The Dungeoneers

by John David Anderson

  15

  LYING BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

  Colm woke suddenly, sheathed in sweat, to find a pair of hands on him. Through the bleary lens of sleep he could just make out a figure looming over the bed.

  He was sure it was a wolf.

  He was certain he was about to be eaten.

  “Wake up!”

  Colm scrambled, clawing his way free of the blanket, free of the hands that held him, falling onto the floor with a muffled thud, reaching for his sword, his legs still tangled in the sheets. He blinked once and focused, finally, to see Lena standing over him. He took a moment to calm himself and appreciate the fact that he wasn’t about to die.

  “Still haven’t lost your knack for falling,” she said. Colm smirked up at her. “Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

  He looked down, realized he was only in his underpants, and quickly wrapped the untangled tail of the sheet around him. “You shouldn’t surprise people like that,” he barked.

  “You should try waking up earlier,” Lena said, sitting on the edge of the bed in the space Colm had recently vacated. She was already plated in armor—not that that was unusual for her, even early in the morning—but Colm also noticed that her hair was brushed. Lena never brushed her hair. He assumed barbarians didn’t believe in it as a practice. Colm rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, wiping away the sleep, feeling his heart begin to slow. He was about to ask her what she was doing charging into his room when the door opened and more people barged in.

  “You missed breakfast,” Quinn said, tossing a biscuit that bounced off Colm’s chest and landed at his bare feet. He was followed by Serene, who looked away and smiled when she saw Colm wrapped in the sheet, his pale shoulders poking free. She set two oranges on the desk by the window. They were both dressed already, Serene in pristine white robes, her black hair twisted into braids, Quinn looking much the same as ever in purple to match the spot of jelly on his chin. Something was up. Colm could tell by the looks on their faces. Finn had taught him to read expressions, flickers of eyelids, batting lashes, the way the mouth screws and twitches, the way a nose crinkles or cheeks cave. Telltale signs.

  That, and Quinn was wearing a knife.

  “What am I missing?” Colm asked, sitting up straighter.

  Quinn looked at Serene. “Do you want to tell him?”

  She rolled her eyes and nodded toward Lena, who was biting her lip, about to burst.

  “Right,” the wannabe barbarian said, then paused to take a deep breath. “Okay. So.” Another deep breath. “Apparently Master Wolfe came back in the middle of the night last night and had a talk with Master Argos—I have no idea what they talked about, it’s not important. What is important is, after that Master Argos talked to Master Thwodin and convinced him that it would be better to go on our adventure sooner rather than later, while Master Wolfe is here to accompany us. So Master Thwodin apparently had a talk with Master Wolfe and Master Wolfe agreed and told Master Stormbow, who told me, and I got to tell them, and now we are all here telling you. Isn’t it exciting?”

  Colm felt his head snap back and forth as Lena proceeded to shake him all over again, the sheet almost slipping free.

  “Wait, what?”

  He was sure he had heard her correctly, but he was having trouble piecing it together. Last night it certainly hadn’t seemed like Finn was too happy to see the ranger, let alone eager to invite him along. In fact, standing in between them, Colm had felt a certain iciness. And it wasn’t the first time.

  “But we aren’t supposed to go for two more days,” Colm protested.

  “Make that two more hours.” Lena looked at her feet. “I hope I get to slay something bigger than a scorpion. Maybe like a chimera or even a giant. Do they have giants in dungeons, or are the ceilings too low?” Her voice trailed off.

  Colm shook his head. Headed into the dungeon now? With Master Wolfe? “But we haven’t really trained together since the trials. I still have over half the locks on the door, and Quinn still doesn’t even have his magic back yet, do you?”

  The mageling shrugged. “Master Merribell says it should come back anytime now, and if we have to choose between me having my magic back and having Master Wolfe by our side, I know which one I’d prefer. Besides, Lena let me borrow this.” He pointed to the intricately engraved, silver-handled dagger at his side. “She calls it a looking-at dagger. But I think it works just fine.” To demonstrate, he actually managed to cut himself just pulling the knife free of its sheath. Lena stared for a moment at the drop of blood welling up on Quinn’s fingertip, then turned back to Colm, unfazed.

