The Dungeoneers (19 page)

The ground swelled. The loose stones on the battlements quivered. Beside Colm, Serene covered her eyes. Lena let go of the edge of the stone wall she'd been gripping and took a
step backward. They were only twenty yards apart now. Ten. Five.

Suddenly there was a booming
crack
, loud enough to make Colm cover his ears. The steed and her rider skidded to a halt just as the ground trembled and split right in front of him, a huge wall of stone erupting from the earth in the middle of the field, towering up toward the clouds in an instant. The first row of boars crashed into the spontaneously erected rock wall, careening into one another, spilling their riders. The stone wall was so tall, Colm could barely see over it, even from four stories up, and it caught nearly half of the orcs in the pileup. But the half behind split like a stream and circled around the wall toward the ranger, who had taken several steps back, swords in hands.

Then there was another shout. One young girl pointed down over the ramparts, and everyone surged to see the other masters galloping forth on horses of their own, Tye Thwodin in the lead, riding a warhorse as big as a barge, his giant hammer incomprehensibly held upright in just one hand. The crowd let out another cheer. Colm cheered right alongside them.

The two armies met in the middle of the field.

What followed was pure chaos—a little like watching all of his sisters try and get ready for the town festival. A flurry of motion and squealing and squabbling with limbs flying, clothes ripped and torn, spit and sweat and even a little blood. Colm tried to take it all in at once, realized that was impossible,
then simply let his eyes dance from one spectacle to another.

He saw one orc take an arrow to the leg and fall from his mount. Saw another zapped by a jolt of lightning brought down from the clouds. He saw Smashy Two literally send a boar and its two riders airborne, somersaulting twice before hitting the ground. But for all there was to see—Master Stormbow crunching skulls with her mace; Master Velmoth, his rabbit ears somewhat shrunken but still bouncing, summoning balls of blue energy in his palms and tossing them at incoming riders; Master Thwodin smashing orcs from their mounts as if it were a carnival game—Colm's eyes kept coming back to the ranger, Wolfe, who fought with the same ferocity as Master Thwodin but with twice as much grace, striking and thrusting, feinting and parrying as if it had all been rehearsed, a dance he'd performed a thousand times. Colm could hardly catch his breath.

It was over almost as soon as it began. Though well over half the orcs still stood, they knew they were beaten. Gathering their wounded and remounting as best they were able, they sounded a plaintive howl of retreat and thundered back toward the edge of the forest, the chorus of shouts from the roof of the castle and Tye Thwodin following after them.

“Did you
see
that?” Quinn asked, jumping up and down. Serene shook her head emphatically, only now peering through slits between her fingers. Colm looked around, casually at first, then with a stone dropping in his stomach.

“Lena?”

She was gone.

“Where did she go?”

“I don't know. She was j-j-just here,” Quinn stammered, instantly panicked.

Colm searched the crowd. Quinn called her name. There was no response, though it was nearly impossible to hear anything through all the cheering. She should have been at the front, angling for a better view. She would have wanted to be as close to the action as possible. That was her way.

“Oh, no,” Colm groaned to himself. Just then they heard some shouts coming from the corner of the parapet. Several trainees were pointing over the ledge. “Oh no,” he repeated.

Colm, Quinn, and Serene shouldered their way to the front.

“So typical,” Serene said.

There, down below, far from the center of the battle that had already come to a close, stood a trio of orcs that had split off from their war band, looking for an easier way into the castle. Either they hadn't heard the call to retreat or they were too brave or too stupid to follow it.

Lena stood in front of them, sword in hand, just as brave and stupid.

How she had sneaked past Master Merribell, Colm didn't know, but it was definitely her. Grunting and snarling, the three orcs surrounded her, their black blades held high, ready to cleave her in two. Lena spun in place, trying to keep an eye on all of them at once. Colm glanced back toward the front of the castle. In the courtyard, Tye Thwodin was busy cursing
the fleeing orcs, imploring them to come back and meet the end of his hammer. The masters didn't know that one of their young dungeoneers was about to be skewered.

