The Doom Brigade

by Don Perrin

  Hastily, Pestle let the skull drop back onto the table. He continued to gaze at it, fascinated.

  “I just can’t figure out what makes the eyes glow like that!”

  Auger removed a large, tattered, and dirty leather-bound book from his backpack and thumped it onto the table. “I don’t know what you made me carry this all the way back for. It’s heavy, and it smells funny.”

  “Mildew,” said Mortar, eyeing the book.

  Selquist picked up the book, ran his hand over the torn binding lovingly.

  “This is more valuable than everything on that table combined. More valuable than everything in the Thane’s warehouse. In my long and not inglorious career, this is the most valuable object I’ve ever stol—um … acquired.”

  “Is it magic?” Pestle regarded the book with more interest, though he was disappointed that it didn’t glow.

  “No, it’s not magic,” Auger said scornfully. “Not unless I can suddenly read magic, which, thank Reorx, I can’t. It’s written in our language, though some of the words are spelled funny. And, from the looks of it, the book’s a record of some Daewar raiding party from about thirty years ago. It might be of some value historically.”

  Mortar gazed at Selquist in puzzlement. “Since when do you go in for history?”

  “Since it stands to turn a handsome profit,” Selquist replied, with a wink. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you three have no imaginations. None whatsoever. If it wasn’t for me, you’d all be picking potatoes in the High Thane’s garden.”

  The three looked at the old book and tried to imagine something valuable about it. They failed.

  “Where’d you find it?” Mortar asked, hoping to come up with a clue.

  Selquist lowered his voice, leaned forward, and said softly, “From a chest under old Chronix’s bed. A locked chest. So it must be valuable.”

  He stood back and allowed the others to regard him with astonished admiration.

  “You … you stole that book from … from Chronix!” Mortar was the only one able to talk. Auger and Pestle were rendered speechless.

  “Of course,” Selquist said, modestly.

  “But, he’s your teacher! Won’t he be mad?”

  “Why should he? It’s a compliment to him, really.” Selquist shrugged. “He taught me well.”

  “But what could be valuable about a book about a Daewar raid? Unless it’s got jewels hidden inside it somewhere,” Auger argued.

  “A raiding party means treasure. Treasure that has to be stashed away. Hidden. A book about the raiding party means—”

  “—that it might tell where the treasure’s hidden!” Pestle shouted.

  “Very good,” Selquist said, patting Pestle’s head in approval. “Keep your voice down.”

  “But”—Mortar was thinking again, a habit Selquist found annoying—“if this book does tell where the treasure is stashed, then Chronix must have already found it.”

  “Not so,” Selquist replied. “Chronix can’t read.”

  “But he could have had someone to read to him.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t trust anyone else. Maybe he doesn’t know anyone who can read,” Selquist returned. “Look at it this way. If he’d already found the treasure, he wouldn’t still be keeping the book under lock and key, now would he?”

  Mortar frowned. “Well, yes, but—”

  “No more buts!” Selquist said, irritated. “I don’t have all the answers now, but I will have in just a few days. Just as soon as Auger and I read this book.

  “While we’re doing that,” he continued, “you and Pestle will take this load to Pax Tharkas and sell it there. Just be careful traveling the road. There’s a lot of thieves running about these days.”

  “True enough,” Pestle said and shook his head over the degeneracy of the times. “It’ll take three days to reach Pax Tharkas and three days to return. Give us a day to sell the stuff.”

  “Not in the marketplace,” Selquist cautioned. “Someone from Thorbardin might recognize some of these things.”

  “I may not have an imagination, but I’m smarter than that,” Pestle said stiffly. “I’ll go see my kender friend Rhanga Changehands. He’ll take this stuff and give us a good price.”

  “A kender?” Selquist was skeptical. “Since when are they in the buying end of the thieving business?”

  “He’s been in business a long time. He’s smarter than most kender. I think he must be part human.”

  “That’s not saying much,” Selquist grumbled. “Very well, if that’s the best you can manage. But don’t come back with less than twenty steel. And make sure the kender gives you a receipt.”

