The Dungeoneers

by John David Anderson

  Then he signed his name in the space left over.

  8

  A THOUSAND WAYS TO DIE

  For breakfast there was stew.

  It wasn’t the same stew as the night before, Colm noted. It was mostly potatoes and ham, with a rogue carrot surfacing every now and again. The bread that accompanied it was glazed in honey, at least, but that didn’t make it not stew for breakfast.

  “I’m thinking I could get tired of this,” Lena said, staring at her spoon.

  “Not me,” Quinn said through a slurpful. “My mother is a terrible cook. You know she’s a terrible cook.”

  “Yes, but at least she’s not named after something you find under your toenails,” Lena fired back.

  Colm smiled. He could get tired of it too, he supposed—the stew at least—but he owed it to himself, and to his family, to see just how long it would take. He had made his decision, and any minute now he expected to see Finn’s hawkish nose appearing in the archway, ready to congratulate him.

  Serene was trying to pick around the ham, but eventually she gave up and pushed her bowl toward Quinn, who traded his roll for it. She muttered something about the need for more nature-sensitive options.

  “Fungus doesn’t look like the kind of guy who takes requests,” Colm said, glancing back toward the kitchen, where the gruff giant of a man had a cleaver in one hand, hacking away at something that would surely find its way into lunch.

  Colm had spent the entire night last night wondering what he was getting himself into, and had awakened this morning with a sense of unease, a feeling that he was out of place, pretending to be something he wasn’t. But when he showed up for breakfast, Lena simply said, “Nice of you to join us,” and offered him the seat beside her. He took it without hesitation.

  “We got our training itineraries,” Quinn said, handing a piece of parchment to Colm; on it was listed a breakdown of where they needed to be when. “We spend the mornings together and then meet with our mentors for individualized instruction in the afternoon.”

  Colm looked at the sheet. History of Dungeoneering with Master Fimbly. Dungeon Ecology with Master Bloodclaw. Basic Survival Skills with Master Argos.

  “Master Wolfe was supposed to lead that last one,” Quinn said, “but he’s still away.”

  Colm didn’t know who Master Wolfe was. He hadn’t been one of the four sitting at the long oak table yesterday—presumably one of the empty seats. Colm was glad to be spending more time with Finn, though. Master Fimbly was obviously very knowledgeable, but you couldn’t ask him any questions without shouting, and the goblin was still unnerving.

  “What a waste of time,” Lena moaned, slumping in her chair. “Basic Survival Skills? What’s he going to teach us? How to rub sticks together? If you ask me, I think all that time would be much better spent in combat training.”

  “I don’t know,” Serene chimed in. “Maybe we’ll get to identify different kinds of edible moss.” She sounded sincere. Then again, Serene always sounded sincere.

  Colm had to side with Lena on this one: If it came down to eating moss or learning how to use Scratch without hurting himself, he would pass on the moss.

  “I’m sure it’s all important,” Quinn said. “Master Thwodin wants us fit for delving as soon as possible. He wouldn’t have us wasting time on anything pointless.”

  “You’re just glad you don’t have to spend all day with Flopsy,” Lena chided. Quinn turned red and went back to Serene’s stew.

  Colm looked around for the three older members who had bumped into them yesterday but couldn’t spot them. Maybe they had already eaten. Or maybe Tye Thwodin had sent them into a dungeon, and they were eaten by something.

  Quinn pointed to the last two bites of Colm’s roll, sitting beside his empty bowl. “Are you going to eat that?”

  From the apex of the castle came the chime of the bell.

  Colm pushed the half-chewed remainders of his breakfast across the table. It was his first official day as a dungeoneer, and all of a sudden he didn’t have much of an appetite.

  The training regimen at the guild, Master Fimbly had explained the day before, consisted of two parts: theoretical knowledge and practical application. The theoretical portion was taught in the castle’s western wing, in a series of mostly windowless chambers that were little more than rows of splintered tables and blankets of dust. The practical application took place in a variety of locations: the training rooms, for example, or in Master Bloodclaw’s labyrinthine playground beneath the castle, or—eventually—in real dungeons with actual treasure, though Colm was certain that those would come much later. In the beginning, Fimbly told them, they could expect to spend a good deal more time in an old chair than an orc’s lair.

