The Dungeoneers

by John David Anderson

  Except Colm hadn’t looked hard enough.

  “So you would have us believe that you spent weeks learning how to disarm the lock on the guild treasury, weeks spent under the tutelage of Finn Argos, sometimes spending hours in his sole company—a man who specifically found and recruited you, no less—and yet you claim to have no foreknowledge of his intentions to burgle the guild and have its founder and several other dungeoneers led into a trap and murdered?”

  Master Velmoth was posing the questions. Master Fimbly fumbled with his quill. The ranger stared at Colm with a grim expression—he hadn’t said a single word. Colm shook his head for the fortieth time. Master Velmoth’s eyes rolled.

  “You have to believe me. I had no idea what Master Argos was planning. I knew that he didn’t like Master Wolfe and that he was . . .” Colm tried to think of the right word. Jealous? Greedy? Ambitious? Truthfully, he had been all of these things and more, but those things weren’t exactly discouraged here—in fact, the more he thought about it, they almost seemed like prerequisites. He could still remember the look on Tye Thwodin’s face as he stared at that room of gold. He had seen that same look before.

  Besides, Finn had also been so many other things. There was a time when Colm couldn’t look at any of the people sitting across from him and see past their stories. They were heroes. Larger than life. But now, at least, he knew better.

  The mage opened his mouth to speak, but Master Wolfe cut him off.

  “Pardon me, Master Velmoth,” the ranger said. “Mister Candorly is not the only one who underestimated Finn Argos. I admit that I too was blind to his intentions. We cannot fault the boy for being beguiled by a man who made his living on subterfuge and deception. Besides, anyone who would knowingly forfeit his share of the guild’s treasure and venture back into an orc stronghold to save all our hides is worthy of our leniency. Perhaps even our thanks.”

  Colm’s face flushed, and he looked down at his boots. Of all the people to stick up for him, he expected Grahm Wolfe to be the last. Master Stormbow nodded her agreement. Then Tye Thwodin slapped his hands on his knees with a sound that made Master Fimbly drop his quill.

  “Colm Candorly,” he bellowed, “it is my judgment as Head of the Legion that Finn Argos attempted to manipulate you to his own ends and that your ultimate refusal to aid him—and your heroic actions that followed—absolve you of any wrongdoing in the matter.”

  Before Colm could so much as sigh in relief, Master Thwodin leaned across the table. “You should know, however, that I’ve already commissioned to have the lock on the treasury replaced, and that I plan to stick a dragon inside for good measure, so I would think twice before you go opening too many doors around here, understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Colm replied, coming to the realization that he wasn’t going to be thrown in jail or kicked out of the guild. He was going to keep all his fingers. The rest of them, at least. “And what’s going to happen to Master Argos?” He wondered if it was possible that Master Merribell, or even Master Velmoth, could reverse the curse that had turned him to stone.

  “Finn Argos has paid the price for his treachery,” Tye Thwodin said. “He will serve as a reminder to anyone who has thoughts of betraying this guild or me. As for you, you will just have to train on your own until we find a suitable replacement. You might take the time to work on your swordplay. Or your judgment of character.”

  “Actually, sir,” Colm said hesitantly, “I was thinking of taking some time away. I’d like to go see my family.”

  The masters exchanged looks. Then, after a moment, Master Thwodin nodded.

  “You know the rules. You are welcome to go, and you are welcome to return, though you’ll have to leave anything that doesn’t belong to you here, including that little needle of yours.”

  It took a moment for Colm to realize he was talking about Scratch and not Celia’s heirloom, tucked back into his pocket. “Yes, sir.”

  “And if you do come back,” Tye Thwodin growled, “know that I’ll have my eyes on you. That will be all.”

  Colm stood and bowed and retreated to the door before the founder of the dungeoneers could change his mind. As he left, he heard Master Thwodin grunt, “Now that that’s settled, let’s get down to some serious business. Who are we going to find to do the cooking?”

  Colm stepped out and closed the door behind him, pressing his back against it. That could have gone much worse.

