The Dungeoneers (35 page)

They dropped the full fifty feet, the spider landing awkwardly, several of its legs buckling underneath it, but its otherwise soft body cushioning the blow for its three passengers. Both Lena and Ravena rolled off its back, landing
on their feet, swords in hand. Colm clumsily slid off onto his backside. It was, he painfully realized, his signature move.

The drums stopped, and the cavern was suddenly filled with the growls of a thousand orcs. Their chief turned away from Master Wolfe, bellowing and swiping at Lena, who ducked his executioner's ax just in time. The blow caught the spider instead, taking off one of its legs. Mr. Fuzzyfangs instantly swung around and attacked, driving Gutshank backward and leaping on him till spider and orc were just one giant ball writhing and tumbling across the platform.

Colm saw Ravena beside him, fending off four orcs at once. Saw Master Wolfe strike out with manacled feet, kicking one of his captors clear into the throbbing mob below. Heard Lena's voice above the chaos. “Colm! What are you waiting for?”

Colm pulled the first pick he could find from his cloak and scrambled over to Master Wolfe, digging into the locks that bound the man's hands and feet.

“Hello there, little mouse.”

“Hello, Master Wolfe,” Colm grunted, shoving the pick into the cuffs around the ranger's wrists, working frantically, faster than he ever had in Finn's workshop. He felt the lever give, and the manacles clicked open just in time. Master Wolfe pushed Colm out of the way of a hatchet's blow, then drove his shoulder into the attacking orc's gut, slamming him to the ground.

“Get the others,” Wolfe commanded. The ranger took up
the nearest blade he could find and did that little twirly thing that Colm had never learned how to do before launching himself at the swarming mass. Colm worked his way down the line, freeing one master after another, barely undoing their locks before they leaped into the battle. First Tye Thwodin, who let out a lion-worthy roar, then Master Stormbow.

The moment the collar came off Master Velmoth, his eyes started to glow and little bolts of electricity crackled between his fingers. Master Wolfe had joined both Ravena and Lena in a line that held the surging horde of orcs at bay, though Colm could see they wouldn't hold for long. He quickly undid the lock on Renny's cage and helped pull out the goblin.

“Save the goblin for last, eh?” he spit. “I'll remember that.”

Colm might have protested, but he was too busy ducking out of the way of thrown spears determined to put holes through him. He drew Scratch and joined the others, forming a little knot in the center of the hall, the masters and their apprentices felling orcs by the dozens, but still barely holding their ground. Lena and Ravena fought side by side, grunting in admiration.

“Nice octave.”

“Thanks. Nice flunge.”

“I've done better.”

Master Velmoth was doing his best to create a fissure in the ground to give them some space, but his concentration was broken by the fighting around him. Even Herren Bloodclaw was fiercely engaged, swinging a sword that was much too large for
him, wreaking havoc on the kneecaps of the nearest orc.

“We've got to make our way back to the tunnels,” Master Wolfe said. “We need to clear a path.”

That had been the plan, but Colm couldn't see how it was possible now. Not unless Master Velmoth could conjure wings and fly them out. They were too greatly outnumbered. Colm saw Master Stormbow stumble. Saw Tye Thwodin's borrowed sword splinter in two from a blow, the guild's founder resorting to head butting the orc that had split it. Watched as Lena stepped in front of Thwodin, protecting him long enough for him to find something else to swing.

Behind him, Colm heard a screech as Chief Gutshank emerged from beneath the carcass of the now-dead spider, his dragon-skull helmet gone, his arms and legs bloodied, but his ax still in hand. The spider's body quivered, its legs curling. Colm took Scratch in both hands, held it defiantly before him.

He'd told Ravena he would at least get one. Might as well make it a big one.

Gutshank raised his ax, mouthful of yellow teeth and bloody foam, charging for Colm. Screaming. Leaping. Swinging.

And then, quite surprisingly, exploding.

The fireball hit the orc chief square in the chest, driving him backward, clear off the platform and into the crowd below. Colm turned to Master Velmoth, expecting to see the wizard in full bloom, casting spells right and left, but the once-bunny-eared mage was clutching at a wound on his side,
being protected by Master Wolfe, who was clashing with five orcs at once.

Five orcs who were suddenly scorched by a wall of flame.

Followed by another searing fireball that sizzled through the air, splashing into the cluster of orcs at the front of the surge. Colm saw Lena glance up at the far wall of the vaulted chamber, to the brilliant orange light bursting out of the shadows like a sunrise.

It was Quinn.

And he was on fire.

Standing on a rocky ledge, robes fanned out behind him, hands reaching for the ceiling as if he was pulling down the heavens themselves. It came from all directions. The flames shot from his eyes and his ears, from his fingers and his mouth, scorching the air, creating plumes of plummeting comets with bright orange tendrils that rocketed forth, striking the ground, leaving smoking craters in their wake. They went everywhere, these balls of bright flame. Colliding with the ceiling and the cavern walls, smashing into pockets of orcs, knocking them backward. The mageling was erupting, every bit of pent-up magic that had been stifled by one heavily iced roll finally being unleashed in a great and furious conflagration.