  “I thought he wasn’t supposed to carry one of those,” Colm said.

  Lena leaned in and whispered. “I don’t actually expect him to use it. It’s just for peace of mind. Besides,” she added, straightening up. “He’s got us. And I, for one, am more than ready. It will be nice to finally step foot in a real dungeon.” Her eyes sparkled like her armor.

  Colm returned her smile, but he felt uneasy. It wasn’t like Finn to change plans on a whim; the rogue was nothing if not methodical. Then again, maybe it wasn’t his call. Maybe this was really Master Wolfe’s doing.

  For some reason, that idea made Colm even more anxious.

  “Do you not want to go?” Lena asked.

  All three of them were looking at him. Staring at him. Waiting for him. He could see Quinn pleading with his eyes. How could he say no?

  “Of course I want to go,” he said. “Are you kidding? This is what we were made for.”

  “Exactly!” Lena said. “So hurry up and get dressed. We’ll meet you in the hall.” Lena headed toward the door, Serene following her. The would-be barbarian turned back and pointed. “And you better eat that biscuit before Nibbles beats you to it,” she warned.

  Colm looked over at Quinn, who nodded, confirming that his breakfast was in imminent danger.

  Colm hoped it was the only thing.

  As Colm laced up his boots, his apprehension slowly gave way to excitement. Lena was right, of course. Not about the biscuit—Colm managed to scarf that down before Quinn could grab it—but about this being their chance, his chance. To see if he was as talented as Finn seemed to think he was. And to see if there was a way to step outside the life of a shoe-sole stitcher, to dip not into the pockets of nobles, but into the deep caverns of the earth, returning with not just coin, but a story. It wasn’t enough simply to have the gold, Colm thought. Not if you couldn’t be proud of how’d you’d gotten it.

  It was hard to listen to the masters spin their own tales and not think about what his own might be. He wondered what they might say about him. Colm Candorly. The rogue who picked the unpickable lock and ventured into the dankest, most detestable dungeons, battling the most nefarious creatures, disarming the most notorious traps, and coming out rich as a lord. It was better than Boy Who Fell Off Things. What if he became famous? Stories, Colm knew, moved faster than feet. Faster than horses. They moved on whispers. He wondered if someone might mention his name as far as Felhaven. If his mother might be standing at the market and hear about a young rogue who had picked his way to riches. If, someday, he would pass by the nobles in the town square and have them nod in respect, or even look away out of fear. It was possible. It was more than possible. It was a promise.

  Colm checked his bag once more. It was probably unnecessary. Finn would be with them, after all, and while it was true that there was one lock Colm had picked that Finn hadn’t, there were hundreds more the other way round. Finn had been lockpicking when Colm was still learning to button his pants.

  Pants that he now stuffed with a hairpin and a silver coin.

  “I’m n-nervous. Are you nervous?” Quinn said, splitting the hide of an orange—one of Colm’s oranges—with his looking-at dagger.

  Colm nodded. “But there’s nothing to worry about. Remember what Finn said, that very first day? What’s the most important thing we need? The thing that we always have?”

  Quinn knew the answer,
though he didn’t say it. Instead he wrapped his skinny arms around Colm and hugged him the way Celia always did, with his head on Colm’s shoulder. When he was finished, he held up the orange. “Wanna split it?”

  They finished the fruit on the way, following the corridor—the same corridor from which he had listened to Wolfe’s and Thwodin’s whispers only hours before—to the great hall, where Lena and Serene were waiting for them, standing next to Finn. The rogue was wearing his studded leather, his ivory-handled blade, and his smile, complete with two armored teeth.

  “Look at you,” Lena remarked, giving Colm a once-over.

  Colm looked down at his clothes. Shirt and pants. Black cloak. Father’s boots. “What? This is what I always wear.”

  “Exactly,” she said with a sigh. “When we get back, I’m going to have to teach you a thing or two about your wardrobe. Do you even own a pair of greaves?”

  “Are those the things that cover your elbows or your buttocks?” Colm asked.

  “You’re hopeless.”