  And it might have, he thought, if they hadn’t already had the man responsible.

  They found Finn right where Colm had left him, of course, though Master Thwodin had already promised he would be moved to the front garden, right by the gate. The rogue had gotten what he deserved; that’s what Tye Thwodin had said, but Colm wasn’t so certain. Maybe he should have said something about the scar, about the single coin given to a young thief so many years ago that had been such a small price for saving a life.

  Then again, maybe that was just another story.

  Colm nearly tumbled backward as the door opened behind him. There, framed like one of the many drawings of him that existed in books already, stood Master Wolfe. He was holding a leather pouch.

  “Master Thwodin wanted you to have this,” he said, handing over the sack. Colm took it hesitantly in both hands. He knew instantly what was inside. It reminded him of how his pockets had felt that day on the square, the heft of each step, as if his feet were anchored to the ground.

  “Master Thwodin did?” he repeated, not sure he had heard right.

  Grahm Wolfe shrugged. “The man simply can’t help himself. He somehow managed to grab a handful of the orcs’ stash even as you were pulling him away.”

  Colm nodded. He couldn’t help himself either; he had to take a peek, opening the sack for only a second. It was all gold. No silver.

  “Of course, this is far from standard procedure,” Master Wolfe reminded him. “Policy dictates that half of it should go directly to the guild and the other half be divvied up among all participating adventurers according to their rank. But seeing how little there actually is to go around, Tye decided to just let you have it . . . minus his ten percent, of course.”

  Colm didn’t know what to say. There was enough here for each of his sisters to get a few new dresses apiece, for his father to buy new tools for his workshop, for his mother to stock the pantry before winter. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was a start. And yet, looking at it, he felt light-headed, almost nauseous. “I’m not sure I should take it,” he said, holding the pouch between them. “I’m not sure I deserve it.”

  “Those are two different things,” Grahm Wolfe replied. “But if you don’t, someone else will, and there’s a good chance you need it more.” He pushed the gold back toward Colm. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to the others about a return trip to that dungeon. I’d like to get my swords back.”

  Colm nodded and stuffed the pouch in his pocket. It felt heavier than it should have.

  Breakfast was unusual, at least by guild standards: runny eggs, charred bacon, something that might have been a biscuit but was better suited as ballast for boats—Colm suspected the goblin was to blame. Looking at his plate, he found himself almost wishing that Fungus was still in the kitchen and not locked in the other dungeon down below, awaiting his punishment. Supposedly the cook was going to be shipped to some hive off the north coast and sold to pirates for a life of indentured servitude. It was either that or fight to win back his honor in a duel with Master Wolfe. Not much of a choice.

  “This is really good,” Quinn said, scarfing each dish in turn.

  Colm smiled and pushed his plate over, giving the mageling seconds. He’d certainly earned it, after all. Though the furious whispers traded throughout the castle halls concerned them all, it was the image of Quinn Frostfoot, blowing like a volcano and unleashing his wrath upon a swath of screaming orcs that seemed to garner the most attention. Highly embellished tales were told of Lena and Ravena rampaging through throngs of monsters, of Serene leading
an army of giant spiders on a cavalry charge to break the enemy’s ranks, even of Colm dueling the orc chief—one version of which had Colm taking the creature’s finger as a souvenir that he supposedly kept hidden in his pocket. But the stories they told about Quinn didn’t even require exaggeration. What’s His Face . . . You Know, the One Guy had become Quinn “Flame Thrower” Frostfoot, Scourge of Orcs and Savior of the Guild, though Colm still sometimes called him Nibbles.

  “I get a new sword today,” Lena said. “To replace the one the orcs stole. Master Stormbow says I can pick out any one I want. Though, if I’d prefer, she will craft me one herself, and then I can name it. What do you think a good name for a sword would be? I’m thinking Bloodgulper.”

  “Eww. . . . Why do you always have to be so barbaric? It’s always Beheader or Gutspiller or Orc Hacker. Why can’t you just call it, I don’t know, Merryblade or Mr. Shinyface?”

