The Dungeoneers (6 page)

“That's not bad,” Finn said, but found his words cut short by the edge of a sword balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. The other two horsemen drew their swords as well. Colm took another step back, then looked down the road, remembering what his father had said to do at the first sign of danger. This was definitely a sign, but there was no way he could outrun three men on horseback.

“I'd ask if you have the money you owe me, but I'm sure you've already spent it on wine or worse. Besides, at this point, I'd much rather have your head,” Orange Beard said.
He didn't appear to be joking.

“The money would do you more good,” Finn protested. “Severed heads have such limited utility, and a surprisingly short shelf life. Really, they are only good as conversation pieces for a day or two before the rot sets in—”

The sword pressed in tighter, shutting Finn up.

“You always were a talker, Trendle. Thankfully for you, I'm not a murderer, or a bloody thief like you. So I think instead I'll just tie some rope around those skinny wrists of yours and drag you to the magistrate at Felhaven and turn you in. Maybe there's a reward for you out there somewhere. You and your . . .” He looked at Colm and spit. “Accomplice.”

Finn leaned back and shook his head, the man's sword still less than a finger from his face. “I'm afraid I can't let you do that,” he said. “You see, I promised this boy's sister that I would take care of him. If anything should happen to him, she will hunt me down and strangle me with her bare hands, along with her sixteen other sisters.” Colm flashed him a look, but Finn ignored it. “So instead I'm going to have to ask you to let bygones be bygones and allow this boy and me to pass.”

Colm stared, slack-jawed, at his companion—with a sword at his throat, held by a very angry man with two more armed men behind him. The rogue didn't seem to be in any real position to make requests. And yet there he stood, polite but defiant.

“How about this?” the bearded man said. “How about I let
the boy go. We
skip
the trip to the magistrate. And you draw that pretty little sticker you have there, and we find out if it's half as sharp as your tongue?”

Finn looked at Colm. His casual smirk suggested he was bored by the whole exchange, but there was a spark in his eye, a suggestion.

“You'll want to duck,” he hissed. Then he twisted sharply, bringing his left arm up against the bearded man's blade, striking it away with a dull, hollow ring. In the same motion, he freed his own sword, spinning and lashing out, parrying a blow from his attacker and making a lunge of his own that just missed the man's leg.

“Get him!” Orange Beard commanded.

The horses reeled. Colm heard a grunt, saw a blur of steel sweeping toward him, then felt his own feet kicked out from underneath him. He collapsed to the ground as the blade passed overhead, missing him by inches but catching Finn's forearm again, where it stopped cold. Finn was the one who had tripped him, he realized, bruising his back but saving his neck.

“I told you to duck!” Finn shouted, then spun and parried, blocking blows from all three riders now, who circled and slashed at him. Colm watched from the ground as the rogue bobbed and leaped and struck out with his ivory-handled blade, seeming to cut at the flank of the lead gray horse. The blow missed, however, only managing to split the leather that helped hold the saddle in place.

Or
maybe
it missed. Finn took a step back. The bearded man lunged, overreaching, swinging wildly, and his saddle, no longer secure, slipped off the animal's back. Orange Beard lost his balance and tumbled from his horse. In a flash, Finn was right on top of him, the dagger that he'd used to carve Colm's apple dimpling the hairy skin beneath the man's chin.

“Tell them to back away,” Finn ordered.

The other two riders stood within striking distance, their swords extended. Colm was still on his back.

“Do as he says,” the bearded man choked, finding it hard to talk with a knife at his throat.

“And swords on the ground.”

“Swords on the ground,” Orange Beard echoed.

“Mr. Black, if you would be so kind as to collect those blades.”

It took a moment for Colm to realize Finn was talking to him. Obviously there was no rule about the number of names you could have. Colm scrambled up and collected three swords, holding them tight to his chest. He was surprised at how heavy they were. He could barely hold the lot of them.

“Excellent,” Finn said, turning back to the man at his feet. “Now let's see about that rope you mentioned earlier.”

By the time Finn and Colm were finished, it looked as if the three men were going to pass out from effort, struggling against the rope that bound them to the tree, but Finn was an expert on knots—securing and unsecuring things was a specialty of his, he said—and had managed to tie one that only
got tighter the more they resisted. Their saddles and provisions had been stacked neatly in a pile next to them, and their horses left to graze freely in the fields along the road. The only added touch was the tunics—all three of them stolen from the men's backs, torn, and used as gags.

