack Loran Clark

  Before Brock could fully process the thought, a howl rose up from deep within the woods.

  “What was that?” Syd and Fife asked at the same time, and then Fife quickly added, “Jinx.”

  “Let’s pick up the pace, people,” Frond said, and though Brock could have argued that they were already hurrying, he had no trouble moving even faster than before.

  The sun’s descent seemed to speed up, too, as if it were itself a Danger and intent on keeping pace with them. The trees crowded in and the shadows grew long, grasping at their ankles as they hurried down the uneven path, and when Brock stumbled on a root, he felt a momentary flash of panic that something had gripped him.

  Strange sounds rang out with increasing frequency—screams and bursts of a sort of wordless yipping. The noises originated from some ways off in the distance, but no matter how quickly the adventurers moved, they weren’t able to leave them behind.

  And now the sounds came from both sides of the path.

  “Are they following us?” Zed asked, breathless.

  “They know we’re here, and they’re keeping tabs on us,” Hexam answered. “But they won’t be so bold—”

  “Unless they’re hungry,” said Frond. “Or bored. Or don’t especially like the look of us.”

  “I guess we won’t stop for a game of cards, then,” Brock said, but it came out as a wheeze. They’d been moving briskly for more than an hour, propelled along by new bursts of adrenaline with each howl.

  Brock realized he could no longer see the sun. It had sunk beneath the canopy to their left, and to their right, the sky had deepened to a blue-black bruise.

  Another ten minutes passed, and the intermittent howls stopped, replaced by an excited, alien jabbering noise.

  “Are they…laughing?” Liza asked.

  “Don’t listen to them, Liza,” Brock said. “Your hair looks great.”

  “Ha-ha,” she said flatly.

  The jabbering sounded out from one side of the trail, then the other, then back again.

  “They’re communicating,” Hexam said.

  “They’re coordinating,” Frond said. “We have to run.” She slapped Fife, who was closest, across the shoulders. “Run! Now! Keep to the path!”

  Brock ran, glad he’d chosen light, supple armor. Syd and Fife, who both wore chain mail, were showing the strain of running within moments, and Liza appeared to be struggling with the shield strapped to her back. Brock and Zed caught up to her, and just as Brock wondered whether they should slow for her, she picked up her pace, spurred on by the sight of them.

  Brock no longer heard any of the menacing chatter over his own rasping breath, but he didn’t for a moment think that meant they were safe.

  He let himself hope, however, when they crested a hill, and above the treetops was Freestone’s wall rising up in the middle distance, torches lit along its crenulations.

  That was when the first of the creatures attacked.

  Syd cried out in pain from behind them, and without slowing Brock cast a glance back over his shoulder in time to see a dark figure darting back into the trees. Syd’s face was twisted in a grimace, but he didn’t slow down, and that was good enough for Brock.

  “There!” Frond cried in warning as a second creature dashed from the woods, cutting right through the group and taking a swipe at Hexam. The archivist flung up his arms to repel the clawed attack in a sudden burst of blue light.

  The creature was humanoid, but not—like a man who was fraying at the edges, or a moving mound of tattered rags. Whatever it was made of, the Danger had arms, and its digits were sharp enough to produce sparks as it slashed against Hexam’s magical shield. It didn’t attempt a second attack, just kept moving, sweeping back into the forest in a fluid, unbroken motion. They were using hit-and-run tactics, leaving the safety of the trees just long enough to slash at them.

  Eventually they’d strike something vital.

  Hexam went on the offensive, blasting a stream of fire into the trees as he ran.

  “We can outrun them!” Frond cried from somewhere behind them, and Brock heard the sound of her throwing stars thudding into the trees. “Keep moving!”

  Liza had taken the shield from her back and held it between her and Zed; she’d be able to fend off an attack on either of them if she reacted quickly enough. Sticking to Zed’s other side, Brock drew his daggers, holding them out so that they might stick anything that got too close, even if he didn’t react quickly.

