The Dungeoneers (20 page)

“What do I
know
about him?” Finn began. “Not much.
I know he spends most of his days wandering through the wilderness sniffing out goblins and ogres and harpies and such, venturing into dark places that no man in his right mind would ever dare venture alone. I know he's probably single-handedly responsible for the discovery of half of the dungeons in the guild's archives and that he's planted more crystal keys than all the other masters combined. I know his horse is named Trample, his bow is named Eyesoar, and his swords have names too. Probably his underwear has a name, though I hope to never learn it.”

Colm laughed again, trying to imagine what the ranger's famous underwear would be called. Rosebottom, maybe. Or Fancypants.

“Truth is,” Finn continued, “Grahm Wolfe spends most of his days out there, digging up secrets. Following paw prints and goblin trails. Always on the lookout for it.”

“It?” Colm asked.

“It,” Finn repeated, spreading his hands. “The big score. Some fabled trove that they've all heard about in prophecies and bards' songs and are foolish enough to believe exists, even though there is plenty of treasure right here under these floors.” Finn stamped on the cold stone for emphasis. “Not surprising. It's hard
not
to believe in legends when you do what we do. Everything and everyone around here is an exaggeration. Master Velmoth supposedly once conjured a demon from the netherworld, yet he can't seem to shrink his own ears. Master Stormbow supposedly slew a giant by strangling
it with its own ponytail, but she once was bested in single combat by a one-armed man. Master Merribell is a skilled healer and can bless you eight times over, but she's actually never stepped foot in a dungeon, as far as I know. And Tye Thwodin . . .” Finn stopped and stroked his chin, touching the very edge of his scar. “Tye Thwodin knows what he wants and knows just how to get it.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” Colm prodded.

“Certainly not. You have to admire what he's accomplished here. With this place. I'm only saying that nobody is without failings. We all have a weak spot.”

“Including Master Wolfe?”

“Wolfe,” Finn repeated, passing one hand over the candle flame flickering inside the skull, nearly snuffing it. “Grahm Wolfe is the one person who's probably as dangerous as everybody thinks he is. Trying to get a handle on him is like trying to wrestle your own shadow. And yet he's the one person around here Master Thwodin trusts above everyone else. He's earned it, I'm sure, but it's hard to tell who he counts on, if anyone. I don't believe anybody makes it in this world alone.”

“So
you
don't trust him?” Colm questioned.

“I didn't say that,” Finn replied, then stood abruptly, pulling his cloak tight about him. “I think that's enough for today,” he said. “Outstanding work. I think even old Narl would be impressed.”

Colm gathered his things and stuffed them back in his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and stood in the doorway, one
hand resting on Scratch. “I can feel it, you know,” he said. “The lock. I can sense when it's about to give. Just like you said.”

Finn nodded, face full of satisfaction.

“I hoped you might,” he said.

The stew was especially thick that night, so thick you had to scrape it from the edge of your spoon with your front teeth like furrowing a field. Quinn likened it to eating masonry paste, even as he finished his second bowl. Colm fashioned his into a little mountain and then buried his spoon on top as a flag. “Behold . . . Mount Fungus,” he said.

The others laughed, even Lena, who seemed to have broken out of her ranger-induced trance. Colm wasn't sure what had changed but figured he should just let it go.

Serene didn't. “So did you get to see your knight in shining armor again today?”

Lena blushed. “For your information, Master Wolfe doesn't wear armor. Like most rangers, he finds it cumbersome to fight in all that restrictive gear. And since you asked, no, I didn't see him. Master Stormbow said he had to leave again.”

“Leave? But he just got here,” Quinn said.

“He apparently only came to tell Master Thwodin some important news and resupply,” Lena explained.
And change into a new pair of Fancypants,
Colm thought to himself. Still, he wondered what the important news might be. Wondered what passed for whispered conversation between those two
men in particular. No doubt that would be information worth knowing. “I'm sure he's out there finding more work for the rest of us,” Lena continued. “The sooner we get into a real dungeon, the better. My father already sent a letter asking if I've slain anything yet. I told him I'm working on it.”