  “He’s a rogue,” Finn said. “Our idea of armor is being where the sword isn’t. Preferably behind the person wielding it.”

  “So you can stab him in the back?” Quinn asked.

  “So you can take his gold while he’s not looking,” Finn answered. “Sorry to spring this on you so suddenly,” he continued, looking specifically at Colm, “but sometimes everything falls into place and the door opens unexpectedly. Does everyone have what they need? We can’t come back just because you left your good-luck charm in your other pants.” He winked.

  Colm felt in his pockets for his silver coin, half expecting it to be gone already. But Finn hadn’t taken it this time. Maybe they were done with that game.

  “Very well, then,” he said. “The masters are waiting for us.”

  Lena tugged on the rogue’s sleeve. “It will be dangerous, won’t it?”

  “There will likely be a few surprises,” Finn answered.

  Quinn tugged on the other. “But not too dangerous?”

  “Not half as dangerous as you, Mr. Frostfoot.”

  Finn led them past the dining hall, stopping only briefly to mention something to Fungus, who was busy boiling up lunch. “Probably a good thing we won’t be here,” the rogue whispered from behind his hand, pointing toward the steaming pots. “Apparently Fungus caught some rats in the cellar. The stew will have some chew to it this afternoon.” Serene covered her mouth with both hands.

  Colm quickened his step to stand beside Finn. “You’re sure I’m ready for this?”

  The rogue offered a reassuring smile. “Any single reservation I might have had about bringing you along was quelled the moment you unlocked that chest of mine. You are as ready as you need to be.”

  “And Master Wolfe,” Colm began hesitantly. “Lena says it was your idea to bring him along?” He gave Finn a sharp look. It was a suggestion. The kind of look that passes between people who know more than they let on. Colm’s way of saying, You can tell me if there’s something I should know.

  Finn just nodded—unconcerned. “Having Grahm Wolfe with us will make this easier, I promise.”

  Finn pulled up in front of a large door that sat directly across from the armory. Colm was a little surprised Lena didn’t duck inside to snag an extra mace or something. After all, she was only wearing the one sword today.

  “Welcome to the war room,” Finn said, then threw open the door to reveal a circular table and several chairs, half of them already filled. Herren Bloodclaw was there, and Masters Velmoth and Stormbow, the one looking sour as always and the other as neatly decked out as Lena in a fine set of chain mail, her sword slung across her back, as was her preference. Master Fimbly was fumbling around with several pieces of parchment, mumbling to himself.

  In the corner stood the ranger, staring out the window at the overcast sky. Just seeing him brought a lump to Colm’s throat.

  Tye Thwodin stood in the center, stuffed into his gaudy golden armor. Smashy Two lay across the table, taking up most of it so everyone else barely had room to set their hands.

  “There’s our budding adventurers,” he said. “A fine-looking party. And so young.” He reached out and ruffled Quinn’s hair so roughly, Colm was afraid he’d snap the boy’s neck. “Just think, Renny, you won’t be the shortest one this time.” The goblin sniffed and slouched in his chair. “Come on, then. Gather round. Let’s get the boring stuff over with so we can go skull splitting.”

  Grahm Wolfe took the seat on Master Thwodin’s right. Colm sat between Finn and Lena, as far from Master Wolfe as he could get. Only Master Fimbly remained standing, holding up a map. On closer look, Colm could see it was the layout of a dungeon. Their dungeon.

  “Number one hundred and twenty-seven,” the old man said. “Located beneath the Harbinger Hills in the North Sea corridor, approximately forty leagues from here. A standard multichambered stone affair. Asymmetrical branching pattern that, when last mapped, took on the shape of a leaf, as you can see.” The old man traced the figure on the parchment with one crooked finger. Colm studied the honeycombed network of passages, trying to commit to memory every door and corridor, every nook and cranny, but it was impossible to keep it all straight. The dungeon looked huge. Much bigger than the one Master Bloodclaw tended beneath their feet.

  Master Fimbly continued. “This particular stronghold was held by goblins for hundreds of years, until they were driven out by none other than our own Master Thwodin, accompanied by yours truly, nearly twenty years ago, isn’t that right, Tye?”

