The Dungeoneers

by John David Anderson

  Quinn shot Colm a concerned look. “I’m not sure I like that old man,” he said. Colm nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s find a good one,” Master Fimbly continued. “Ah. Here we are. Question seventeen. ‘How many guildsmen have perished while in training?’ Now that’s an interesting one, let me see. . . .” He began to tick off his fingers, “Him, and her, and those four, and then there was that whole debacle with the gorgon. Oh, and then there was the poisonous fog—still not sure how that happened . . . twenty-four, twenty-five . . . plus seven—eight if you count her, though she’s technically still alive. My land. You know? I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” The old man began to furl his scroll even though he had only answered one question and didn’t really give an adequate answer to it. “Let’s head indoors, shall we? Still so much to see.”

  Master Fimbly turned and started to make his way inside. Serene grabbed hold of Colm’s arm. “He wasn’t serious, was he? I mean, you can’t really die here. . . .”

  “Only if you’re not good enough,” Lena said, marching past them with one hand on the hilt of her new sword.

  The four of them followed Master Fimbly through the wide double doors and into the great hall. During the day, the castle was a vastly different place. Last night, when they had emerged from the dungeon, the hall had been deserted. Today it was packed. Most everyone was Seysha’s age or younger, though Colm spotted a few grown men and women bustling through. Colm remembered what Finn had said about Master Thwodin liking to start them young.

  They made their way down to the dining area, where several recruits were finishing a meal. Colm noticed most of the trainees stared at him for a moment before returning to their bowls. It’s all right, he told himself. You’re new. A little staring is to be expected.

  “And here,” Master Fimbly said, pushing open a huge iron door, “is where the magic happens.” Quinn rubbed his hands together.

  Colm entered the room and immediately felt a blast of heat. He expected to find himself in some arcane laboratory where potions were brewing and newts were having their eyes poked out, but it was only the kitchen. At least a half dozen fires were raging beneath giant pots. In the center of these stood an intimidating figure. He wore an apron stained several shades of smeared green and red. His shaggy mop of silver hair hung down into his eyes, one of which only seemed to stare at the tip of his onion-bulb nose. He was at least as big as a horse. And almost as hairy.

  “This is Fungus,” Master Fimbly said. “Fungus, these are the new recruits.” Fungus sniffed at them, stuck a finger in his ear, considered what he found there, then wiped it on his shirt, adding it to the mix. “What’s for lunch, Fungus?” Fimbly inquired.

  “Stew,” Fungus grunted.

  “And dinner?”

  “Stew,” Fungus grunted again.

  Fimbly turned to them and spoke in a low voice, which was somehow still loud. “As you can see, Fungus isn’t the most creative cook you’ll ever meet, but the food is always hot and you seldom find anything in your bowl that you can’t identify.”

  Master Fimbly ushered them out the door and down another set of stairs. From behind him, Colm heard Lena say something about Fungus being an unfortunate name for a cook. They passed several training halls and a large room where, it appeared, guild members were busy weighing gold and silver coins, learning to tell the real from the counterfeit, or maybe just helping to count the contents of Tye Thwodin’s coffers. Master Fimbly showed them the stables and the henhouse and the dungeons—“Not the exploring kind,” he explained. “The keeping-prisoners-in kind. Though we currently have no residents.” He showed them a dozen more rooms where people were busy casting spells, swinging axes, or shooting arrows, and all the while the old man recited statistics about how much gold the guild took in per annum and how many famous dungeoneers had served in its hallowed halls. None of them were names Colm had heard of, but at the mention of several, Lena’s face lit like a full moon.

  “Of course, there are some rooms you aren’t allowed to see yet, but it won’t hurt to show you one more.”

  Master Fimbly stopped at another large iron door and inserted a key, swinging it open to reveal a chamber nearly as large as the great hall itself.

  Lena’s eyes suddenly seemed to catch fire, and Colm could actually trace the shiver that made its way along her body. She reached out and steadied herself against Quinn’s shoulder.

  “Breathe, Lena. Just breathe,” she told herself.