  And so it was that Colm and his companions squeezed into a set of uncomfortable wooden seats in a musty room. They weren’t alone. There were five other would-be dungeoneers in the room, clustered into a group on the other side. Judging by the style of dress and weaponry, Colm guessed they probably satisfied Herm Hefflegeld’s requirements for proper party configuration. He had only been here one day, but he had already gotten fairly adept at identifying who was what. Shirt made of metal, heavy sharp things dangling off you like icicles? Probably a warrior of some kind. More into black leather and short, pokey weapons that can be tucked up shirtsleeves or hidden in boots? A rogue. Elaborate, multicolored bathrobe and occasional nose piercing? A wizard of some sort. Talking to every buzzing, crawling, squawking thing you see? Must be a druid. Colm had overheard talk of others—paladins and healers and clerics and such—but it seemed like his crew covered all the most popular bases.

  The five sitting across from them ran the gamut, and they obviously knew each other, but unlike Tyren and his two cronies at dinner last night, these five didn’t scowl at Colm as soon as he walked in the door. If anything, they looked just as nervous as he was. Colm smiled and waved, and one of the five, a girl, waved meekly back.

  Master Fimbly stumbled in, dressed in the same robes as the day before, whispering to himself. On his desk he set a tottering stack of leather tomes that nearly reached the ceiling, threatening to topple and crush the old man as he bustled by. “Please take your seats,” Fimbly said, even though everyone already had. The old man rifled through several sheets of parchment before finding the one he wanted. Then he began calling names, checking them off with a quill. “Candorly?”

  “Here,” Colm said, his voice still gravelly from morning.

  “Candorly?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said a little more clearly.

  “COLM CANDORLY?” the old man repeated.

  “HERE, SIR!” Colm yelled.

  Fimbly looked up and smiled. “Ah good. Thought maybe you decided not to join us after all,” he said with a wink. Master Fimbly proceeded to call the other names. “Crowfriend? Dagnor? Golen? Johaggen? Tobbs?” When he got to the end, he looked over the class, took a deep breath, and said, quite matter-of-factly: “One of you will be dead within a year.”

  Colm shook his head, wondering if the old man’s hearing problems had rubbed off on him.

  “Actually, it’s more like one and a half of you,” Fimbly explained, “though I’m not sure you can be half dead. That is, unless you are transformed into a zombie, which is entirely possible.”

  “Complete waste of time,” Lena muttered to herself, rolling her eyes.

  “Excuse me, MASTER FIMBLY?” called out Johaggen, the girl who had waved at Colm. She was dressed the same as Master Merribell—white cloth with gold and silver embroidery and swatches with arcane symbols sewn into them, bits of armor across the legs and shoulders, and a mace that looked just right for caving skulls in by her side. “How exactly do you know that one of us will die before the year is over? I mean, is there a prophecy or something?”

  Master Fimbly shook his head. “No prophecy, dear. Just the law of averages. It is dangerous work, dungeoneering; has the second highest on-the-job mortality rate in the land, next to lumberjacks. T
errible business, lumberjacking.”

  “I agree completely,” Serene said.

  Fimbly began fumbling at the stack of books, handing out one for each of the nine trainees, who were still staring at each other, no doubt thinking the same thing Colm was: Which one of us does he have in mind?

  “Make no mistake,” Fimbly continued, “the history of dungeoneering is full of acts of tremendous valor and cunning, with gifted and masterful young men and women, many of them not much older than yourselves, bravely descending into the deepest, darkest corners of the world, armed with wits, weaponry, and wizardry, chasing after the promise of untold riches and unbridled distinction . . . and often ending in an untimely and gruesome death.”

  Serene passed back a copy of the book, and Colm looked at the cover. It showed a gleaming knight standing tall against a rearing dragon, its ragged black wings spread, smoke pouring from its nostrils, ready to confront the stalwart dungeoneer. A promising start. He flipped it over to the back to find the same dragon, curled up asleep around its treasure, the hollowed, smoking remains of a suit of armor on the ground beside it. So much for happy endings.