“I'd hate to disappoint whoever wrote that pretty song,” Finn said, then knelt down and rubbed Orange Beard on his balding head and looked up at the sky. “I'm sure someone will be along eventually. Hopefully they will not mistake you for common thieves—an easy enough error. Otherwise you could be here awhile.”

The man said something angry and incomprehensible through the sweaty shirt stuffed in his mouth. Finn stood and took a moment to inspect the sleeves of his own tunic. They had been torn in several places, revealing the steel vambraces he wore underneath, clamped tight to his forearms. He pulled up one sleeve and ran his finger along the new scratches and dents in the metal, then rolled it back down.

“Rule number eight,” he whispered to Colm. “Remember the face of each and every man you've stolen from. Because they will no doubt remember you.”

“But they were looking for Trendle Treeband,” Colm whispered back.

“Faces are harder to change than names,” Finn replied. The rogue straightened himself out, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and tucked his knife back into his boot. He walked a few paces from the three bound men, and Colm hurried to catch up.

“Is it true?” Colm asked. “Did you really cheat those men?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“He said it was only three years.”

“A long time,” Finn said, taking the three swords from Colm and adding them to the pile beside the tree. Colm looked at them, licking his lips. It couldn't hurt to ask, could it?

“I don't suppose, I could, you know . . .”

Finn followed his gaze and then shook his head. “These are broadswords. Heavy and cumbersome. You'd be stabbed six times before you even got it out of its scabbard. When the time comes—
if
the time comes—we will find a weapon suited to your stature. Now.” He stretched, as if he had just woken up. “If this little detour is finished, we should be on our way. We still have a long road ahead of us.”

Colm nodded, then looked at the three horses picking their way through the grass, loyal enough to their riders not to stray far. Colm pointed to them. “I've ridden horses before,” he said. “We used to have one—two, in fact—but we had to sell them. It might be faster . . .”

“No doubt it would be faster,” Finn agreed. “Except
that
would be stealing. Horses are neither rare nor unique, and they won't get us anywhere that our own feet can't. The penalty for horse thieving is almost always death, and I've already had one close encounter with
him
today. Besides, I think it best if we get off the road for a bit.”

Colm shouldered his sack and followed Finn into the fields, glancing back with apprehension at the three half-naked
men bound to the tree. Colm had witnessed fights before—a couple of men with too much ale in their bellies, tumbling through the dust in the village square—but he had never seen anything like that. Engineering and economics were his specialties, but it was clear that Finn Argos had spent some time mastering the blade hanging from his belt as well.

Colm ran to catch up to the rogue. He knew he should heed his father's advice and keep some distance, especially given what he'd just seen. Except this man with at least two names, and probably many more besides, had saved Colm's hand and his family's reputation. And now he had also saved Colm's life.

Not to mention he still had Colm's coin.

T
hanks to Colm's eight sisters, most of the too-thin Candorly library was filled with fanciful tales of royal romances or tomes of flowery poetry, a few histories and several almanacs, a book of recipes, and the children's rhymes they had all learned to read by. But Colm did have one book, given to him on his tenth birthday, that told of several hair-raising adventures undertaken by half a dozen heroes. They were bard's tales, embellished beyond the point of believability, his father said, but Colm devoured them anyway. The stories were full of monsters and caverns and mazes punctuated with chests of gold, just the same as Finn had described. Except Colm had only
read
about them. Finn had
survived
them.

Or so he said.

“So if there are so many dungeons, and so much treasure
to be had from them,” Colm asked, “how come there aren't more people like you?”

“It's not a profession for just anyone,” Finn said, picking his way through the clinging brambles that multiplied with every step, the farther they strayed from the road; Colm's arms were already etched with tiny scratches. “Long hours. Cramped working conditions. Involuntary dismemberment.” Finn picked a burr from his sleeve. “Bludgeoning, burning, magical transfiguration, the terror as you wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in your own cold sweat, memories of that giant spider scuttling across your paralyzed body, fangs hovering over your chest dripping with heart-stopping poison. It can start to wear on a man.”