  “Behold . . . the armory,” Master Fimbly said.

  Colm had to admit it was impressive. At least a hundred racks and tables dripping with wood and metal, all of it polished and gleaming, the edges so sharp it hurt to look at them. There was a wall of axes, some of them as tall as Colm himself, and another full of swords. Maces. Morning stars. Slings. Bows. Halberds. There were weapons Colm didn’t know the name of, multibladed staffs that looked impossible to hold. Clubs with so many spikes that they looked like brush bristles. There were enough pointy things in this one room to impale a thousand men ten thousand times over. Lena and Quinn rushed to the first weapon they saw, oohing and aahing to each other. Serene waited by the door. Colm politely stood beside her.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  Colm walked in and stood in front of the wall of swords, taking in one that was longer than his leg by half, its grip crested with a round blue stone, its blade etched with unknown symbols. It didn’t look that heavy. He could probably lift it. Could maybe even give it a good, solid swing. Then Finn’s voice whispered inside his head. “You’d be stabbed six times before you even got it out of its scabbard.” He let his eyes gravitate down to the smaller, thinner blades. The ones like Finn’s. He was reaching out for one when he heard Quinn calling him.

  He and Lena were standing at a glass case at the back of the room, just staring at it.

  “Um. It’s a hammer,” Colm said, coming over. And it was. Just a simple smith’s hammer, plain wooden handle, black iron head, notched and dented from use.

  “It’s not just a hammer,” Lena chided him. “This is the hammer. Tye Thwodin’s hammer. The one he used to attack his very first ogre.”

  So Finn hadn’t made that story up, at least.

  “I see you’ve found Smashy,” Professor Fimbly said, sauntering up to join them. “Not a terribly creative name, but then again, Master Thwodin never was much of a poet.”

  “Does he still use it?” Lena asked.

  “Excuse me, dear?”

  “I said, DOES HE STILL USE IT?” Master Fimbly seemed to be terribly hard of hearing. Could explain why he was always yelling.

  “That? Heavens, no. He uses that one now.”

  The old man pointed to the wall behind the case and a war hammer that hung there, its gleaming head easily ten times the size of its diminutive brother. It was five feet long from tip to tip, about as long as Quinn.

  “Its head is triple-folded steel, fused by both fire and magic to a handle of cold iron. It’s been known to bash in armor so badly that parts of the person inside were squeezed out between the slats. It can shatter a dragon’s scale or turn a diamond to dust. And it’s said that the very sight of it causes an ogre’s heart to explode in its very chest.”

  “Wow,” Quinn said. Lena reached out and touched the handle.

  “Does it have a name?” Colm wanted to know.

  The old man nodded. “Smashy Two,” he said reverently.

  Not much of a poet was an understatement.

  “Well, then. Come along now. Tour’s almost over, and I’m afraid Miss Proudmore’s drool might rust the metal.” Fimbly led the way out and Colm followed, pausing to help Quinn drag Lena away. They made it to the door and then got some help from Serene.

  “But I don’t want to go,” Lena pleaded. “Just look at them. They’re all so pretty. Aren’t they beautiful?”

  Serene shook her head. “My culture forbids me to carry weapons forged of iron or steel. They’re an affront to Mother
Nature.”

  “So what do you cut your meat with?” Quinn asked, but Serene took a step away, grimacing.

  “I don’t think she eats meat,” Colm whispered.

  “I guess it would be harder if you could talk to your food,” Quinn surmised.

  “And it could talk back,” Colm said.

  On the way out of the armory, they were all intercepted by Finn.

  “Professor Fimbly, I do hate to interrupt, but I have to borrow your four charges for a moment,” the rogue said. “The founder has managed to find some time in his otherwise busy schedule to meet his new recruits.”

  Carrol Fimbly nodded. “They are all yours, Master Finn,” he said. Colm looked at the old man, wondering how it was he managed to hear Finn just fine when the four of them had to shout to get his attention. Finn seemed to read his thoughts.

  “Master Fimbly only has trouble hearing young voices,” he explained. “Come on. There are some very important people you need to meet.”