  Dark figures continued to harass them, leaping out of cover, swiping, and disappearing again before they could be targeted. But the group was wise to the tactic, and the creatures’ slashing attacks were kept at bay time and again. And all the while, Freestone’s great wall drew closer.

  We’re going to make it, Brock thought.

  And then he saw the figure standing ahead of them in the middle of the path, right where the narrow passage opened onto the treeless plain that circled the city. It was a natural chokepoint, and blocking it was a man. His features were obscured in shadow, but his eyes shone red.

  They were the strange compound eyes of an insect.

  “Don’t stop!” Frond called from behind them. And then she was beside them, overtaking them, running ever faster and making directly for the creature blocking their path.

  “Don’t stop!” she cried once more, and then she hurled herself at the man-shaped thing, throwing her full weight at it and bringing it down in a brutal tackle. Brock didn’t dare look down as he and Zed and Liza ran past, leaving the forest behind at last and breaking out into the open air. The sky above seemed huge, stars appearing by the hundreds as the sunlight was forgotten. A series of mournful howls went up from the trees, but their enemies did not pursue them.

  “The gate!” Hexam cried in the direction of town. “Open the gate!” Then, with the wall mere yards away, he stopped running, spun on his heel, and released a series of crackling starbursts from his hands.

  Hexam collapsed to the grass, but the magical motes of light found their mark, streaking across the plain to strike the creature still scuffling with Frond. She took the opportunity to run while the thing appeared dazed.

  “We have to help Hexam!” Liza cried. She grabbed the unconscious man’s wrist and pulled.

  “Open the gate!” Fife called up to the Stone Sons atop the wall.

  “They’re not opening the gate,” Zed hissed as he joined Liza, taking Hexam’s other hand and dragging him toward the closed portal.

  “They won’t,” Syd said through gritted teeth. “It’s illegal to open the gate when a Danger is in view. They won’t risk it.”

  Brock’s heart clenched as he saw the creature regain its feet on the far side of the field. It was missing pieces now. An arm had split open, and the long, segmented leg of an insect poked from the torn flesh, a barbed point at its end where a hand should be. Brock was pretty sure it had lost an ear, too, and there was a strange clicking sound coming from deep within its throat, as if something inside were twisting around, forcing its way up.

  He couldn’t look away. Frond was running full tilt for them, her scarred face a picture of fury and determination. But the beast hurtled toward her, moving far faster than its ruined body should have allowed. It scuttled more than it ran, hunched over, using its strange, barbed limb to propel itself. Liquid frothed from its jagged mouth, too dark to be saliva or even blood. Once in striking distance, it rose to its full height without breaking stride, and it brought its spear-like arm back.

  Brock screamed—“Frond!”—as the barbed limb shot forward.

  There was a sudden flash of light at Frond’s back, and she was wreathed in a glowing, crackling spectrum of colors. The creature was hurled backward, and Brock realized what had happened—it had struck the wards full in the face.

  Frond realized it, too. She stopped running. She gasped for breath, the fury still etched upon her features. Turning to consider the Danger writhing upon the grass, she grinned an evil grin.

  She
stepped out from the safety of the wards.

  “Wait!” Liza cried, and Syd and Fife stepped forward, but Frond waved them off, back to safety.

  She grabbed the creature by the scruff of its neck and hurled it toward Brock and the others. Light flared again, and this time Brock saw it took the shape of small symbols, flickering into view and then gone again, as if this unfamiliar alphabet were the stones and mortar that formed the invisible wall.

  If it had been built of stone, the creature could not have hit it with greater impact. A crack rang out as its face bounced off the wards, and it crumpled to the ground once more.

  “What is it?” Brock asked Hexam.

  Hexam shook his head mutely.

  Brock turned to Fife. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

  “I have never, in all my life,” said Fife, “seen a Danger wearing tailored pants.”

  Brock, to his horror, realized it was true: The Danger wore fitted leather pants, and the tatters around its torso were the remains of a homespun cotton shirt. The clothing was not fine, but it was a far cry from the rough-stitched pelts the kobolds had worn.

