The Dungeoneers (21 page)

“Thank you,” Finn replied. “I'm afraid I'm just no match for you.” Then the rogue glanced Colm's way once more, offering a hint of a smile, before retrieving his cloak and taking his place back in line.

“All right, dungeoneers. Let's see if you learned anything!” Tye Thwodin bellowed. Then he clapped his hands and all the trainees were separated by class: fighters versus fighters, rogues versus rogues, and so on, breaking into small groups and heading to their designated lines. Colm tried to comfort Quinn, who was handed a short iron sword so blunt it could barely cut water.

“You hold
this
end,” Colm reminded him. Quinn just shook in place.

Soon the whole hall was filled with ringing metal and split wood. Occasionally you would hear a grunt instead and see one of two dungeoneers lying on the stone floor. The victor would cheer, the loser would slouch off; then whichever master was watching would say, “Next!” and the next two adventurers in line would enter the arena.

Colm gripped his practice sword uneasily; it was bigger than Scratch, with a thicker blade and a leather-strapped handle that was somehow harder to get a grip on. His only hope was that he would face off against somebody who knew even less about sword fighting than he did.

“Candorly!”

Colm turned to see Master Bloodclaw glaring at him, handing him a shield, the wood already cracked halfway down its center. “Do you have anything that's not already broken?” Colm asked, but the goblin just snorted and pushed him into the roped-off area.
It's all right,
he told himself, giving his blunt sword a few practice swings.
What's the worst that could happen? A skinned knuckle or a bruised shoulder.
Who knows, he might even win. He turned to see who he would be fighting, hoping for another fresh-faced pickpocket like himself.

He felt his legs nearly give out beneath him.

Ravena Heartfall spun her sword and took a couple of practice lunges. Her hair had escaped from its characteristic braid, cresting her shoulders and cascading down both sides. Before,
she had always looked so closed off. Wound tight. Now she looked almost feral. Beautiful . . . but in an alarming, I-think-I'm-about-to-devour-you sort of way.

“Good luck,” Herren Bloodclaw said, then motioned for the match to start. Across the floor, Ravena bowed, then brought her sword up.

“Wait, how do I—” Colm began, but he didn't have time to finish the thought; Ravena was upon him, closing the space that separated them in a single breath. He felt her sword strike once, saw his own sword fly from his hand, then felt the blunt tip of her weapon pressed against his chest. The match lasted three seconds.

Ravena didn't say a word. She wasn't even breathing heavy.

“That doesn't count,” Herren Bloodclaw spit. “Pick up your sword, boy, and try again.”

Colm stood and retrieved his sword and looked again at the girl, who had retreated back to her side of the ring. At the goblin's command, she charged again, unblinking. Colm tried to remember what he had just seen Master Thwodin do—cross thrust or reverse-downward-parry-spin-something-or-other. But watching wasn't the same as doing, and while he managed to somehow deflect two of Ravena's blows, a swift kick to his gut sent him sprawling across the floor. Again, he felt the tip of her sword in his chest as he tried to catch his breath.

The goblin shook his head.

“That's the best you can do?” he grumbled. “My blind
grandmother could beat ya with her legs tied together. Now stand up and fight!”

Colm gathered himself, rubbing his gut where she had planted her foot. Quinn had said that Ravena Heartfall was a talent, good at everything. Obviously that included kicking Colm's butt. “How is this teaching me anything?” he pleaded with the goblin.

“It should be teachin' ya to stay out of her way, at least. Though it looks like you still need another lesson.”

The goblin raised his hand and Ravena charged again, spinning her sword effortlessly, dancing toward him, except this time Colm didn't wait for her. He leaped backward, once, twice, avoiding the kinds of blows that had disarmed him before. He kept his shield in front of him—blocking the strikes that he couldn't dodge, simply trying to stay on his feet. He thought about what Finn might say, about being patient, watching, anticipating, waiting for just the right moment.