“Quinn, do something! Shoot a fireball or something,” Serene pleaded, but the mageling just shook his head.

“I have j-j-just as g-g-good a chance of hitting her!” he said. “Or you!”

Colm looked around frantically and found a loose stone that had come free from the wall. It was pear sized, hardly big enough to do any damage, but with the right throw . . . Colm closed one eye and launched the rock over the side of the rampart, catching one of the three orcs in the shoulder, causing it to look up.

It was just the distraction Lena needed. The moment the orc took its eyes off her, she spun and lunged, striking a blow that caused it to stumble backward. The other two swung for her, but she somehow managed to turn in time to deflect them. With cries of rage, the creatures advanced, lashing out, forcing her to the defensive. There was nothing subtle about their movements, and Lena managed to meet each stroke easily, but the force of their blows knocked her sword back every time, giving her no chance to recover. The orcs' furious assault had her backed against the castle's outer wall.

Colm knew he had to act. It would take too long to get down there using the stairs; she wouldn't last ten more seconds. The castle roof was four stories from the ground. A fall from this height would break several bones, but maybe he
could use the stones to climb down somehow. He had one foot over the ledge when Serene's hand stopped him. She pointed toward the courtyard, to a blur of black and gray bearing down on Lena and her two assailants, a blade in each of the rider's hands.

Anywhere and Anytime struck once apiece, and it was over. Two orcs hit the ground, and the third scurried away with a shriek. Grahm Wolfe circled around, leaned over, and with one hand pulled Lena up to his horse. The crowd around Colm loosed another cheer. Serene leaned over the castle wall, head in her hands.

“She's safe,” Quinn said.

“She's
something
,” Colm said.

Down below, Lena wrapped her arms around the ranger newly returned, burying her head in his cloak.

As quickly as they had galloped up the stairs to the roof to watch the battle, the wave of young dungeoneers washed back down to the great hall to see the victorious masters parade through the doors. The entry was instantly filled with the hulking frame of the guild's shining founder, Smashy Two sitting atop his shoulder, a look of satisfaction emblazoned on his face. There was a round of huzzahs as the rest of the masters filed in, chins in full jut, eyes burning with blood lust and pride.

Bringing up the rear was Master Wolfe.

For the first time, Colm got a good look at his face. It was
depressingly handsome. Thin scruff of black beard and cold gray eyes like thunderclouds. Not a scar to be seen. Finn had a certain charm, a disarming smile, but his face was too sharp. Master Wolfe looked positively princely.

Beside him, armor covered in mud, Lena walked with her chin dug into her chest. Neither of them seemed to pay any heed to the cheering, even though Master Wolfe had been responsible for taking out seven orcs himself—and that was only what Colm had seen.

“Well, that was a romp,” Tye Thwodin bellowed. “Who did they think they were, taking on Thwodin's Legion, hm? And on our own home turf, no less. Now, who wants dessert?”

The crowd of dungeoneers cheered in affirmation, then followed the boisterous master back toward the dining hall, the founder calling for Fungus to serve up something rich for a change. Colm, Quinn, and Serene held back. Master Wolfe had drawn Lena aside and was talking to her in whispers. He wasn't pointing fingers, and his expression never changed. If it was a lecture, it was a mild one. Finally she nodded and he touched her lightly on the shoulder, then turned away. Colm watched the ranger quickly catch up to Master Thwodin and pull him over to the spiral staircase, their heads pressed close together, quickly immersed in quiet conversation.

Lena shuffled over to them. She had a strange look on her face. Colm quickly considered what to say. He
should
tell her just how foolish she had been, to sneak off like that and run blindly into a battle all by herself. A speech on the nature of
teamwork and patience and knowing one's limitations seemed called for. He also wanted to mention that it was he who had thrown the stone that distracted the orcs, just in case she didn't know. He cleared his throat. “That was . . . ,” he began.

“I know,” she said. She looked at him briefly, but then her eyes gravitated toward the stairs and the ranger who had rescued her. “Amazing,” she finished. “Did you see him? Did you see what he can
do
?”