  Pestle and Mortar repacked all the items.

  “See you in a week,” Mortar said. “Good luck with the book.”

  * * * * *

  Selquist and Auger slept late, thankful to be in their own beds once again. Once Selquist was up and moving, he woke Auger, started him on the book, and then fixed breakfast.

  The book was more than two inches thick, with heavy parchment pages. Some of the pages were loose and hung out of the binding. The cover was made of limp brown leather, which was worn and starting to peel off in places. No title or marking adorned it. The writing was scratchy and barely legible.

  Handing Auger a plate of eggs and a rasher of bacon, Selquist sat down. “All right. What have we got? Read it aloud. No, not with your mouth full! You’re spitting egg all over the table.”

  Auger gulped down his meal, started with the opening page.

  “ ‘First Day: Halfest, our commander, orders us to hurry up with gathering the provisions. He says that we must leave today, or abandon the quest. He hit Grumold with the whip when Grumold sat down to rest. We hurry.

  “ ‘Later: Grumold is now our commander. He killed Halfest, but says we still have to hurry. Grumold now has the whip. We obey.’ ” Auger looked up at Selquist. “Nice bunch, these Daewar.”

  “I’m sure Grumold had his reasons,” Selquist said stiffly. “Keep reading.”

  Auger settled back and read. Selquist sat in his comfortable chair and listened. Toward evening, when Auger’s voice appeared about to give out, Selquist kept him supplied with nut-ale, which was known to have a coating effect on the throat.

  The book was written, so they discovered, by a Daewar scribe who was in the service of the Daewar Thane at that time. The scribe had been sent along on the quest by the Thane to keep a record of the expedition. Not for posterity, apparently, but because the Thane didn’t trust the expedition’s leaders.

  The first day’s reading followed the Daewar from their home in Thorbardin out into the wilderness. The Daewar marched for days, their scribe writing down such notable events as a knife fight over the remains of the evening’s rabbit stew, during which three Daewar were incapacitated and had to be left behind.

  The only treasure taken thus far was the theft of a fresh-baked pie from a window of a farmer’s cottage.

  By that point, Selquist had fallen asleep in his chair. Waking suddenly from a bad dream in which Chronix was chasing him with a knife in one hand and a hot apple pie in the other, Selquist discovered that Auger was also asleep, his head on the book.

  The two gave up and went to bed.

  * * * * *

  The second day of reading took the Daewar expeditionary force through some unnamed mountains, over an unnamed wasteland, where two more Daewar succumbed to thirst, an affliction with which Auger could sympathize. Toward lunchtime, he complained of a sore throat and, indeed, he could barely croak out the words. Selquist brought more ale and this time laced it with dwarf spirits for both of them. He felt in need of a restorative tonic.

  “I can’t believe this!” Selquist said during a pause in the reading while Auger soothed his vocal cords. “Where’s the loot? Where’s the treasure? Why the devil are they trekking through some godforsaken desert when they could just have easily stolen something closer to home? I don’t think much of this Grumold as a leader.” />
  “Should I quit reading?” Auger asked hopefully.

  “No, we’ll give it until tonight. Keep going.”

  Auger sighed and read on. “ ‘… the approaches through the Doom Range were covered by regiments of draconian warriors—’ ”

  “Stop!” Selquist shouted, and jumped out of his chair. He ran over to a large wooden chest, fastened with three locks. Unlocking the chest, he rummaged about for a moment. Auger, thankful for the respite, took another pull on his ale.

  Selquist removed a map case, opened it, and drew out the map. Mumbling “Doom Range” to himself, he spread the map out on the table. He pointed his finger.

  “Does that say what I think it says?”

  Auger looked. “If you think it says ‘Doom Range,’ you’re right.”

  “I knew it! The Doom Range. Those are the mountains just south of Neraka. Neraka! That’s where they’re going. This could be something, after all. The Dragon Highlords stored all their booty there, or so I’ve heard.” Selquist rubbed his hands together. “This could be big! Very big! Keep reading!”