Colm's pace slowed. It was three steps before Finn even noticed.

“Don't worry,” Finn said with a flash of teeth. “I'm making it sound worse than it is. Mostly it's just trudging through dark, empty tunnels, hoping to uncover a gem or two. Most of the time it's not that thrilling at all.”

Colm nodded.

“Besides, in order to become a dungeoneer, you have to train. And in order to train, you have to be admitted to the program. And in order to be admitted into the program, you still have to pass your test. After all, if you can't get one measly little coin from me, there isn't much chance of you becoming a dungeoneer. Not to mention I'll have to come to Tye empty-handed when I promised him I'd find a worthy recruit.”

“A worthy recruit?” Colm asked, feeling a slight flush of pride.

“Certainly,” Finn said. “It was pure luck coming across you as I did. The girl I went looking for had already lost her hands before I could get to her. It's hard to find good rogue material these days.” Finn looked up at the sun, then pointed to a patch of trees, one of them exploding with pears. “Looks like lunch,” he said.

He led Colm to the spot of shade, then spread out his cloak as a makeshift blanket and propped himself against the tree trunk. Colm noticed the cloak had several little pockets sewn into the inside—he and the rogue shared a love of secret compartments, it seemed. They ate mostly in silence, splitting the cheese Colm's mother had packed and eating two pears apiece—though Colm had to be careful of the thorny branches when picking them, pricking his finger once.

“The guild has its own cook, of course, though he mostly just knows how to make stew,” Finn remarked, licking the pear juice from his fingers with a deliberate smacking sound. Colm thought about the bowl of stew that Celia had secretly slipped him. He missed her already.

Colm finished his second pear, core and all, spitting the seeds into the grass, then studied his companion. “Who's Trendle Treeband?”

Finn smiled. “A charming scoundrel, dark and handsome. Uncannily lucky at cards and dice. A clever fellow. I think you'd like him. But I was only Trendle for a spell. I've been Finn for all my life.”

“Is that how you got that scar? As Trendle Treeband?” Colm
pointed to the thick braid along Finn's cheek. Finn stroked it self-consciously.

“Alas, no. That's a different story altogether. And one that I promise to share, but not right now. Now, I think, we need some quiet time. The ground is comfier than it looks, and I don't sleep well at night. It's hard with one eye open.”

“But—” Colm protested, a hundred more questions at the ready, but Finn stopped him with a warning look. Then the rogue dug into the largest pocket of his cloak and pulled out a roll of parchment and a rusty-looking padlock the size of an acorn. The lock was snapped tight.

“Here, these should keep you busy for a while. The first is the guild's contract. You can read it, but don't sign anything.”

“And this?” Colm said, holding up the lock.

“That's practice,” Finn said. “Your father mentioned that you had some small experience with picking locks.”

“But I don't have anything to open it with,” Colm protested.

“A good rogue makes do with what's around him. Use your imagination.”

Colm wasn't sure how his imagination was supposed to help him open this tiny rusted lock, but Finn wasn't going to offer any helpful suggestions; his eyes were already half shut. “Wake me if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary. Like someone else who thinks I owe them money,” the rogue said.

Colm wanted to protest again, but Finn turned his back to him. In a matter of seconds, it seemed, the man was snoring.
Colm put down the lock and picked up the parchment, unfurling it. It was printed on both sides. There were several words Colm didn't understand, but he managed to get the gist.

Be it henceforth known that
(hereafter referred to as THE APPRENTICE) is requesting admittance to Thwodin's Legion (hereafter referred to as THE GUILD) to be trained in the arts of dungeoneering, including, but not limited to, the study of dungeon navigation, warcraft, warding, archery, swordplay, brawling, breaching, healing, wizardry, monstrology, trap disarmament, and treasure retrieval. THE APPRENTICE enters into this agreement with THE GUILD in accordance with the following stipulations:

1. THE APPRENTICE exhibits promise in his or her chosen field (combat, thievery, mystical arts, etc.) and passes the entrance requirements as outlined by his or her recruiter.

2. THE APPRENTICE recognizes the potentially perilous nature of dungeoneering and accepts the risks inherent therein.

3. THE APPRENTICE agrees that any treasure acquired by THE APPRENTICE through his or her association with THE GUILD or utilizing any property associated with THE GUILD is subject to the following deductions:

Forty percent to THE GUILD to cover operating expenses.

