“A would-be druid who can’t seem to pass her trials because she’s afraid of talking to bears and mountain lions.”
“It’s the teeth.” Serene sighed. “Mostly.”
“Mm. A mageling who stutters when he’s casting spells, often causing them to misfire.”
“Only when I’m n-n-nervous,” Quinn explained.
“And a warrior who can’t bear the sight of blood.”
Colm looked over at Lena, who was blushing fiercely, squeezing the handle of her sword so tight that her fingertips were white.
“Just my own blood,” she protested through clenched teeth. “I have no problem with anyone else’s.”
“Well, then, you had better be the greatest warrior in all the land.” Master Velmoth smirked.
“I plan to be,” Lena responded coolly. Velmoth’s grin instantly reversed itself.
But Tye Thwodin was smiling now, at least. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking at the effort of holding him up. “She’s a fiery one,” he said.
“I told you,” Herren Bloodclaw added.
“Though if she falls down and skins her knee, she’s done for.” Tye Thwodin wound his massive fingers into his thicket of beard, twisting it this way and that. “So this is what an adventuring party looks like nowadays,” he said, staring at them in turn. “Do you know what our guild’s motto is?”
Colm had no idea. He hadn’t seen it written on any statues in the numerous gardens. It hadn’t been emblazoned on any banners hanging from the stone walls. And he wasn’t alone. Even Lena didn’t know, and he thought she knew everything about this stuff.
“‘We descend so we may rise,’” Tye Thwodin answered.
“I thought it was ‘One for you. Two for me,’” the goblin remarked, earning a reproachful look from the armored giant and quickly shutting up.
“It means,” Thwodin growled, “that even in the deepest, dankest, most decrepit dungeons can be found the most priceless treasure. It means that there are ways to make it in this world without being born with a silver spoon shoved in your gullet. It means that no matter where you start from, you can claw your way to the surface and feel that golden sun shining on your face. Now I’m not sure how a stuttering mage, a swooning barbarian, a timid druid, and a fledgling rogue will play out in the bards’ songs, but I’ve shaped the most brittle iron into a blade so strong it can cut through a behemoth’s hide. So as long as you are members of this guild, we will turn you into dungeoneers, or my name’s not Tye Thwodin.” He pounded on the table, causing the other three sitting at it to jump. Then he spread his giant arms.
“Welcome to my Legion.”
7
GETTING A SCRATCH
That could have gone worse,” Finn said as he escorted them back toward the great hall.
“It could have?” Quinn questioned.
Finn nodded emphatically. “I’ve seen Master Thwodin reduce fresh recruits to sniveling puddles of snot, making them quit before they even got started. I think he was impressed. In his own way.”
Colm couldn’t imagine why. Tye Thwodin had spent most of the time pointing out their faults. It didn’t seem like it had gone well at all. But at least it was over.
They entered the great hall, and Finn informed them that they would be spending the rest of the afternoon with their mentors—the masters who would be primarily responsible for helping each of them hone his or her respective talent. For Lena, it meant an afternoon with Sasha Stormbow, the swordswoman who had recruited her. Serene would spend it with Evelan Merribell, the cleric, which made Serene smile.
Quinn, on the other hand, was shaking in his robes.
“M-master V-v-v . . . Master V-v-v . . .” He couldn’t spit out the name.
“I assure you Master Velmoth is a very capable mage, bunny ears aside,” Finn said. “And he’s the only spellcaster here who specializes in offensive magic, so he’s really an ideal fit for you.”
“B-b-b-but I’ve heard s-s-stories . . .”
Finn shook his head, putting a hand reassuringly on Quinn’s shoulder. “We all have stories,” he said. “And I assure you that in Master Velmoth’s case, only half of them are true.”
Quinn nodded, uneasy.
Colm, of course, would spend the afternoon with Finn.
“It’s a matter of necessity, really,” the rogue explained as they left the other three in the hall to await their mentors. “As it happens, I am the only rogue in residence, so most of your training will be my responsibility. There used to be three of us, but Master Passel retired recently with a bad case of nerves—shaky hands make disarming traps a touchy business—and Master Belm tripped his trigger a few moons ago, exploring Orc’s Pass.”