  Colm held up the back of the book to show Lena.

  “That would never happen to us,” she whispered.

  “Over the course of the next several weeks,” Fimbly continued, “we will study the chronology of dungeoneering, from the early days of the barbarian hordes to the present-day bards’ songs you are all probably familiar with. Along the way, we will consider the implications such history has on our own endeavors, namely, what we can learn from the successes—and failures—of the dungeoneers who have come before us.”

  “Bor-ring,” Lena groaned, blowing her bangs out of her face. Quinn was busy gawking at the smoking remains of the knight on the back cover of the book.

  Master Fimbly reached behind his podium and produced a drawing, a sketch in black and white showing a giant head perched upon an equally bloated body, all of which was about to be punctured by what looked to be a wall of thorns. Serene brought a hand to her mouth.

  “Case study number one,” Fimbly said. “The Wolf Pack. Cal Steelheart, warrior. Chloe Silverfoot, cleric. Fern Fiddlehorn, mage. Darren D’Arlen, rogue. Ventured into Thorn’s Hollow in search of the lost treasure of the famous orc raider Vergo Bloodringer. Things went well until Darren failed to disarm a class five spiked wall trap, Chloe’s globe of protection fizzled, and Fern accidentally reversed his shrinking spell, making the party of four even larger as the walls closed in.”

  “Oooh.” Serene winced, mirroring the look of terror on the face of the giant-headed man about to be pincushioned in the picture.

  “Goes to show that even the most well-balanced party can fall apart sometimes,” Fimbly added.

  Colm didn’t know a lot about magic, but he guessed an enlarging spell and a spiked wall trap weren’t an ideal combo. Professor Fimbly put the sketch on his desk and pulled up another drawing. This one showed four knights, dressed to the hilt in plate armor, riding astride equally well-armored steeds. Everything about them radiated courage and righteousness.

  “The Brothers of the Four Swords. Sworn paladins. Twice blessed with every manner of protection you could think of. Protection from fire. From lightning. From cold, charm, disintegration, poison, lava, you name it. Descended into the underbelly of Bloodtooth Gorge but forgot to bring a rogue along with them, or maybe just thought they were too good for one. Triggered a simple level one pit trap just inside the entrance and fell to their deaths, impaling themselves on their own swords.”

  The Brothers of the Four Swords disappeared, dropping facedown onto the desk much the same way they had dropped into that pit. Fimbly’s next drawing was a landscape, showing a peaceful wood and a river coursing through it. There was no sign of dragons or orcs or collapsing walls or fireballs anywhere. No geysers of blood or circling vultures. Colm could see the mountains swelling in the background, but that was about it.

  “The infamous Imon Invale. A gifted adventurer with a knack for both thievery and spellcasting. Considered by many to be the greatest solo adventurer of his time. One night, on a bet, Invale descended into Fang’s Hollow. He supposedly fought off three packs of goblins, a skeleton warlord, and a giant wyrm, all by his lonesome. Filled his purses and pockets with gold and made it back to the surface without a scratch. There he tripped on a branch, lost his balance, tumbled into a river, and drowned. You can see his hand sticking out right . . . here.” Fimbly pointed to a splotch in the drawing that looked like it was just the current of the river moving.

  “Why didn’t he swim back to shore?” Lena asked.

  “The gold in his pockets probably weighed him down,” Quinn guessed.

  Fimbly set down the picture of Imon Invale’s unfortunate last step, then reached under his podium and pulled out a huge stack, each of them an artist’s rendering of a dungeoneer who had met an unfortunate demise. He started holding them up one by one, rattling them off—not the names any longer, just how they’d perished, slapping them emphatically on the desk. “Impaled, drowned, burned, impaled, cursed, exploded, slashed, imploded, frozen, poisoned, turned to stone, turned to ash, turned into a chicken, impaled, crushed, smashed, stepped on, disintegrated, turned into stone and then smashed, turned into a chicken and then eaten, burned, squished, suffocated, swallowed whole, and mostly turned into a chicken.”