“You may get a chance sooner than you think,” Colm said. Then he mentioned what he had overheard about the upcoming trials. He waited for looks of surprise but instead got knowing nods and an eye roll from the wannabe barbarian, clearly unperturbed.

“There's absolutely nothing that stunted little leathery turncoat can cook up that we can't handle. Am I right?” Lena looked around the table.

Colm nodded. She was right. Provided she didn't bleed and Quinn didn't open his mouth and Colm didn't have to Scratch anything.

“Still,” Lena added thoughtfully, “it might not hurt to get in a
little
extra training before then.”

Colm was about to ask her what kind of training she had in mind when they were cut off by three familiar faces leering over them.

“If it isn't the freckled fainter.”

Colm tensed. It was Tyren again, flanked by Vala and Minx. Colm noticed that Vala had her necklace back and wondered if she'd dug it out herself or if someone had given it back to her. They weren't alone this time, either. Standing back a few paces, as if she were tethered to them by an invisible cord, was
Ravena Heartfall, her face firmly planted in another book. She didn't look up.

Tyren practically radiated smugness. “Just wanted to say I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to make you swoon like that.”

Lena cocked her head, looked at him with disbelief. “Tyren Troge, you should know by now that just
looking
at you puts butterflies in my stomach.”

Tyren blinked repeatedly, cheeks pinking. “Completely making me want to throw up,” she finished.

Vala twittered and covered her mouth. Tyren's face turned full-out red. He took a moment to gather himself before turning to his companions. “She's just jealous because she knows a guy like me has a ten times better chance of making his name as a barbarian.”

“Uh-oh,” Quinn mumbled.

Lena was up out of her seat in an instant, her nose inches away from Tyren's, who at least had the sense to take a step back.

“Are you suggesting that I can't be a barbarian because I'm a girl?”

“We should get somebody,” Quinn said anxiously, looking around the room for one of the masters.

“I'm saying,” Tyren shot back, “that anyone who faints at the sight of a parchment cut has no chance against a real warrior.”

“Well, if you ever see a real warrior, you point her out to me, all right?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you should shut your stew hole before I cram my foot down it.”

“I'd like to see you try!”

Lena looked at Tyren. Then at her foot. Then back at Tyren. She was going to try.

Colm stood up beside her and was reaching out to grab her arm when a deep, steady voice told them, “Enough.”

Ravena Heartfall closed her book softly and glared, not at Lena, but at Tyren. “You're acting like a toddler with a tree branch, standing on top of a pile of cow dung pretending to be king. Go sit down.” It wasn't a suggestion, it was a command. Colm waited for Tyren to blow her off, push her away, but to his surprise, Tyren snorted, then turned and left without a word, the other two following him, leaving Ravena standing in front of Colm and Lena, her thick leather tome pressed close to her chest, her black braid falling down her back.

“I apologize,” she said. “Tyren can be a little brusque sometimes. I'll have a talk with him.” Then, without another word, she turned and followed the others to the back of the dining hall, leaving Colm just standing there, staring after her.

“Guess we know who wears the breeches in that party,” Quinn whispered, clearly impressed.

Lena crossed her arms gruffly, blowing her bangs from her eyes. “That big mouth. I could have shoved
both
feet in there if I'd wanted to.”

“If you ask me, I'd say he probably likes you,” Serene said.

Lena turned and glared.

“But you didn't ask me,” Serene mumbled.

“He just better hope that girl keeps him on a short leash. Right, Colm? Colm?” Lena tapped Colm on the shoulder, but he didn't really notice.

He was busy watching the long, black braid pendulum back and forth across Ravena's back.

“Yeah,” he said. “One can only hope.”

They woke the next morning to a special announcement. All morning sessions would be suspended to accommodate special combat training, led by Master Thwodin. All junior guildsmen were expected to attend.

“Combat training?” Quinn mumbled for the seventeenth time under his breath. “I've only held a sword once in my life, and I dropped it on my foot.”