“Tripped his trigger?” Colm asked, looking back at his friends, then thinking about how strange it was for him to use that word already. Friends. He had known them for less than a day. And yet he felt connected to them. Something about thinking you are all going to die in a smelly old dungeon together does that to you, he guessed.
“That’s rogue-speak for met his makers,” Finn explained. “There’s also ‘picked the wrong pocket,’ ‘unlocked his own door,’ ‘stopped the dagger with his back,’ ‘paid his debts,’ ‘lost his wager,’ ‘slipped into the shadow,’ and ‘cut the wrong rope.’ There’s more. Would you like to hear them?”
“No. Thank you,” Colm said. He followed Finn through a series of twists and turns. He had no idea where in the castle they were. Or where they were headed.
“Of course, anyone else—a warrior, a wizard, a ranger, you name it—they just die, plain and simple. But we rogues are much too clever for that. Here, I want you to see something.”
Finn led Colm down a set of stairs and along a hall. He took several turns and opened several more doors, using a set of keys produced from his cloak, before stopping in front of a rather unassuming iron portal with no window and only one keyhole. The keyhole was set into a complicated-looking mechanism made entirely of silver. A gold placard by the door said PROPERTY OF TYE THWODIN. KEEP OUT.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, knocking on the door, which responded with a hollow echo.
Colm had seen dozens of rooms already. He couldn’t remember which door led where. For all he knew, they were at the back door of the kitchen, though he would have at least smelled Fungus’s stew simmering. “Storage closet?” he guessed.
Finn shook his head. “This is the most important room in the whole castle.”
It didn’t look like the most important room in the castle. Aside from its fancy lock, it looked completely ordinary. “What’s inside?”
Finn’s eyes grew big. “Half,” he said.
“Half?”
“Half. Half of everything. Every bag of silver. Every cache of jewels. Every chest. You’ve read the contract. The guild gets half, and Tye Thwodin sticks it down here.”
Colm moved to put his hand on the door, but Finn caught him around the wrist. He shook his head. “Better not.” Colm pulled his hand back.
“How much is half?” he wondered.
Finn Argos shrugged and leaned against the wall. “Enough to make a hundred kings weep. Enough to buy a dozen castles . . . or maybe not. Truth be told, I’ve never been inside. No one has, save for Tye Thwodin himself.”
Colm had a hard time believing that. It was just a door. With only the one lock. Surely someone would have gotten inside eventually, if only out of curiosity, just to take a look. “You’d think someone would have tried to open it,” Colm ventured.
“Many have,” Finn replied. He pointed to the silver lock. “Except that single lock is the most complicated combination of magic and mechanization that has ever been invented. Failed attempts to pick it can result in death by half a dozen means. Incineration. Disintegration. Decapitation. Currently I believe it’s a stone-turning spell, which is a nasty enough way to go. The only way to get past it is with the key, and the only known key stays close to Master Thwodin’s heart, tied to an unbreakable cor
d around his neck.”
Colm shook his head. “So if we can’t even look inside, what’s the point? Why even bring me down here?”
“To show you that treasure does exist for people like us. That if you decide to stay and learn and be part of our guild, you can become rich—rich enough to feed your whole family yourself. Rich enough to build a bigger house, or kick the magistrate out of his. Rich enough that all of them will be looking up at you.”
Colm didn’t say anything. He imagined what his parents would say if they were standing here beside him. Would they tell him to stay? To learn to become a dungeoneer on the chance that he might one day share in Tye Thwodin’s wealth? Or would they beg him to just come home already? To go help his father fixing shoes in the barn?
“You miss them, your family,” Finn said. “But this is what you were made for, Colm. You have a gift. Maybe it’s not highly thought of by all, but I can teach you how to use it. If you’ll let me. Then, one day, maybe, we can sit and count our coin together.”
He put a hand on Colm’s shoulder, and Colm let it linger. He still felt as if there were too many things he didn’t know about Finn Argos, but at least the rogue was looking after him. He clearly wanted Colm to stay.