Except there didn't seem to be a right moment. Ravena was relentless, doubling her attack, spinning and thrusting, until she was practically chasing Colm around in a circle. He spun and ducked and scrambled, but he didn't get hit. He could see the frustration in her face as she swung wildly, overreaching. She lashed out, seeming to want to take his head off. Colm ducked and gave a halfhearted thrust with his sword.

Ravena's hands dropped to her sides. She stood there, the blunted tip of Colm's sword pressed to the tea-colored skin of her neck. She smiled. Colm had never seen her smile before.
Her already-narrowed eyes narrowed further.

Then he felt his sword knocked out of one hand and his shield knocked out of the other. In a blink, she had him on the ground. Again.

“Rule number one,” she said, leaning in, whispering to him. “Never let your guard down.”

“That's not rule number one,” Colm grunted.

Ravena stood up, letting Colm breathe again. Then she reached down and took his hand. “We don't all play by the same rules,” she said, pulling him up. Beside him, Herren Bloodclaw simply shook his head.

From behind, Colm heard a familiar voice shouting in triumph. He turned and craned his neck to see Lena standing over the prone body of Tyren Troge, who was rolling around on the floor, clutching his ear. It appeared to be bleeding, but Lena clearly had no problem with that, judging by her smile. Colm waved to her, trying to get her attention, but he couldn't see if she waved back. He couldn't see anything anymore.

The whole room was suddenly filled with shouting and smoke.

It was a miscalculation, Tye Thwodin said afterward. We weren't all created equal. Every dungeoneer was blessed with certain abilities, and it was, perhaps, better to nurture those naturally inborn talents than to try and impose others.

In other words, Quinn shouldn't have been asked to hold a sword.

Not that the sword itself had anything to do with it. Only that, in his frustration at trying to
use
it, the mageling had lost control. His nerves got the better of him. He panicked, said a few things he didn't mean to, and didn't say any of
them
quite clearly enough. The result was a sudden end to Thwodin's Legion's impromptu combat training.

The clothes, of course, could be replaced. The injuries were minor, easily treated by Master Merribell, who had plenty of remedies for basic burns. The scorch marks along the floor, however, were probably permanent, an indelible tribute to the unbridled power of a mageling with a nervous disposition.

The fire, apparently, shot out from practically everywhere. Ears. Nose. Throat. Fingers.
Everywhere.

Afterward, as they were all making their way through the great hall, Quinn couldn't hide his embarrassment, blushing at everyone who passed. “I mean, what did they expect? Isn't that why we work together? They didn't stick a spell book in
your
hand and ask you to shoot fire out your ears, did they?”

Colm couldn't argue, though if it had just been the ears, it might not have been so bad.

“It's common sense,” Quinn continued. “Rule number one. Leave the fighting to the big lugs with the swords.” Quinn suddenly stopped and looked up at Lena with her sword strapped to her side. “Sorry. I didn't mean to suggest . . . you know . . . it's just something Master Velmoth told me.”

Lena just smiled. “That's okay. Rule number seven. Never let one of those crazy, unpredictable mages cast a spell unless you're hiding behind a very thick wall.”

“Rule number four,” Serene echoed. “Always pack extra healing potions for when those thick-headed warriors and masochistic mages go insane and get themselves hurt.”

They all looked at Colm.

“Rule number fifteen,” he said. “Don't share your rules with others.” He had just made that one up, though he imagined Finn would appreciate it.

“That's a good rule,” Serene said.

“Well, the morning wasn't a total waste.” Quinn sighed, leaning up against Lena. “I got a new set of robes, and I bet Tyren Troge thinks twice before he teases you again. You nearly took off his ear.”

Lena shrugged. “I was swinging for his teeth. I need to work on my aim, I guess. And you,” she said, looking over at Colm, “need to work on just about everything. Can't very well tackle those trials with you fighting like
that
. I can't kill everything for you. I mean . . . I probably can . . . but just in case.”

Colm couldn't argue. He had about as much business carrying a sword as Quinn did.

Lena wasn't the only one who thought he needed to work on his swordplay. When he arrived at Finn's workshop for his afternoon training, the rogue was waiting for him outside.

“Did you lock yourself out?” Colm asked.