Ten percent to TYE THWODIN, founder of THE GUILD, to use as he sees fit.

The remaining fifty percent to be split among the adventuring party in equal shares according to their rank: apprentice adventurers receiving a half share and masters receiving one full share.
In the event that not all party members return, their shares shall be split among remaining adventurers after the aforementioned expenses and deductions.

4. In the event that THE APPRENTICE wishes to terminate his or her association with THE GUILD, THE APPRENTICE may do so at a penalty of one third of the proceeds he or she has acquired through said association, to be used by THE GUILD to find a suitable replacement. In the event that THE APPRENTICE must quit the program due to life-altering injury such as loss of life or limb, THE APPRENTICE is not required to pay said penalty and all acquired assets shall be distributed to THE APPRENTICE and/or his or her next of kin.

5. THE APPRENTICE acknowledges that THE GUILD cannot be held liable for injuries or fatalities incurred by THE APPRENTICE while in training. This includes, but is not limited to, lacerations, fractures, bleeding, beheading, dismemberment, burning, scalding, drowning, electrocution, paralysis, implosion, curses, polymorphing or other transmogrification, zombification, mummification, reanimation following expiration, or any conditions caused by undue stress. Expenses for the treating of injuries, curses, diseases, and the like shall be incurred by THE GUILD at no cost to THE APPRENTICE so long as he or she is a member in good standing.

Signed on this day,
, by

Colm put down the parchment. He wasn't sure what
transmogrification
meant, though he guessed it wasn't good, and half
of all treasure seemed excessive. He guessed this Tye Thwodin was probably a very rich man by now.

He looked at the blank reserved for his name, then looked behind him in the direction of the road that he could no longer see. He was already farther from home than he had ever been in his life. The woods were quiet, save for the crickets and the sound of Finn snoring; none of his sisters' incessant chatter. He wondered what Celia was doing right now. He imagined her tucked in his hammock, staring out his too-small window, waiting for him to come home.

Hoping for a distraction, Colm took the lock in his hands and gave the shackle a good tug. It didn't budge. The thing was probably rusted closed. If he had one of his mother's sewing needles, he might be able to undo it. Beside him, Finn Argos shifted so that he was on his back again, hands on his chest, both eyes closed.

“Make do with what's around you,” Colm whispered to himself. He checked his pockets. There wasn't much chance of picking a lock with a spare pair of socks. He opened his sack. Figs. Apples. Bread. He needed something sharp and thin. He looked at the dot of already drying blood on his finger and then at the branches above him. Not all pear trees had thorns, he knew, but this one had them in abundance. “Worth a shot.” He found the longest, thickest one he could and snapped it off at the base, then set to work, carefully feeling out the recesses of the keyhole, mindful not to break his makeshift lockpick. Not that he didn't have a thousand more where that came
from, but he didn't want pieces lodged inside; no sense making the task even thornier, he thought with a smile.

Colm jumped as the padlock sprang open. It had taken very little to trigger it. It seemed even easier than the lock on the cellar at home. Or maybe Colm had just gotten lucky. He leaned forward, holding out the open padlock, about to say something, figuring it was a test of some kind Finn had given him, when another rumbling snore escaped the sleeping rogue.

The padlock was only an amusement. The real test was still hidden somewhere in that cloak. The one the rogue was sleeping on top of. Colm got to his knees and cleared his throat, softly, like a kitten's purr, then louder, like his father's grunt. Nothing. Not a flutter of lashes. Not a twitch of the nose. Colm put down the lock and whispered Finn's name. No response. The man was out.

Colm crept as close as he dared and gently reached across Finn's cloak to where three pockets were sewn in, each plenty big enough to hide a single piece of silver. He felt along the outside of each, then dipped in two fingers just to be sure. The top two were empty, but the bottom held a spool of bright yellow ribbon. Colm had no idea what Finn would need the ribbon for, but the sight of it reminded Colm of his sisters again. Colm peeled up the cloak and carefully checked the outside pocket, but all he found were the rogue's black leather gloves, the ones that hid the fact that he was two fingers short. There was no silver coin on this side.