  Finn escorted the four of them through a series of twisting hallways and up three flights of stairs, passing a handful of trainees who greeted the rogue with nods of deference but seemed to ignore Colm and the others. One of them looked at Lena and rolled her eyes. Lena stuck out her tongue. Finn noticed, of course. Colm had a feeling there was little that escaped the man.

  “I would like to say that we’re one happy family here, everyone getting along with everyone else, but even I’m not that good a liar,” he said. “No family is happy all the time. We try to discourage infighting, boasting, and taunting as much as possible, but it is the nature of the business. It gets a little competitive.”

  Colm was no stranger to taunting. Serene looked appalled, though. This was the same girl who apologized to the grass as she stepped on it.

  “Of course, once you are down in the depths running from a nest of ogres bent on your untimely demise, you find a way to work out your differences,” the rogue added.

  Finn led them around another corner and paused outside a set of wooden doors trimmed in gold. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his tunic and stood up straight. He looked more nervous than he had when the man outside Felhaven had a sword to his neck. “Listen carefully: The people on the other side of this door have slain six dragons between them. They have journeyed to the ends of the world. They have fought rampaging hordes of undead warriors. They have, in short, seen more between blinks of their eyes than the four of you have seen in a lifetime, so don’t expect them to be too terribly impressed by anything you have to say. Just be respectful, speak only when spoken to, and be sure to address everyone as master.” Finn went to open the door, then stopped himself. “Oh. And don’t say anything about Master Velmoth’s ears.”

  “Wait, what?” Colm said, but Finn had already thrown open the doors.

  Colm expected some fancy hall complete with gilded thrones and bleating trumpets, but he walked into a small room with a single fireplace and one long crescent-shaped table that stretched halfway across it. There were nine chairs at the table, but only four of them were occupied. On the left end sat a tall, raven-haired woman with eyes like ponds and a plum-colored cape draped across her shoulders. Her almost coal-black skin shone in the firelight. Next to her sat Herren Bloodclaw, the goblin responsible for scaring Colm half to death last night. He was busy scribbling something on a piece of parchment and didn’t even bother to look up when Finn escorted them in. To the far right sat another man Colm had never seen before. Spindly, pale, and anemic-looking, he had a beakish nose, a bald head, and two solid black eyes that shone like marbles.

  And bunny ears.

  Not the perky ovals of the white rabbits Colm would sometimes catch in Felhaven, but two sad, droopy, flopping brown flaps like fallen oak leaves hanging down over his cheeks.

  Master Velmoth, Colm presumed.

  In the center sat a hulking, armor-clad behemoth with a sun-colored bush of a beard and feet as big as ship’s hulls. The only man in the room who could probably even lift Smashy Two, let alone swing it. It gave Colm pause just looking at him, sitting in a chair at least twice the size of the others, his huge fists like iron anvils, stacked one upon the other.

  He looked bored to death.

  It was obvious that they had walked in on an argument, though it seemed to be only between the two masters sitting on the ends.

  “I’m telling you, you have to try a reverse transfiguration spell.”

  “And I’m telling you that I already tried one,” Master Velmoth spit.

  “Not using my incantation, you haven’t.”

  “I can’t use your incantation, Merribell. You’re a bloody cleric. If I let you try to reverse it, you’ll end up cleansing my soul or some such nonsense, and then where will I be?”

  “At peace with the world?” the woman suggested.

  “Exactly! When all I really want is my old ears back!”

  “Shut your traps,” Master Thwodin commanded, pointing with one meaty finger at Colm and the rest. “Master Argos has brought our guests.”

  The woman named Merribell and the man with the floppy ears instantly shut up. Herren Bloodclaw looked up, sighed, and then went back to his scribbling.

  “Our newest recruits,” Finn said, pushing Colm and the others forward a step, like he was corralling sheep. “May I introduce you to Lena Proudmore from Kingsfort. A fighter by nature, but hoping someday to become”—Finn coughed, cleared his throat—“a barbarian.”

