The Dungeoneers (11 page)

“I have two sisters,” Quinn continued. “At least, I used to. When I was four, my parents disowned me.”

“Disowned you?”

“Abandoned me. They knew I was different and it scared them, so they bundled me in a wagon and took me on a long ride, then left me in the woods outside another town, far away.”

“That's horrible,” Colm said. Of course, his own father had threatened to do the same thing to each of them at least a dozen times, but Colm knew it was only in jest. He had never met anyone who'd actually been abandoned.

“My father—the man who raised me, I mean—he says my first parents were horrible people. It might have been worse, though. In some places they consider mages to be demons, so they bind them with rope, stuff them into baskets, and throw them in the river.”

“Well, at least
that
didn't happen,” Colm remarked.

“Lucky, right? Mum and Dad found me in the woods and took me in. They didn't even kick me out when I accidentally set Dad's beard on fire. That's how come I'm here, you know. They thought it might help me get better control of my power, some more formal training.”

“So, then, you actually
knew
about this place?” Colm wondered how Tye Thwodin went about finding new recruits. Finn had made it sound as if he had discovered Colm by
accident. Maybe he had. Then again, Finn didn't strike Colm as the kind of man who did anything accidentally.

“Actually, they came to recruit Lena. We are both from Kingsfort. My father works for the Proudmores, so I've known her most of my life. When Master Stormbow heard what I could do, she told me I should come along too. A long wagon ride later, Lena and I found ourselves stuck in that gloomy dungeon. Then we met you. And then Serene. And now we are here.”

That at least explained their constant whispers and the way Quinn always looked to Lena for confirmation. “So you and she are just friends, then?” Not that it mattered. Just a curiosity.

Quinn shrugged. “She needs me. She doesn't have that many friends. She's not so easy to get along with sometimes, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Not at all,” Colm lied.

“She's an only child, and she comes from a long line of warriors, so she kind of has a lot to live up to, I guess. She thinks becoming a dungeoneer is the best way to earn her name.”

Earn her name. Colm had to stop and think about that one. He figured the whole reason people became dungeoneers was for the treasure. He hadn't considered that there might be other reasons.

“Don't get me wrong,” Quinn added. “She can be nice when she wants to be. She just seldom ever wants to be.”

As Colm got dressed, Quinn told more stories about him and Lena growing up in Kingsfort. Unlike Colm's backwater,
edge-of-the-map hamlet, Kingsfort sounded like a sprawling city, where warriors and wizards were not unusual, even if they were still uncommon. He was about to ask Quinn what it was like using magic—how it worked, how it felt, what the most powerful spell he'd ever cast was—when someone knocked on their door.

“Morning, gentleman,” Finn chirped, peeking his head in the door and eyeing the empty plates on Colm's bed. “I see you've already taken care of breakfast, which is good, though I believe, Mr. Frostfoot, that you already had one breakfast this morning.”

Quinn blushed and looked down at his feet. Colm wondered how someone with such a large appetite could be so bone skinny.

“You two should hurry and get outside,” Finn said. “It's a big day. You're going to miss the tour, and believe me, you don't want Master Fimbly to have to repeat himself.”

“Welcome to Thwodin Castle, home of Thwodin's Legion, the most accomplished dungeoneering guild this side of the Stormforge Mountains, built by one of the greatest dungeon divers who has ever lived.”

Colm rubbed the gooseflesh on his arms. They were standing outside, and for the first time, Colm got a good look at where Finn had brought him. It wasn't the chill that prickled his hair but the view: the enormous castle sitting in the center of a clearing, ringed by a forest; the forest encapsulated by a
halo of snowcapped mountains, blue-gray mounds iced over. The castle was equally stunning, looming four stories tall, its crenellated battlements boasting an even better view of the neighboring range, its seven towers and accompanying smaller balustrades of whitewashed stone stretching skyward and casting their long shadows behind them. The center tower stood tallest, topped, as it was, with a tarnished silver pinnacle that still sparkled in the sun. Colm stood and marveled at it, this hidden jewel, tucked here on its field of emerald grass glossed with dew.