Colm had done more than that, at least. After Quinn had fallen asleep, Colm had practiced, lunging and twisting, imagining he was battling one of the orcs that had cornered Lena. Imagining, in fact, that he had swung down from the ramparts on a rope just in time to parry the blow that would surely have killed her, then picturing the two of them fighting, back to back, as the three orcs multiplied to six and then to a dozen, each one of them falling to his stroke or hers. Then Quinn stirred in his sheets and mumbled something about his ears burning, and Colm self-consciously put Scratch away and crawled into bed.

Fighting imaginary orcs in your room at night dressed only
in your underwear probably didn't count as combat training, though. Colm wished Finn had spent a little less time making him pick locks and a little more time teaching him how to use Scratch. Serene didn't make things better, stating smugly that she was surely exempt from the training because she was not permitted to wield weapons of iron or steel.

“They're expressly forbidden by my druidic order,” she said, smiling.

Then Master Merribell came by the table to remind Serene to bring her nice, new wooden staff. Serene's face fell.

“Come on. It will be fun,” Lena said. Then Quinn pointed out that she was the only one of them wearing armor, including a set of gauntlets that covered all but the tips of her fingers. Almost no hope of anyone drawing blood from her today.

They gathered in the largest training room in the castle. Several different areas had been roped off, providing stages for two or more combatants to have at each other with blunt weapons designed to do little more than raise welts. The masters had all lined up at the back of the room next to the weapon racks, Tye Thwodin in the middle, wearing his suit of golden armor to match his beard. Colm noticed Finn standing off to the side, looking distracted. Thwodin cleared his throat.

“In the wake of the recent attack, and with the trials looming, I've decided that we all need to spend a little more time trying to beat the snot out of one another.”

Beside Master Thwodin, Herren Bloodclaw frowned. Colm wondered how many of the goblin's ancestors' heads Tye
Thwodin had bashed over the course of his career. “To that end,” Tye continued, “I'm going to teach you all a move or two. I will, of course, need a partner.”

Tye Thwodin combed his thick beard, then turned to the row of masters standing beside him. Colm fully expected him to pick Master Stormbow. She seemed the most qualified as resident weapons master, at least with Grahm Wolfe back in the wilderness hunting for who knows what, but instead the headmaster looked to the end of the line.

“Master Argos, would you mind?”

The rogue flashed Colm a look, then bowed graciously and stepped into the center ring, now walled by trainees. Finn carefully undid his cloak and handed it to Master Merribell. Then he and Master Thwodin each selected a blunted sword and a wooden shield from the rack.

“Go easy on me, Argos. I'm twice as old as you,” Master Thwodin grunted.
And twice as big,
Colm thought to himself.

“I'll do my best,” Finn replied, then instantly took to his guard as the head of the guild barreled toward him. The hall was instantly filled with the repeated clash of dulled steel as the two masters danced around the circle. Rather, Finn danced; Tye Thwodin moved like an avalanche. As they fought, Master Thwodin bellowed instructions, grunting out his moves: “Downward thrust!” “Cross slash!” “Reverse parry!” Finn, on the other hand, stayed silent, seeming to retreat across the arena under the bigger man's advances, taking measured steps, every move precise.

Colm watched wordlessly. It was exciting to see the two of them have at each other—but something seemed off. No doubt Master Thwodin was strong, every swing carrying enough force to send splinters of Finn's shield flying. But he was also slow, often overswinging, revealing weak spots that the more nimble rogue should have easily exploited. Colm thought back to the riders who had confronted them on the road out of Felhaven. Finn had managed to fend off three attackers at once, and all on horseback, no less. Here he seemed reticent, offering only weak thrusts and slashes that just barely missed their mark, yet missed it every time. It wasn't long before a blow shattered his wooden shield completely. The next one sent the rogue's sword clattering to the ground. Finn dropped to his knees, bested.

The masses cheered as Tye Thwodin raised his fists into the air, then turned and helped Finn to his feet. “Well fought, Master Argos.”