  This creature did not just look like a man. It was dressed like a citizen of Freestone.

  Frond didn’t stop to ask questions. She bared her teeth, grabbing the creature again by the back of its head and slamming it once, twice, three times into the wards. Finally she let the creature fall at her feet.

  “Wards are working fine tonight,” she said as she marched past them, back to the safety of the city, her hands dripping with black ichor.

  The Stone Sons charged with guarding the wall had evidently called for reinforcements. By the time the massive gate finally swung open, there were a dozen knights on the other side, weapons at the ready. Each and every one of them took a wary step back as Frond marched over the threshold and into the city.

  Brock had always considered the armored Sons as tough as they came, but seeing them shrink away from Frond now, they seemed small and meek. They didn’t brandish their weapons so much as they hid behind them.

  The Sons were equipped to deal with trouble inside the city, but they had never faced a naga, never fought a kobold.

  Or encountered whatever that crumbling nightmare had been.

  Frond was bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts, and Syd had a gash across his back, and Hexam, though he’d regained his senses, was weak with exhaustion and barely able to walk in a straight line. For his part Brock was undamaged, but his legs burned and his entire body was slick with sweat.

  Only Frond returned the knights’ stares directly. “I need you to come with me to the market. To Makiva’s tent.” She wiped her dripping hands upon her leathers. “I want to talk to the woman, and there might be some trouble.”

  The knights exchanged a look.

  “Well?” she growled. “What in the infernal realm are you waiting for?”

  “There’s…been an incident in the market,” one of them said.

  “I think you’ll want to see it for yourself,” said the other.

  Brock wanted to weep as Frond took off at a clip, but they all managed to follow, even Hexam. As they neared the market, the crowd grew thick. It was unusual for so many people to be out at this hour, when the market would be closing up for the day.

  And then he smelled the smoke.

  Once they’d pushed to the front of the crowd, it was only too obvious what had happened. One of the marketplace’s most prominent tents was gone. It had been a lush purple tent filled to the rafters with wooden trinkets and charms.

  Those same charms must have served as excellent kindling.

  All that remained of Makiva’s tent was a pile of ash.

  After the traumas of the day, Brock thought it would be difficult to sneak out of the guildhall. He imagined Zed would want to talk late into the night, that Liza would insist on speculating what the fortune-teller’s ruin might mean.

  In the end, though, it couldn’t have been easier to slip away. Frond, Hexam, and Lotte had barricaded themselves away to discuss matters in private. Liza, showing no sign of the exhaustion she must have felt, hurled herself at the practice dummies in the yard. Zed, in a failed attempt at furtiveness, pulled an old tome from where he’d hidden it beneath his mattress and snuck away to read it in some dark corner of the hall. The rest of the adventurers found noisier ways to entertain themselves; Brock was almost flattened when the woman he’d previously seen wrecking the chandelier careened around a hallway corner, howling with laughter as she pushed a wheelbarrow loaded with a wooden keg, Hank the physician, and a squealing piglet.

  Brock sighed heavily at the sight, but he was glad he didn’t have to worry about stealth or excuses. He simply walked out the side door and into the night.

  The town was silent, most of its people evidently determined to stay behind closed doors while the Stone Sons investigated what had become of Old Makiva. Brock found the quiet deeply unsettling. He liked energy and noise. He’d spent his entire childhood sneaking out of his parents’ quiet, clean, austere home to run wild in the streets at every opportunity. Tonight, though, all of Freestone seemed to be holding its breath. The empty streets felt alien, and the darkness carried a sense of threat.

  Or maybe Brock had just seen too much these last few days.

  He retraced their steps from the previous day, heading in the direction of the castle. The Adventurers Guild was situated near the gate, along with stables, tanneries, and housing for the poor. The deeper he went into Freestone’s interior—the farther he got from the wall and the Dangers it represented—the more affluent the neighborhoods became.