“Not quite what I was going to say,” Colm mumbled, but he had lost his chance to say what he really thought. Over by the stairs, Tye Thwodin nodded gravely at something Master Wolfe was saying. Colm watched Lena stare a moment more. Then he turned away and looked around the now-empty hall.

He spotted Finn, standing on the far side, underneath the clocks, hands tucked into his pockets.

Staring intently at the returned ranger as well.

T
he next morning brought both stew and conversation left over from the night before. The dining hall hummed with accounts of the attack on the castle, each version a revision of the last. In the latest telling, there were at least three hundred orcs, the wall of stone was twice the size of the castle, and Tye Thwodin had actually bested two orcs by smothering them beneath his armpits. And yet every conversation eventually circled around to Grahm Wolfe.

“I heard he was on a quest to find the entrance to the fabled mines of D'al Mordain.”

“No, you idiot; he was scouting out prospects along the Gray Hills.”

“Everyone knows he's been hunting the lair of the Spider King.”

Nobody could stop talking about him. Even at Colm's own
table. Quinn, as it turned out, was quite an expert on the mysterious ranger.

“Haven't you spent any time in the library?” he said, explaining how he had nearly finished both Master Fimbly's
A Brief History of Dungeoneering
and Rolf Timlinsire's
Who's Who of Adventurers
in the short time they'd been here.

“I've been busy picking locks,” Colm said.

“Making butterflies,” Serene added.

Lena didn't comment. She was staring dreamily at her knob of bread.

“So you're saying you hadn't even
heard
of him?”

“Is it that surprising that I never heard of one guy?” Colm said defensively.

Quinn actually stopped eating, spoon hovering over his bowl. “One guy? Are you kidding? Grahm Wolfe is probably the most feared ranger in all the land, not to mention he's Tye Thwodin's closest companion. Without him, there probably wouldn't even be a legion.”

“Right,” Colm said, then shook his head. “Why is that again?”

“Rangers are scouts,” Serene explained. “They are responsible for finding the dungeons and lairs and vaults where treasure might be held. And because they venture into these places alone, it is often considered the most dangerous class of adventurer to aspire to.”

Quinn nodded in affirmation. “Once a ranger discovers a dungeon, he marks it and then reports back so a full-fledged exploration party can go tackle it and take its treasure.”

Colm hadn't really thought about it before—how dungeons
were discovered. He just kind of assumed you fell into them, like Master Thwodin had so many years ago—or were pushed into them, like he had been. He didn't know somebody actually went out and
searched
for them.

“Grahm Wolfe is as close to family as Master Thwodin has left,” Quinn said. “He's practically Tye's son.” The mageling took another bite of roll and then launched into a tale of how a ten-year-old Grahm had been found sneaking around this very same castle one night, back before the guild was even founded. Tye Thwodin captured the boy, gave his ears a good boxing, and demanded to know if he was looking for treasure. Supposedly the response from the boy was “Food, but treasure will do.” In return for a hot meal, the boy explained that his parents had been killed by ogres, and that he had been traveling from town to town, begging, borrowing, stealing, and fighting for his livelihood.

“So Tye Thwodin took him in, and when he formed the guild three years later, Wolfe was his first and best trainee,” Quinn concluded. “He's the reason Master Thwodin is so successful.”

“And you really believe all of that?” Colm questioned, remembering what Finn had said about the ranger—chest-hair nets and tree-bark swords.

“There are
lots
of stories about Master Wolfe,” Serene said. “They can't all be true.”

“Exactly,” Colm said.

“Then why was he being chased by a hundred orcs?” Quinn prodded.

“It was only fifty,” Colm countered.
Though that's easy to say when you are watching from the rooftops.

“Whatever. I'm telling you, there are plenty of nasty things out there that would love to have Grahm Wolfe's head on a pike. He must have found something out there,” Quinn said. “Something worth drawing that kind of attention.”

“Remind me never to get that famous, then,” Colm said, earning him nods of agreement from Serene.

Across the table, Lena sighed.