Colm wanted to stay.
“Enough daydreaming.” The rogue sighed. “Did Fimbly get around to showing you the back gardens? They are rather pretty, if you like that sort of thing.” Colm shook his head, and Finn said, “Let’s go.”
“All right,” Colm said. But he didn’t move.
He simply couldn’t take his eyes off the door.
Colm spent the rest of the afternoon viewing the gardens and the springs and the waterfall where, Finn said, most everyone but Fungus took their weekly bath. Finn showed him more training rooms where dungeoneers practiced their combat skills, avoiding the charmed ones where the mages practiced theirs—rule number six. On the way, they ran into Lena and Master Stormbow, who were already hard at work dueling with wooden swords and shields. The castle’s resident weapons master looked hawkishly graceful and just as deadly, and was clearly the superior in every possible way, but Lena held her own, doing her best to parry each thrust. Colm just hoped she wouldn’t get a splinter.
“It looks like she decided to stay,” Colm said, watching Lena spin and whirl like a maple seed caught in the wind.
Finn nodded. “Miss Proudmore signed her contract before we even dumped her in the dungeon,” he replied.
“And the others?” Colm asked.
“Both Quinn and Serene have signed on as well,” Finn said with a smile. “But no party is complete without a rogue.”
Colm looked back at Lena. That sounded like something she would say.
They finished the afternoon back at the armory. Even though Colm told him that Master Fimbly had already taken them there, Finn insisted they visit again.
“A thousand different weapons,” Finn pondered as they entered, “but none as sharp as that one between your ears.”
Colm noticed him rubbing at his scar, the one that charted a course from cheek to chin. “You never told me how you got it,” he said, pointing. “The scar, I mean. The fingers I know, but not that.”
Actually, Finn hadn’t told Colm the full story of how he’d lost his fingers either, except that they had been taken from him as punishment for acts of thievery, back before he joined the guild and became, in his words, “somewhat respectable.”
“Oh, this little thing?” Finn said, tracing the white stitching with his fingertip. “This was the work of goblins. A goblin executioner, to be precise. A burly, red-skinned fellow, almost orc sized, if you can believe it. Had a gut that you could rest your feet on and an ax that could take them off in one stroke. I had been captured trying to nip some of their knickknacks, and they had me tied to a rock to keep my handsome head in place so they could part it from my shoulders.” The rogue drew his finger beneath his chin.
“You were about to unlock your own door,” Colm said.
“So to speak. Lucky for me, goblins aren’t terribly good at tying knots. When the ax came down, I shifted just enough—and yet not quite enough. The ax tore through the hemp that held me as I had hoped, but it left this reminder. I kicked Red Face in his prodigious gut and sent him bowling into his friends, then freed my hands, scooped some gold, and took the first tunnel I could find to safety, running so fast my feet hardly touched ground.”
Colm looked at Finn, making no attempt to hide his awe.
“You can pick up your chin, Mr. Candorly. There are many here with even better stories than that one. Now let’s see.” The rogue strolled over to the wall of swords, a finger to his lips. Finally he nodded, then pulled a short, thin one from its hooks and held it in both hands, feeling the balance. It was less than three feet long, with a razor-thin blade that looked like it might snap if bent over a man’s knee. But it had a beautiful silver hilt, and a pommel fashioned in the likeness of a cat’s paw. The point of it was so fine, Colm was sure he could clean under his nails with it.
“It’s called Scratch,” Finn said. “Don’t let the kitty fool you. It’s incredibly light, and the steel is quite strong . . . and,” he said, holding the hilt out for Colm to see, “it has a surprise.” He flipped a tiny latch, and the cat’s paw flipped open, revealing a hollow space in the handle. “Perfect for storing a pick or a pinch of poison or even a scroll, if it’s rolled tight enough. It’s a rogue’s weapon if I’ve ever seen one.” He held it out to Colm, who took it reluctantly, almost as if he were afraid it would bite him.
“Scratch,” he whispered to himself.