  Fortified by the ale and buoyed in spirit, Auger continued where he had left off. His monotone droned on into the small hours of the morning, but other than a barroom brawl in Sanction, the scribe recorded nothing of any interest.

  “Damn. I was hoping for more.” Selquist sighed.

  Auger yawned. He was half-drunk, bleary-eyed and barely able to speak. “The rest of the book is in real bad shape. It looks like someone dropped it in a fire.”

  He pointed to the next page, which was partially burned, the writing illegible.

  “I wonder who the idiot was who tried to burn up my book,” Selquist said indignantly. “Probably that louse, Grumold. I hope his Thane sacks him.”

  A snore was the only comment. Auger had fallen forward onto his forehead, sound asleep. Selquist shook him.

  Auger never moved.

  “All right.” Selquist sighed. “I get the hint. Go to bed. We’ll start again in the morning.”

  * * * * *

  But by next morning, Auger had lost his voice completely. Selquist was forced to go hunting down the village cleric, who recited a healing prayer to Reorx, recommended a honey-mustard poultice for the chest, and charged Selquist the exorbitant sum of sixpence for her services.

  The honey and the mustard cost another tenpence and by the time Selquist returned from the market, he’d forgotten whether the poultice was to be applied externally or taken internally. Just to be safe, he did both. By nightfall, Auger could talk, though he was now attracting flies.

  “ ‘Day eighty-one: We’ve been underground for four days now. The quakes caused the walls of our cavern to cave in, but the stone held the roof in place. Vissik and Grevik are leading the digging, but with the loss of Romas and Uluth, who were buried under the rubble, we are sorely undermanned. The—’ ”

  Auger stopped.

  “The what?” Selquist said.

  “I can’t make it out. I think …” Auger pointed to the page. “I think that’s blood!”

  “Great! Not only does this idiot drop my book in the fire, he bleeds on it, too!”

  Auger turned to the next page, which was torn, but readable.

  “ ‘… black-robed mages. We found two alive under all the rocks. We dug them out, then killed them. They did not try to cast spells. We continue to dig into the chamber, and have found what Grumold believes is the north wall. He says that according to the map, we should find a huge oak case that stands taller than a human and which contains many magical items and money and jewels. We are concentrating here in hope …’ ”

  “Yes, yes!” Selquist sat forward eagerly. “Good old Grumold! He’s getting close! What does it say next.”

  “I don’t know.” Auger shook his head. “More blood.”

  Selquist consigned Grumold to the Abyss.

  * * * * *

  The next day, Selquist fed Auger more honey-mustard and slathered the concoction on the dwarf’s chest, ignoring his protests and the fact that Auger’s skin was starting to peel off. Selquist handed his friend the book.

  Auger groaned, but Selquist was merciless. “Read.”

  Auger read. “ ‘… finally broke into the storage antechamber. The damage is not as bad here. The south wall held. The spellbooks were still in place on the shelf. We took them and several weapons that we believe are magical, plus some other stuff.’ ”

  “Stuff! What stuff?” Selquist was excited.

  “He doesn’t say. He just says, ‘We’re all going to be rich. Richer than the Thane. Richer than all the thanes in all of Thorbardin.’ ”

  Auger and Selquist stared at each other. Selquist, grinning widely, jumped up from the table and did a little dance around the living room.

  Auger no longer needed any urging to keep reading. He read so fast now that Selquist could barely understand him. “ ‘We have filled nearly all of our packs with steel and jewels.’ ”

  “Yes! Yes!” Selquist sang and danced.

  “ ‘Some think that this is enough and that we should leave. But Grumold has commanded that we continue digging. He says that he feels great magical power coming from this room.’ ”

  “Dear old Grumold! A true leader of men!” Selquist relapsed back into his chair, breathless but happy. “What did they find? Go on! Go on!”

  “ ‘Later that day: Grumold was right! Just after midday break, Kuvoss discovered a dragon egg in a container under a wall support. What a find! It is still intact, and it is worth more than all of the other items combined!’ ”

  Selquist looked stricken. “That’s it? That’s the big treasure?”