Despite the excitement of the previous evening, the morning schedule was the same as the day before. A painful lecture on the continued failed exploits of pioneering dungeoneers from Master Fimbly, followed by a torturous lecture on the dangers of regenerating mushroom monsters by Master Bloodclaw, followed by a marginally useful demonstration on knots by a seemingly distant and more reserved Finn. By the end of the morning, Colm had learned that no amount of armor can protect you from a vorpal blade, that mushroom monsters are, in proven fact, inedible (even if you could catch one to eat it), and that it's almost always easier to cut a rope than to try to untie it. All useful information, of course, but Colm found he was learning almost as much just by listening to the conversations of the dungeoneers he passed in the hall. Finn was teaching him to keep his ears pricked.

“Information is often more valuable than gold,” Finn told him. “You'd be surprised how much you can learn just by
standing in the shadows and keeping your mouth shut.”

So in between training, Colm practiced eavesdropping on conversations. By the end of the morning, he had learned that Master Velmoth had finally broken down and guzzled one of Master Merribell's elixirs, effectively ridding him of his bunny ears but giving him terrible indigestion. He learned that Phoebe Flaxfire, a guild member for three years, was accidentally hexed by one of her own party during a combat exercise and was slowly turning into a dandelion. He even learned that Master Fimbly was taking herbal supplements to try and grow his hair back, though it seemed to be going straight to the stuff in his ears rather than on his crown.

He didn't learn anything more about Grahm Wolfe, however, except that nearly every female trainee in the castle was jealous of Lena because she actually got to ride on his horse with him. Nothing about why the orcs were chasing him or where he had been or what he and Tye Thwodin had been whispering about by the stairs. Whatever it was, it clearly was none of anybody else's business.

Colm did learn one thing that turned his ears red, though: that Herren Bloodclaw, goblin expatriate and master of the dungeon beneath the castle, was already busy planning the next round of trials.

Colm didn't even make it inside Finn's workshop before sharing what he'd overheard.

“Trials!” Colm blurted out.

The rogue grinned. “Oh,
those
. I'm surprised your friends
didn't say anything about them, though I suppose you are all a little fresh still. Yes, the trials are a tradition here. They're a lot like your initial test,” Finn explained. “Only harder. And with more chances to hurt yourself. But they are nothing to worry about.”

Colm thought about the bolt of lightning that had nearly fried half the hair off Quinn's skull during that initial test. It seemed worth worrying about. “They are called trials,” he said. “They are not called trivial-little-things-you-shouldn't-concern-yourself-over.”

Finn shrugged. “They happen a few times each year. Renny reconfigures his maze a little, then we toss you and your friends in and watch the clocks. The party that makes it through the fastest gets the prize.”

“The prize?” Colm repeated, his interest finally overcoming his initial unease.

“Treasure, of course,” Finn replied. “Of some kind or another.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Well, of course it's dangerous,” the rogue scoffed. “But in all the time the guild has been around, we've had very few fatalities.”

Colm still stood in the doorway, propping himself up. “Wait a minute. You're telling me I could
die
taking this test?”

“You could die falling out of bed,” Finn said, reaching over and pulling Colm inside. “Trip over a stone and impale yourself on a tree root. Choke on a piece of rancid meat. Every step
through life is a tenuous one. But
you
won't,” Finn concluded. “Because you're smarter than that. And because you have me to train you.” He pushed Colm toward the Door of a Hundred Locks and then sat down at his desk. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, lock number five. Be careful with this one. Last time I picked one of these, a swinging scythe nearly took off my head.”

Colm quietly unpacked his picks and laid them all out in front of him, but he wasn't ready to concentrate on the door quite yet. “So it's a competition?” he asked over his shoulder.

“It's a chance for you to put your newfound skills to use. To see how well your party works together. To get a taste for what the real thing is like.”

“So there will be traps?” Colm asked.

“Yes.”

“And monsters?”

Finn gave Colm a thoughtful look. “It won't do you any good to worry over it,” he said. “It's still a few weeks away. By then you will know everything necessary to get out of Renny's dungeon in one piece. I promise.”