  “Sure, Serene. Just imagine a barbarian going around screaming, ‘Feel the wrath of Mr. Shinyface!’”

  “I don’t know. Sounds kind of scary to me,” Quinn remarked through a mouthful of burned bacon.

  Colm didn’t say anything. He was perfectly content to just sit there listening.

  “I like Gutspiller, though. I’ll have to remember that one,” Lena mused.

  “Master Velmoth says he’s going to try something new today. It’s these little tongue exercises, never been done before. He’s calling it speech therapeutics. I just hope I don’t light him on fire again.” Colm started to reassure Quinn that that wouldn’t happen but stopped himself. He was trying to be better about not lying to his friends. And with Quinn, there simply was no telling.

  “Did you hear what’s going on with Ravena?” Serene whispered. “Apparently she wants to train to become a ranger. Master Wolfe says he might take her on as an apprentice.”

  “Gutspiller . . .”

  “Personally I can’t imagine that kind of life, being alone all the time, though since I can talk to pretty much anything, I’m never really alone. . . .”

  “He says that maybe back in the dungeon I crossed some kind of threshold and won’t have a problem anymore, though I’m sure as soon as he starts yelling at me, I’ll start stumbling over my words again. . . .”

  “Out in nature, surrounded by the trees and the grass and the clouds . . .”

  “Maybe I could carry two swords . . . Bloodgulper and Gutspiller. Or maybe Veinsplitter . . .”

  “Because it really is beautiful, how you’re out there, just listening, and you feel like you’re suddenly a part of something bigger than yourself, and you realize just how connected you are, you know? How much everything relies on everything else. . . .”

  “Brainbasher! No. That’s really a better name for a club. Braindicer . . .”

  “I don’t know. I just think it’s going to be all right, you know? Colm? Are you still with us? Colm?”

  Colm looked at his friends, all three of them staring at him, suddenly concerned.

  He nodded. He was still with them. For a little while more, at least.

  “Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he began.

  Colm stood in the front gardens, waiting for his horse to arrive.

  There were no charged crystals close to Felhaven, so Master Wolfe agreed to take him on hoof. It was a long journey—they would have to ride through one night and almost into the next—but there were reports of a potential gorgon’s nest not too far from there that the ranger wanted to investigate. Colm could ride with him to the outskirts of town, taking an already-charged crystal with him so that he could come back to the castle whenever he was ready. The ranger would teach him what to say.

  Colm had said good-bye to most everyone already. He found Master Stormbow in the armory, and she had taken Scratch back, promising to keep it safe for him. Though it hadn’t been put to much use, he had still grown fond of the sword, and it felt strange walking without it thumping annoyingly against his hip. Master Velmoth had offered him a look that was slightly less of a scowl than normal, and Master Merribell had given him a charm that she said gave good luck to travelers. Master Thwodin, apparently, was tucked away in his treasury—making sure nothing was missing, but Colm didn’t feel like he owed the man a personal good-bye. He wasn’t sure he owed him anything.

  Colm had to admit he was surprised when Herren Bloodclaw ambled up to him on his way out the door and head butted him in the stomach. Colm hunched over with a groan. Herren nodded curtly and then rambled off. Colm would later learn it was a goblin sign of respect.

  “I wish he’d head butt me,” Quinn muttered as they stood together outside, in the shadow of the castle’s largest tower. Behind them, Serene was talking to the butterflies, trying to convince them that Lena wasn’t dangerous. Eventually she persuaded one to land on Lena’s finger, and the would-be barbarian actually let it sit there without trying to squash it. She reached out and showed Colm what she’d caught—a pair of bright blue-and-purple wings that almost matched her eyes—then sighed as it flittered away at the sound of approaching hooves. Colm looked to see Master Wolfe astride his gray stallion, trailing a much smaller and noticeably less-spirited horse by the reins.

  “That’s my ride,” Colm said.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving us,” Serene said, pulling her cloak tighter. “You do realize it won’t be the same without you. We won’t be the same.”