  Brock realized for the first time what that meant. If the wall were ever breached—if the wards did in fact fall—the underprivileged of Freestone were a wall of another sort, standing between the monsters and the king.

  He passed his own house, closer to Freestone’s center than to its perimeter. He spared it only a glimpse and kept walking. Soon he came to the mansion he’d been looking for. He briefly considered going up to the front door and knocking, but he thought better of it. Doing things the proper way meant you could be denied.

  He went around to the side of the house and walked right through the servants’ entrance. There was an apron hanging on a peg by the door. He put it on and took a deep breath. He wasn’t particularly convincing as a member of the staff, but with luck he would be able to make his way to the inner chambers before coming under any scrutiny.

  As soon as he stepped out from the small foyer, however, he encountered a young woman. He sized her up quickly. She was only a few years older than him, wearing the same style of apron and holding a sterling silver tray of drinks. She startled for a moment when she realized he was there and opened her mouth to ask a question, but he spoke over her.

  “Are those for the master?” he asked sweetly, raising his eyebrows a bit, hoping the girl saw a young and overeager apprentice before her.

  “Uh, yes,” she said, momentarily distracted from her skepticism.

  “I’m to bring them,” Brock said, and he smiled bashfully. “I’ve never gotten to do it before. I promise I’ll do a good job. Is he in the dining room?”

  “Uh, the study,” she corrected, handing him the tray.

  “Oh, right, the study,” Brock said. “They said you can take the rest of the night off. I’ll see to Master Quilby.”

  Quilby’s mansion was the picture of decadence. The size of the place was itself obscene—in Freestone, there was no greater commodity than space, and Quilby was one of the few who had enough of it to waste. Seeking the study, Brock found a closet the size of Zed’s home, a dining room table long enough to seat twenty, and an entire room dedicated to books.

  At last he came upon the study, a high-ceilinged, wood-paneled chamber with portraits hanging from its walls and a stone hearth at its center. Quilby sat in a cushioned chair near the fire, beside two men Brock didn’t recognize. They were all admiring the shine of Quilby’s dress shoes.

  None
of them acknowledged Brock’s entrance. They didn’t even look up as he circulated among them, allowing them to grab the glasses from his tray. It wasn’t until Brock stood at attention on the far side of the room, pointedly refusing to exit, that Quilby finally seemed to sense that something was out of place and looked up from his shiny new shoes.

  His eyes went big when he saw it was Brock.

  Brock tapped his own nose theatrically, in an imitation of Quilby’s favorite gesture.

  Quilby’s eyes went even bigger.

  “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he shrilled. “I’ve just remembered…something requires my attention.”

  Quilby hurried from the room. He didn’t spare Brock another glance, but Brock knew he was to follow. They went a short ways down the hall, ending up in the library.

  “Messere Dunderfel,” Quilby began, his composure back in place, “while it’s always good to see you, I really must insist that I dictate the time and place of our meetings. This level of impropriety is not called for, surely?”

  Brock felt it then: the tiny flare of anger at the core of his being, like a smoldering coal fanned once by the bellows.

  “I’ll tell you what’s not called for,” he said evenly. “My friends and I almost got eaten by monsters today—again! And this time, it’s because your little cabal sent us on a lousy dead-end errand.”

  Quilby chortled as if Brock’s lack of respect amused him. “If you recall, Messere, we sent Frond on that errand—or mission, rather. That she chose to endanger her young charges once more only reaffirms—”

  “With respect, Messere,” Brock said with a marked lack of respect, “stuff it.”

  Quilby was less amused by that. “Ex—excuse me?” he sputtered.

  “I agreed to be your eyes and ears,” Brock said. “Don’t you want to know what I’ve seen and heard? I think it might interest you.”

  Quilby only glowered at him.

  “It struck me when I was standing over the ashes of Old Makiva’s tent. It got me thinking about the last time I’d been there, and that got me thinking about the perfumer. Remember when we met in his tent?”