  The last drawing showed a man—at least, it might have been a man, except he was covered in feathers and had wings instead of arms, and spindly stalks for legs ending in clawed toes. He had a beak for a nose. It was the most grotesque thing Colm had ever seen, and he had changed Elmira’s soiled linens. Twice.

  “Of course, no reward comes without some risk,” Master Fimbly concluded.

  “I think I’m going to pass out,” said the girl with the long braids on the opposite side of the room. Serene had stopped looking long ago, her hands cupped over her eyes. Lena doodled on a piece of parchment. Colm was fascinated.

  Master Fimbly put his gory sketches away and took a deep breath. “The history of dungeoneering is essentially the history of retribution. Ever since the first goblin raiding parties decided to venture out of their caves and steal our sheep and torch our crops, our kind has sought to settle the debt. Only we can’t very well steal our livestock back after the filthy, bloodthirsty creatures have devoured them raw, can we? So instead we take their gold. You might say that it is the orcs and trolls and goblins and all the other shadow-loving, vile denizens of the deep who brought it on themselves. We’re just taking back what’s ours.”

  Colm thought of the silver coin. It was still in his pocket. He had put it there this morning when he changed. There was nothing to spend it on here—everything he could want was provided for him—but he thought it might be good luck.

  “Dungeoneering,” Fimbly continued, “is about a group of people coming together, using their various skills and talents to face untold dangers in the hopes of sharing the bounty bought by their courage. It is brothers and sisters standing back to back amid the crash of blades, the sizzle of spells, and the snarl of hideous beasts. It is the snap of the lock and the creak of the lid as the chest opens to reveal a sea of sparkling coin that blinds you if you stare too long.

  “But mostly it is about revenge.”

  “Dungeoneering is little more than armed robbery.”

  Those were the first words out of Herren Bloodclaw’s mouth the moment Colm and his companions shuffled in and took their seats. At first he hadn’t actually even seen the goblin, standing behind the podium in the front of the room, his head barely tall enough to crest it. Only when the bell chimed did Master Bloodclaw get their attention, scrambling on top of the podium so that he was finally taller than they were—provided they stayed seated.

  “Let’s get one thing straight!” the goblin shouted. “I don’t like you. In fact, deep down, I detest each and every one of you. It’s in my blood. I’m a goblin, and that’s just how it goes. The truth is, none of th
em like you. Not the trolls or the orcs or the ogres or the crawlers or the kobolds or the wyverns. Not the basilisks or the brownies or the lichs or the wraiths or the wights or the gorgons or the gargoyles. To them, you are nothing more than a bunch of gold-grubbing thieves with pasty faces and sticky fingers.”

  Lena and Colm looked at each other. She shrugged.

  “Unfortunately for me,” Herren continued, “my parents didn’t like me either. Kicked me out of my clan when I was a wee gob because I forgot to set one little trap and a buncha bloody chest snatchers like yourselves took everything we had. Now, as a result, here I am, teaching you all about them just to earn my keep.”

  Herren Bloodclaw hopped down from the desk and proceeded to walk up and down between the rows, giving a glare to each young dungeoneer in turn, sometimes pointing with his crooked green finger for emphasis. “I don’t like you. Or you. Or you. Especially not fond of you,” he said to Quinn. “You. You. You. You. Or you.” He turned around and ambled back down the center aisle and resumed his spot at the front of the room.

  “But we all agree on one thing. We all like . . . this.”

  The goblin reached into one of the pouches hanging from his belt and produced a single gold coin, holding it up so it caught the light from the window.

  “Over the course of your training, I will tell you everything I know about dungeoneering from the perspective of those who inhabit the dungeons themselves. By the time I’m finished, you will know how to slay every creature you’re likely to run across, though knowing and doing are vastly different things.”

  “I know how to slay goblins,” whispered one of the other trainees, a sinewy, sword-wielding boy with bronze skin and black hair. He must have forgotten he wasn’t in Fimbly’s class anymore. The goblin could hear just fine.

  “And I know how long to roast a human over a spit to keep his juices in, Mr. Dagnor, so maybe you should shut your trap.” The boy huddled, browbeaten, in his seat. “Let’s start with the basic, fundamental question: Why do monsters build dungeons?”