“That's funny,” Finn said. “Almost as funny as watching you run in circles from Ravena Heartfall this morning. Granted, it was a poor pairing—there are few apprentices at this guild
who could have bested her—but it showed me how lopsided our focus of instruction has been. After all, as good as a rogue's wits and his picks are, they can't get him out of
every
situation.”

Finn led Colm back through the halls and out into the courtyard, finding a patch of grass out of sight of anyone. “All right then,” Finn began. “Pull that toothpick out of its sleeve and let's see what we can do to keep pretty girls from beating you up again.”

“At least they're pretty,” Colm said, earning him a smile from the rogue.

For the next three hours, Colm didn't pick a single lock. Instead, Finn taught him the most basic elements of combat. It was all in slow motion, thankfully, Finn taking the time to correct every little move, standing behind Colm and moving along with him, hands on elbows, striking together. Scratch felt much more comfortable in his hand than the blunt steel stick he had been wielding that morning, and by the time they were finished, Colm was able to counter the majority of Finn's slower strikes with ease.

“You're going easy on me,” Colm said as they sat down to rest afterward. Finn had a blushing peach and was carefully cutting pieces for them to share. Colm wondered who he had taken the peach from.

“You're just starting out,” Finn explained. “You'll get better.”

“And Master Thwodin?” Colm prodded. “Was he just starting out too?”

Finn paused, then traced a pattern along the skin of the peach with the tip of his knife. He looked sideways at Colm. “Tye Thwodin is a gifted warrior. It's only natural that he would best me in single combat.”

“Oh,” Colm said. “Because it looked to me like you were letting him win.”

Finn smiled wryly. “We show only what we want others to see, and see what others wish we hadn't.”

“Is that another rule?”

“Just an observation,” the rogue said. He held the last of the peach to Colm, then wiped his hands on his cloak. “There is so much more I have to teach you, Colm Candorly, so much we still have to accomplish. I want you to be ready.”

“For the trials, you mean,” Colm said.

“For anything,” Finn replied. “Impossible to know what life has destined for you, what choices you will be forced to make. You need to be prepared, not just to fight for what's yours, but to seize the opportunities when they present themselves. Unfortunately, we are all out of time for today. Be sure to practice what we went over. Maybe even corner that redheaded barbarian friend of yours and have her show you a thing or two. Poor Tyren's ear looks worse than Master Velmoth's ever did.”

Colm stuffed Scratch back into its scabbard and grabbed his sack. As he turned back toward the castle, Finn stopped him, reaching into his gray cloak and removing a scroll, wound tight and tied with a white satin ribbon.

“Nearly forgot. This arrived for you earlier this morning,” he said. “From Felhaven.”

Colm took the rolled parchment and held it nervously. He started to open it, but Finn stopped him. “Certain things should be read in private, just in case they contain information that you wouldn't want to share with others.”

Colm felt his stomach sink. “Did something happen? Is my family all right?” What if Seysha's illness had worsened and the medicine wasn't enough? Or what if the magistrate had gone back on his word and punished his father in his place for stealing all that coin? Colm had only been gone a few short days, but there were so many things that could have gone wrong. Things that he was powerless to do anything about.

“It's addressed to Colm Candorly,” the rogue said, “not to Finn Argos. It's none of my business.”

But even as he said it, he smiled.

By the time he made it back to his room, Colm already had the scroll unfurled. He shut the door and sat on the edge of his bed, holding the parchment between trembling fingers.

Dear Colm,

The girls all wanted to write separately, but we feared the bird couldn't carry them all, so we all sat down and wrote this together. We hope that you are happy and, above all, safe. We want you to know that we miss you terribly, but that we understand and appreciate what you are doing. Your father
says everything is cleared with the magistrate and that you are welcome to come home whenever you like. Rest assured we are all well, though lonely without you. Seysha is back to full health, and despite their entreaties, your father and I haven't let any of the girls take over your room. We hope that you will return to us soon. Never forget how much we love you.

At the bottom they had all scrawled their names, including Elmira, though hers was more of a smudge.