  Auger glanced down the page. “Yeah, it looks that way.”

  “Dragon eggs.” Selquist was gloomy. “Maybe they were worth something twenty-five years ago, but the bottom’s dropped out of that market. Dragons are laying eggs all over the place now. Besides, any egg that’s been sitting around for twenty-five years …” He wrinkled his nose, shook his head. “Grumold, that ninny! No foresight.”

  “You want to hear the rest?”

  “I suppose,” Selquist said glumly.

  “ ‘Later: We have found nine more eggs. They are all unbroken and in good condition. But, unfortunately, they’re not worth as much as we had first hoped.’ ”

  “Hah!” Selquist said in gloomy satisfaction. “Grumold must have taken a look at the futures’ market.”

  “ ‘Vissik found some writing on one of the storage cases. Noorhas translated them, as best he can, for they are written in Common. These eggs purportedly contain female draconians, which were never permitted to hatch. Still, the outer appearance of the eggs has been unchanged. Grumold says we could still sell them as regular dragon eggs—let the buyer beware!’ ”

  “Grumold turns out to be smarter than I gave him credit for,” Selquist admitted. “Keep reading. Maybe it says how much money they got for the eggs.”

  Auger read on, but the rest of the book was nothing more than the story of the Daewar’s journey home, made interesting by accounts of fights breaking out over the treasure, fights which resulted in the deaths of several more Daewar. By the time the book ended, only Grumold and the scribe were left alive.

  The next to the last entry read: “ ‘Grumold and I hid the treasure in a very cunning hiding place that no one will ever find.’ ”

  The last entry went as follows, “ ‘Grumold was executed today on the Thane’s orders for trying to keep the treasure all for himself. He did not know that I was writing this journal, or I am certain he would have never left me alive. I have been handsomely rewarded by the Thane. The map to the treasure trove is in this book, which I will soon hand over to the Thane.’ ”

  “Let me look! Let me look!” Feverishly, Selquist grabbed the book from Auger and turned to the final page.

  It was dirty, crumpled, and blank.

  “Damn! Maybe the map’s in the front.”

  “It’s not,” Auger said, but Selquist had to see
for himself.

  He saw. Nothing.

  Selquist sank down in his chair and stared at nothing. “No map,” he said. “No map.”

  Reaching his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the medallion of the Dark Queen. “I should have sent this off with Mortar. He wouldn’t get near the price I could for it, of course, but about now I’d exchange it for a kender farthing.”

  He paused, let the ideas connect in his head. “Kender farthing. Nonexistant. Invisible. That’s it!” he cried. “Invisible ink.”

  Selquist held the book to the sunlight streaming in through an upper window. He examined every page in the light, but, again, nothing. He tossed the book back onto the table in disgust.

  “There must be a map,” Auger said stubbornly.

  “Maybe not,” Selquist said. “Maybe that’s why that wretch Chronix never used the book. He didn’t have the map. I never did trust him.” He threw the medallion down on top of the book. “As for that bauble, tomorrow night, I’m burying the damn thing. I’m obviously cursed.”

  “But the scribe said that the map was in the book.”

  “Another dwarf whose obviously not to be trusted,” Selquist said dourly. “Look how he betrayed poor Grumold. ‘The map is in the book. The map is in the book.’ ” He suddenly sprang to his feet with a wild, “Ah, ha!”

  “What?” Auger cried, alarmed.

  “Dear, sweet scribe. Blessed beautiful scribe! How could I ever doubt you?”

  Selquist pulled a knife out of his boot. Sliding the blade inside the front cover, he slit the binding open and turned the leather back.

  “The map is in the book,” Selquist said, and triumphantly held up a folded piece of parchment.

  Carefully, his hands trembling with excitement, he unfolded the paper, spread it out on the table.

  It was indeed a map, indicating a maze of tunnels and passageways. The map was obviously drawn by dwarves, for it was extremely detailed, thoughtfully marking traps, how to spring them, and the angle of descent of various passageways.