Colm nodded and tried to focus on what he was doing, tried
not
to think about all the things that devious little goblin might think of to test them with. He flexed three fingers and took a deep breath, then inserted his diamond pick into lock number five, feeling for the pins, trying to push them into place. Traps and monsters. Whatever it was, it would likely be quite a bit more intimidating than the Overseer and his
scorched pants. Colm gave his attention to the lock.

After several attempts, Colm stopped and sucked on his fingertips. A new set of blisters was crowding out the old ones. His head throbbed. His knees cracked from stiffness. His right ear was sweaty and numb from being pressed against the door's steel frame. Finn must have noticed him rubbing it.

“Listening is all well and good,” he said. “Some rogues
have
to hear it; it's the only way they work. But sometimes that's not possible. Ever hear a gorgon scream? Terrible sound. Deafens you for hours. Makes you tear your hair out. You can't always count on sound. No way can you hear a pin drop when there're swords clashing and warriors shouting all around you.”

There was no way Colm could hear anything with Finn constantly jabbering at him, either. But he guessed that was probably the point. He slumped against the door.

“The man who taught me how to pick . . . his name was Narl. Crazy old man. Deaf in both ears. Couldn't hear his own name if you or I were shouting it in his face. But he could blaze through nearly every lock on this door like he was picking his teeth. Did it all by touch, see? He had the most sensitive fingers. He could feel a fly's fart on those fingertips.”

Colm laughed. He hadn't ever stopped to think about Finn having somebody like Finn in his life. He had kind of assumed that the rogue was self-taught, that it all just came to him, like intuition, like divine inspiration. But even mentors must have mentors.

“They have their own memory, fingers,” Finn continued. “It's funny, but you'll come across a lock and the moment you touch it, you get that sense. You say, ‘Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?' And you don't even have to think. It just all falls into place. You feel it in the ridges, in the joints and the bones and the little hairs that stand on your knuckles. You feel it on the surface and it tingles and travels down your fingers and the length of your arm into your chest and to the very core of you. It's electric. And it's instantaneous. And it's fleeting. But you will come to recognize it, the feel of each lock, the sensation of release. That old man . . . he said he felt closer to some locks than he ever did to a living soul.”

Colm closed his eyes and turned back to the door. He didn't put his head against it anymore, operating solely on touch this time. Sensing the vibrations in the pads of his fingers, the subtle shifts, the slightest resistance. Until, finally, something clicked. Colm reached out and tried the handle. The door opened, revealing Finn's musty old boots for the fifth time in two days.

“Excellent,” the rogue said, beaming. “See. Told you. Those trials will be as easy as picking a nobleman's purse.”

Colm flushed with a momentary burst of pride, then turned back to the door. He could feel Finn smiling behind him.

He finagled his way through locks six and then seven before Finn said he could stop. Seven was an especially tricky tumbler series, with eight separate levers requiring the use of three separate picks, each set at a particular angle and all at the same
time. The slightest slip caused the whole thing to reset. Having one more finger wouldn't have helped, Colm thought, but having another hand would have been incredibly useful. He said as much to Finn. That they could have done it so much faster working together.

“In case you haven't noticed, good rogues are hard to come by these days. Most people would rather be a warrior or a knight than one of our kind. More honor in it, I suppose, though less brains.”

Colm thought about Lena. She seemed smart. Except when she was running off to fight those orcs last night. That was a little thoughtless. And today at breakfast. And at lunch. And in their last training together—sitting and staring mindlessly out the window. More than once today, he had caught her doodling in a notebook, seen the sketch. A figure in a cloak on horseback, a blade in each hand. Anywhere and Anytime.

Finn shut the door on his spare boots and handed Colm a canteen—the reward for all his efforts: a swig of lukewarm water. “What do you know about Master Wolfe?” Colm asked after a swallow.

Finn's features darkened. It was the same look Colm's father got when a nail split straight through a heel he was trying to repair. The same look Celia got when his mother asked her to do something around the house. Finn Argos was the only person who reacted to the ranger that way, Colm noticed, and the reaction was instantaneous.