As a young boy back in Felhaven, Colm had been the scourge of the nearby woods. At least ten thousand leaves had perished at his hand. Untold dandelions had lost their heads as he gamboled through, swinging tree branches, felling giants and slaying dragons by the score. But this wasn’t a stripped tree branch. Colm held Scratch in his five-fingered hand and gave it a tentative thrust. Apparently he looked like a fool doing it, because Finn laughed. Determined, or just irritated, Colm turned and slashed out with greater force, managing to knock over a rack of spears, which clattered to the ground, making an enormous racket.
“Sorry,” he said, setting the sword down on the floor.
“Yes, well. Maybe we should find a safe place to stick that thing for now,” and the rogue began searching for a scabbard while Colm cleaned up his mess.
By the time they were finished at the armory, Colm not only had a Scratch on his leg—he also had a new bag complete with everything he would need to start his training as a rogue. “All the tools of the trade,” Finn said, cinching the sack closed and handing it over.
Colm had to admit he felt different, decked out as he was, armed for the first time in his life. He could start to imagine himself as someone with a story. And for the first time since arriving at the castle, he didn’t feel completely out of place. He glanced in his bag. It held a set of lockpicks, a small dagger—good mostly for carving your initials in things, Finn said—and a small gem that Finn called a sunstone. Amber colored and barely the size of a coin, it would glow in the dark if allowed to charge first in daylight, Finn insisted. A handy thing when the last torch dies. As they walked back to the great hall together, Colm stayed back a pace, admiring his new sword. Finn stopped beside the archway. The room was nearly full, Colm saw. Fungus was busy dishing up supper.
“I believe your friends are waiting for you,” Finn said, pointing to a table in the back corner where Serene, Lena, and Quinn looked up. “I trust you don’t need me to show you how to eat?”
Colm shook his head. “So what happens next?”
“Well, if you’re lucky, there’s dessert. Fungus makes a passable cobbler.”
“No. I mean, what’s next for me?”
Finn turned and looked up at the hourglass clock hanging above the huge front doors. “You have until midnight to decide. If you want to stay and learn to be a dungeoneer, simply sign your contract and slip it under your door. Somebody
will come and retrieve it.”
“And if I decide to go back home?”
“Then more gold for me, I suppose,” Finn said with smirk.
Colm looked over the rogue’s shoulder at the complicated clock, nineteen of its hourglasses empty, only five remaining. “I don’t suppose they’d let me keep the sword.”
Finn shook his head. “Property of the guild. Taking it without joining would be an act of thievery, and you know how thieves are punished.” Finn waggled his fingers. “But you don’t need a sword like that back in Felhaven anyways, now do you?”
Colm traced his finger along Scratch’s silver paw. The rogue nodded toward the corner where Serene was standing, waving Colm over.
“Rule number forty-seven. Never keep a woman waiting,”
“You skipped a few,” Colm said. He was pretty sure the last rule he’d learned was number eight.
“Another reason for you to stay,” Finn fired back. “You still have a lot to learn.”
Colm entered the dining hall and made his way to the back. He sat next to Quinn, who had his chin in his stew. As soon as Colm sat, Serene pounced on him, grabbing his arm with both hands.
“You’ll never guess what I got to do today!” she said; then she did a double take. “Did you cut your hair? There’s something different about you.”
“He got a sword,” Lena said, pointing to Colm’s side with her spoon. Naturally she would be the first to notice.
“Oh. One of those,” Serene muttered. “You people and your love for pointy things.”
“Your hair is pointy,” Quinn said, nodding toward Serene’s braided tufts.
“Yes, but I can’t stab anyone with it.”
“I doubt Colm can either,” Lena said from across the table. Her hair, which normally draped over one eye, had been pinned back, and he could see both of those eyes sparkling from across the table.
“How hard can it be?” he said, pointing to the hilt of Scratch. “Just hold it out and wait for something to run into it.”
Lena grunted. “You’ll be short another finger by the end of the week,” she said. She was teasing him, Colm knew. He just wasn’t sure what that meant, that they knew each other so short a time and she already felt like she could mock him without him getting mad. And what it meant that she was right.
The Dungeoneers Page 12