  “Drove them out like the gutless sheep they are,” Tye Thwodin proclaimed, then glanced apologetically at Renny. “I didn’t mean you. You have very nice guts,” he said. “We emptied the place of all that glittered and left it as a home for the rats and giant spiders.”

  “Giant spiders?” Serene whispered.

  Colm raised his hand to get Master Fimbly’s attention. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, loud enough for the old man to hear. “But if you took all the treasure already, what’s the point of going back there?”

  All eyes looked at Finn. The rogue cleared his throat and looked across the table. “Recently, Master Wolfe has uncovered ogre tracks coming in and out of the entrance to dungeon one hundred twenty-seven. Furthermore, there have been reports of raids on the nearby villages, suggesting there are actually some new bits and baubles to be recovered.”

  “So, the gold we’re going after likely came from these raids?” Colm asked.

  “Wouldn’t that treasure belong to the villagers, then?” Quinn added.

  “What’s ours is ours,” Tye Thwodin said curtly. “We aren’t in the charity business.”

  “If there is coin to be had, then it’s likely the ogres are hoarding it all here.” Master Fimbly pointed to a large circular room near the top of the leaf shape.

  “What are those little skulls drawn all over the map?” Serene wanted to know.

  “Those are traps,” Finn said. “At least, that’s where they were the first time around, according to the records from Master Thwodin’s expedition twenty years ago. Most of them are probably disabled by now, rusted or disenchanted from neglect. Ogres are big and strong, but they aren’t terribly smart. Their idea of a trap is usually to wait around the corner and hit you with a rock. That said, we should still be careful.”

  Tye Thwodin grunted dismissively. “A handful of ogres, some twenty-year-old traps, and a potential for some real coin at the end. I think you’ve picked an excellent dungeon for these whelps to cut their teeth on, Master Argos. In fact, it’s hardly worth our trouble. Whaddya say we just let the little ones take care of this themselves, and the rest of us go find a nice tavern to spend the afternoon.”

  Colm looked at Finn—the rogue looked concerned for a moment. Then Tye Thwodin slammed his large, hairy fists on the table, strong enough to make it quiver. “Joking, of course,” he said. “The guild can’t very well get its share if you all die before you make it out!”

  �
�Of course not,” Finn said dryly.

  “Well, then, what are we waiting for?” The founder of Thwodin’s Legion turned to Master Velmoth. “To the regurgitator!”

  Tye Thwodin stood and everyone else followed. Quinn tugged on Colm’s arm. “What the heck is the regurgitator?”

  It didn’t take long to find out.

  The regurgitator was just Master Thwodin’s less-fancy word for the Crystallarium, the room where all of the guild’s teleportation crystals were kept. Colm had seen drawings of it in the books Quinn begged him to look at, books that Quinn had read twice over and probably Ravena Heartfall had too. He knew the Crystallarium was off-limits to everyone except master-class dungeoneers, and that anyone caught trying to use it without permission was kicked out of the guild.

  He had no idea where the jewels had originally come from. He knew that it was Master Velmoth’s job to tend them, to ensure that their magic was working properly and that they had enough power to get you where you wanted to go, but it was the ranger’s job to set them, inscribing the runes that linked each crystal from one point to another. That way, when the time came to raid a dungeon, you didn’t have to travel the hundreds or thousands of miles on horseback or ship to get there. You simply chanted the phrase that opened the crystal’s gate and held on tight. Once you were there, you slew your monster, gathered your loot, and then used the same crystal to return. It was wizardry of the highest order. And it was the only way Tye Thwodin and his charges managed to raid so many dungeons in so little time, filling the treasury so quickly.

  The chamber itself was little more than a circular vault, devoid of windows or proper furniture. A few empty trunks stood by the door. An alphabet of strange symbols was etched into a ring at the center of the room. Torches burned along three walls, providing light that was reflected off the dozens of crystals lining the shelf along the back wall, creating kaleidoscopes of color along the ceiling and the floor.

  “I’ll get the key,” Master Velmoth said, heading toward the back wall, but Wolfe had already beaten him to it.