  Lena bowed, then stood at attention, one hand across her chest in that same gesture Colm had seen her make before. “My sword is yours, masters,” she said gravely.

  “Then tell it to stay the bloody hell away from me,” the goblin sniped without looking up. Tye Thwodin chuckled. He waved his hand, indicating that Finn should move along.

  “Ahem. Yes,” Finn continued, nudging Lena out of the way. “Next we have Quinn Frostfoot. A mageling with much untapped talent, also from Kingsfort.”

  “Um. At your s-s-service, if it pl-pl-please you, masters.”

  “You stay away from me too, Tremble Tongue.” The goblin snorted.

  “Please, Renny. I don’t think your commentary is called for,” Master Merribell, the woman at the far end of the table, chided. “The poor lad is obviously nervous enough.”

  “All the more reason!” the goblin snapped. On the far other side of the table, Master Velmoth shook his head, ears slapping against his cheeks.

  “Serene Willowtree of the Eve,” Finn said, interrupting by pushing the reluctant girl forward. “A druid with an innate ability to commune with the natural world. Up to a point.”

  Serene held her staff in front of her and bowed reverently. “I am here to learn,” she said softly. Colm noticed Master Merribell’s smile. He had a good guess who had brought Serene into the fold.

  “And finally, may I present Colm Candorly of Felhaven.”

  Colm felt a nudge from Finn’s boot and took a step forward. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he shoved them into his pockets, feeling the silver coin that was his again and clutching it fiercely in his palm.

  “Um. Hello . . . I mean, I’m honored, your . . . master-full-ness . . . sir.”

  “And what exactly are you supposed to be?” Master Velmoth asked, his voice cold and stern. Colm looked at his enormous ears and felt like he could ask the man the very same question.

  “I’m a thief,” Colm said.

  “A rogue,” Finn corrected quickly.

  “He’s a thief,” Tye Thwodin fired back. “And he will be a thief until you train him to be otherwise. Tell me, Colm Candorly, how much coin have you collected in your life?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Colm answered, wondering why, of all of them, he was the only one being questioned. Was it simply because he was last? Or was it because he didn’t have a fancy salute or a sword? Was it because he didn’t have untapped magical talent or couldn’t talk to birds? Did that mean he didn’t belong here with the rest of them? Colm thought of the coins spread
out over his table at home. “I had a pretty big pile,” he said.

  Tye Thwodin laughed. “A pretty big pile? Could it fill this room three times over?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, then, you have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Master Velmoth of the floppy ears laughed. Colm was about to respond when Finn stepped forward.

  “Mr. Candorly is an expert pickpocket, Master Thwodin, snatching a piece of silver from my very boot while I wasn’t looking.”

  “Is that so?” Tye Thwodin said, narrowing his eyes at Finn and then turning them on Colm. He felt Finn’s arm draped across his shoulder, four fingers giving his arm the slightest squeeze.

  “Yes, sir,” Colm said. “It was part of my test. That, and the dungeon.”

  “Yes, the dungeon,” Master Thwodin said dismissively. “A level one, standard grid, only one trap, tumble lock, no real monsters to speak of.”

  The goblin grunted.

  “Excuse me, Ren. No dangerous monsters to speak of. And yet one of you nearly got his head zapped by a bolt of lightning,” Tye Thwodin grumbled.

  Colm sensed that this wasn’t going well. Or maybe this is how it always went. Maybe that was the point of this meeting, for Tye Thwodin, the founder, the man with dungeon diving dripping in his veins, to size up his prospective recruits, to weed through them before they even got started.

  Finn quickly came to their defense. “They made it through in record time, I believe. I submitted all the paperwork to you this morning.”

  “Yes. Yes. The report.” Master Thwodin reached inside his tunic and removed a pair of glasses that were too small for his mountainside face, then snatched a piece of parchment from the table. “Here we are. A thief with nine fingers who’s never held a sword in his life.”

  “I picked one up just yesterday,” Colm started to say, but another squeeze of his shoulder told him to be quiet. Tye Thwodin continued.