“Wow.”

Quinn stood next to him, gape mouthed. He was dressed in new robes that he'd found in his drawers, red with bright blue sunbursts stitched along the sleeves, actually his size. Both of them had discovered several pairs of pants and shirts and even new boots, though Colm preferred to keep his old ones. Still, the new clothes were in much better condition than the ones he'd brought, and he felt invigorated with a full stomach and dry socks on his feet.

They weren't the only ones cleaned up. Serene had on an emerald cloak that came past her knees. Her hair had been plaited into several glossy black rows that fell to her shoulders and curtained her eyes. She held a dark wooden staff, sanded and polished, and looked almost regal. And Lena . . . Colm tried not to look at Lena, because the glint from the sun striking her new shirt of chain mail blinded him. Still, he noticed she no longer had a rock for a weapon. Instead, a broadsword
bounced against her leg. Colm wondered why she got a sword and he didn't, but he didn't say anything. She was a barbarian in training, after all. He still wasn't quite sure what he was.

“As you probably know, Thwodin's Legion was founded twenty-three years ago by the great warrior Tye Thwodin himself. And I am proud to say that I have been here for every one of those years.”

By the look of him, Colm would guess that the old man addressing them had been around for every one of everybody's years. He had been introduced as Carrol Fimbly, expert in history and tactics and the oldest living member of the guild. Master Fimbly was, by his own admission, the foremost repository of knowledge on the history of dungeons, and thus the most suited for giving a formal introduction to the practice of treasure hunting. It was in his wrinkled hands that Colm and the others had been placed for the morning, with a promise from Finn that they would be retrieved after lunch, by which point they would be “more than ready to do almost anything else.”

Master Fimbly, Colm noticed, talked so loud you couldn't hear your own thoughts. Colm couldn't imagine this old man ever venturing into a dungeon, though. He'd probably break a hip trying to squeeze through the entrance.

“As you may be aware,” Master Fimbly yelled, “Tye Thwodin founded the guild with the express purpose of training aspiring young dungeoneers, much like yourselves, to share in the bountiful treasure that is ripe for the taking. And as you
can see by the beautiful structure behind me, his hopes were well founded.”

The old man coughed up a phlegm-filled laugh. Colm thought about the contract Finn had given him, the one that was sitting on his new desk in his new room inside said beautiful structure. The contract that said fifty percent of earnings came right back to Tye Thwodin and the guild. That, at least, explained the fancy chandeliers.

“Castle Thwodin,” Fimbly continued, “is a vast estate, comprising some one hundred eighty-six rooms, including laboratories, libraries, training halls, kitchens, dining areas, dungeons, armories, and one of the largest treasuries known to man. We have our own smithy, our own indoor archery range, and our very own hot springs. The whole estate is supplied to withstand a siege of several months, though I have yet to meet any army that would dare attack it. The castle cannot be found on a map, and save for a few individuals in Master Thwodin's confidence, it cannot be accessed by anyone who isn't a member of the guild.”

“Unless you've got one of those magic crystals,” Serene whispered, and Colm realized she must have gotten here the same way he did: turned inside out and upside down and then thrown down a hole.

“As a member of this guild, you will undergo a rigorous training regimen. You will progress according to your ability and your aptitude. When we feel you have acquired all the skills necessary to be successful in your chosen vocation,
you will be granted the rank of master. This may take several years . . . and assumes you don't die in the process.” The old man smiled.

No one smiled back.

“Now, before we continue our tour, let me address some frequently asked questions.” The old man pulled a scroll from his robe and unfurled it. It nearly reached his feet. “Question one. ‘What is dungeoneering?' Well, you all know what dungeoneering is, don't you? I don't have to get into that. Ahem. Question two. ‘Is dungeoneering dangerous?' What kind of nonsense is this? Anyone who's ever stared into the eye of a beholder and felt his legs turn to stone beneath him knows the answer to that one. Stupid question, moving on . . .”

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,
ooh
ing and
aah
ing to each other. Serene waited by the door. Colm politely stood beside her.