  “Yeah,” Quinn echoed. “What about Harry Herfgold’s theory of proper party conflagration or whatever it is? We need you. You’ll probably come back and find us locked out of the castle, waiting for you to open the door.”

  “Just try pushing it first,” Colm said. Nobody laughed.

  Serene bowed her head and said a blessing for him while Quinn wrapped both arms around him and squeezed as tight as he could, which was still only a third as tight as Fungus had when he’d tried to break him in half. Colm’s ribs were still sore.

  He turned and looked at Lena, standing several paces away with her back to him. She wasn’t wearing any armor for once, and she looked strange without any shining links or plates attached to her, like a turtle without its shell. He stepped up beside her, remembering the first time they’d met—how she’d almost killed him with a rock. How he’d thought she was pretty. And frightening. He still did.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she began as he stood close. “But it’s difficult, so be patient. I want to say . . .” She took a deep breath. “To say . . . thanks. You know. For, um, for, you know . . .” She let it escape with a sigh. “For rescuing me.”

  “Wow,” Colm replied. “That must have been difficult.”

  “Well, I mean. Let’s be honest,” she instantly backtracked, “I actually did most of the rescuing. You just got the process started by freeing me from that cage. Which I was about to find a way out of anyways.”

  “Sure,” Colm said.

  “Right. So. You know. Thanks for doing your part.”

  “Anytime.”

  Lena looked back at the other two, who were huddled close together. “Did you say good-bye to everyone?”

  Colm thought about it. Everyone who mattered, he guessed, save for one. He had looked all over the castle for Ravena but couldn’t find her. That probably meant she didn’t want to be found. He could appreciate that. “You’re the last,” he said.

  “Sometimes it’s all right coming in last, I guess,” she said. Then she leaned in and kissed him lightly on his cheek. Her lips were dry and the kiss felt rough on his skin, but he didn’t mind. “Don’t stay gone long, okay?”

  “I’ll try. But no promises,” he said.

  “You’re a rogue. I wouldn’t believe them anyways.”

  Master Wolfe called for Colm to hurry. Colm waved good-bye to Quinn and Serene again. “You’ll look after them, right?” he asked. Lena nodded. “Your father would be proud of you,” he added.

  “Yours too,” she said. Then she stood up a little straighter
and put on her warrior face, stoic to the last. “You better go. I’m already jealous enough that you get to ride alongside the second-greatest dungeoneer ever.” Colm guessed he was looking at the first. Someday, maybe, he thought.

  Colm smiled, then slowly turned and walked to where Master Wolfe was waiting. It took two tries for him to get on his horse—it had been a while since he’d ridden anything with four legs—then follow Master Wolfe out of the gardens toward the outer wall and the fields and forest beyond. As they trotted away, Colm looked back, just once, to see his party huddled together in front of the home of Thwodin’s Legion, holding tight to one another as they watched him go.

  They weren’t alone. Looking down on the gardens from the battlements, standing against a backdrop of thin, white clouds, Ravena Heartfall waved once, then turned and vanished back into the tower.

  “There are two good parts to any journey,” Grahm Wolfe said, bringing his horse up beside Colm’s. The ranger looked odd with only one sword hanging from his side. “The setting off and the coming back.”

  “Which is the best part?” Colm asked.

  Master Wolfe shrugged. “That all depends on why you leave. And what you are coming back to. For me, I’m always happy to see home again.”

  Colm pictured his home, wondering what it would be like. To sleep in his hammock and hear his sisters twittering in the next room over, to smell his mother’s cooking, to listen to his father’s grumbling. “If you like it here so much, why are you always off somewhere else? Why don’t you stay?”

  “Why don’t you?” Master Wolfe shot back. “Probably for the same reason. You’re still looking for something.”

  Colm couldn’t argue with that. “And what are you looking for?”

  “Something I lost a long time ago,” the ranger replied.

  “Treasure?” Colm guessed.

  “You might call it that.”

  “Is that what you and Master Thwodin are always whispering about?”