Colm watched in awe as the orcs were driven back, howling in retreat, escaping into tunnels behind them, leaving an open path back the way they'd come. Colm saw Serene beckoning to them from the other side.

“Time to go!” Tye Thwodin bellowed, leading the charge,
striking out at the few orcs who hadn't had the sense to escape from Quinn's rain of fire. Colm ran behind Lena, watching as the very last fireball was spit from Quinn's ear, whizzing in a circle before harmlessly sputtering against the wall just as the whole party made its way across the floor of the chamber to where Serene stood, waiting for them, urging them on.

The mageling looked down at them from his little precipice and belched a bit of smoke.

“I feel better now,” he said.

“That's great,” Lena said breathlessly. “Now please get down here before you hurt yourself.”

On the other side of the vaulted room, several hundred orcs were slowly coming to the realization that Quinn had finished his onslaught and were preparing to charge all over again.

“What do you think?” Master Stormbow posed. “Stay and fight?”

Lena nodded eagerly, but the ranger shook his head.

“Rule number thirty-seven,” he said. “Never take on more enemies than you have fingers to count them on.” Another reason not to miss the one he'd lost, Colm thought. “We'll come back another time,” Wolfe added. Then the ranger led them back through the tunnel and up the stairs, where they met up with Quinn. He had scorch marks on his arms and white ash thick as snowfall in his hair, and his face was beet red, but at least he was smiling. Behind them, they could hear the war cry of the orcs swarming, clamoring, pouring into the
tunnels. Colm fished in his pocket for the crystal and handed it to Master Wolfe.

“I hope it works,” he said.

“Only one way to find out.”

Everyone gathered around in a circle, instantly clasping hands.

Everyone except for Tye Thwodin.

The founder was standing at the entryway to a small chamber, eyes glazed, mouth open. Colm ran to get him, pulled on his armored sleeve, then took a glance into the room that Master Thwodin stood before.

He had to put up a hand to shield his eyes. The view was blinding.

Gold. Piles of it. Mounds and heaps. Not even in chests. Just pushed together in hills that reached up the corners of the room. Here was the orc's stash. The very thing they had come for. The very thing
he
had come for.

“Just look at it,” Tye Thwodin said. “Isn't it gorgeous?”

Colm stood beside him and looked. It was gorgeous. So much gold. Enough to bury yourself in. He could almost hear it calling to him.
Colm. Colm.

“Colm!”

He blinked twice. Then turned to see Lena reaching out.

“Colm, come on!”

“I already got what I came for,” Colm said. Then he dragged Tye Thwodin away by the back of his armor. Away from the chamber with its golden piles and back into the circle of
dungeoneers pressed close together. Behind them, the shouts echoed off the walls.

The ranger held the key with one hand and reached out for Colm with the other. In a moment, the corridor would vomit a wave of teeth-gnashing, ax-waving monsters. If the crystal was out of power, they would be stuck here, with barely any room to fight. And this time the orcs probably wouldn't even bother with chains and cages. They would go straight for the pikes.

Colm grabbed hold of Lena. He watched Master Thwodin push into the circle on the other side. He felt the ranger's hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Master Wolfe said the words just as the first wave of orcs appeared. Colm looked across the room at Ravena. Then he shut his eyes and thought of home.

T
he chair was uncomfortable. Almost painfully so. It dug into every muscle, forcing Colm to try and sit on as little of it as possible, so that he was nearly standing. This was intentional, he knew. He wasn't here to relax. He was here to prove his innocence. To prove that he wasn't a traitor and a thief.

The traitor part he was sure of, at least.

Colm stared at the eyes staring back at him. There were a few empty seats behind the crescent-shaped table. Master Merribell was busy trying to prepare enough food for a hundred hungry guild members who had slept through their last meal, and she had dragged Master Bloodclaw with her to assist, for which Colm was exceedingly thankful. Not that Colm was afraid of him, but the goblin had a way of making anyone uncomfortable. The only other empty seat was the
last one on the right. Colm blinked at the four masters who remained.

“I told you,” he said again, “I had no idea Finn Argos was planning to rob the guild.”

It was true, but it was a rogue's truth. The kind of truth that required the right perspective. Did he know what Finn was up to? Colm had trusted him more than any of the masters sitting across from him. The man had saved his hand and then his life. Had taught him how to pick locks and disarm traps, to stop and look and listen. He had taught Colm the rules. And the corollaries to the rules. He had taught him to see the things that nobody else could see.

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.”

“
Gut
spiller . . .”

“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. Brain
dicer
. . .”

“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.