The Dungeoneers Read online

  Thud finished his cigar and made as if to flick it off into the woods but then thought better of it. He ground it out on the side of the wagon and stuck the butt in his pocket. “No need to go antagonizing them,” he said. “I got to finish making me rounds of the other wagons. Don’t go shooting them crossbows at anything less’n I tells you too.” He hopped off of the wagon, waiting by the side of the road for the next one. Durham looked out at the trees, at the bushes moving softly in the breeze, his fingers sweating against the crossbow’s stock.

  ᴥᴥᴥ

  It was late when they heard the crashing noise from the left side of the road. Something big, moving amongst the trees, just out of sight. The trees bent around it, creaking, snapping back into place behind it with drunken swaying and swirls of leaves. The dwarves reacted so quickly and precisely it almost looked choreographed. They leapt from the wagons, crossbows in hand, rolling underneath and taking cover behind the wheels. Durham followed after with slightly less grace, crawling beneath the wagon next to Nibbly. Gong had taken cover on the far side rather than trying to fit beneath the wagon. The noise came again, closer, followed by a great snorting noise. A stand of alder saplings parted like a crackling curtain and a massive beast stepped into view.

  It was a moose. Durham had seen the head of one on the wall in an inn once but, without the rest of the body it had looked more comical than intimidating. The head certainly hadn’t given the correct impression of just how large the full package was. It was nearly seven feet tall at the shoulders and half as wide, a great slab of shaggy muscle balanced on spindly looking legs. Its antlers jutted out from the sides of its head like giant spiked wings, framing a nose that looked large enough to fit a saddle to. It stopped at the sight of the row of wagons and oxbears, its tiny eyes glaring. It made a long high pitched noise of sheer hate, somewhere between a trumpet and a scream, following it with a low bellow that made Durham very much wish to visit the jakes. The wagon above them creaked and slid a bit as the oxbears considered beating a hasty retreat.

  “Oi!” came a yell from just in front of the wagon. Thud was there. He had a lit torch in one hand and was waving his arms back and forth. “Clink! Load The Diplomat! I’ll try and keep it occupied!”

  Thud had the beast’s attention. Unfortunately, Thud was about four feet away from Durham. The moose made a chuffing noise and pawed at the dirt with a hoof. Thud darted behind the wagon, placing it between them. The moose snorted, lowered its head and leapt forward with a shocking burst of speed.

  There was an immense splintering noise and the wagon was suddenly no longer over Durham’s head. He was still in shade, however. The moose was now standing directly over him. He glanced over his shoulder. The wagon was on its side, its wall staved in where the moose had hit it. Nibbly and Gong were crawling away from it, caked with mud. The oxbears were in a tangle in front of the wagon, rolling around awkwardly trying to regain their feet. He couldn’t see Ruby. She’d been inside. Thud ran past them, still waving the torch, trying to turn the moose’s attention away from the oxbears and the wagons. The moose turned to follow and Durham scrambled out from under it, trying to avoid getting stepped on. He found himself in a position directly behind it, loaded crossbow in hand. The arse end of the beast was only slightly more attractive than the front had been. He took aim at the obvious bullseye, so to speak, and fired.

  The moose leapt in to the air with a bray, legs splayed out, managing to hunch its butt forward at the same time. It landed and came about in a shuffle of legs. Durham now found himself facing the front of a moose with an unloaded crossbow in hand. It looked to have very rapidly come to the conclusion that he was the responsible party, largely due to him being the only target available. Durham crawled backwards on his elbows as quickly as he could. There was a scattered sound of more crossbows firing and the moose danced and roared. Then came a loud chonk noise from the end of the wagon train and a bolt the size of an oar hit the moose in the head. It was a glancing blow, the massive bolt deflecting high and spinning off into the trees but it was enough to stagger the moose. It swayed on its feet and shook its head. Durham looked back to see Clink on one of the rear wagons standing at the trigger of a ballista, a crossbow the size of a rowboat. The Diplomat.

  Another bugling call came from the woods. The moose turned to look, possibly glad to have an excuse to leave off. The call came again and it trumpeted back, jogging back into the trees, disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived.

  “More mooses?” Nibbly said from under the wreckage of the wagon, eyes widening.

  “Moose.” Durham said.

  “Where?” Nibbly raised his crossbow.

  “No, the plural of moose is moose.”

  Nibbly considered this. “Not mooses? Or meese? How do you know when yer talkin’ ‘bout more than one if the words is the same?”

  “Figure one might as well be a dozen.”

  “Stands ter reason, that.”

  Gong appeared at Durham’s side and extended his hand to help him up which turned out to be more symbolic than helpful due to their height difference. Thud had stuck his torch in the ground and was helping Nibbly to his feet. Nibbly’s turban was in a sad and crumpled state and he set about rewinding it. Ruby’s head emerged from the hole in the side of the wagon, blinking owlishly as if she’d just woken up. Other dwarves began appearing from beneath their various wagons. Several dwarves clustered around the damaged wagon, poking at it and making ‘hmmm’ noises.

  Durham glanced up the road in the direction that the moose had gone and did a double-take. There was a shrubbery in the middle of the road. He was pretty sure that it hadn’t been there before. The shrubbery started walking toward them and Durham’s eyes made a confused reevaluation of it, resolving it into a mobile thing with legs and arms rather than a bush. It looked like an ambulatory clump of wisteria vines, wrist-thick branches twining around each other in a humanoid shape. The dwarves had fallen silent, watching the newcomer approach. It stopped about ten yards away from the front wagon and waited. Thud gave a nod and Dadger straightened his kilt and walked forward to meet it. Ruby fell in behind him and Durham jogged forward to catch up, figuring that if the thing wasn’t intent on killing them right away he’d at least like to get a good look at it.

  The elf was about four feet tall, putting it on eye-level for the taller dwarves. Hanging moss draped its branches, giving the illusion of clothing. Its head and face were a thick knot of thin green tendrils, large pupil-less eyes of amber and a tangle of ivy leaves in place of hair. As a whole it looked like something Durham might expect to find in the hedge of an overly zealous gardener. It held a curled ram horn in its hands which Durham suspected had been the source of the call from the woods that had drawn the moose away.

  Dadger gave a respectful bow of his head. “Light and water to you, brother.”

  The elf nodded back. “Stone and ale,” it responded. “I am called Serril. Did thy company bear injury?” His voice was like a trickle of water, full of drips and splashes.

  “Nothing a little spit and dirt won’t take care of,” Dadger said. “That was you that pulled that thing’s attention away from us? My thanks.”

  The elf gave a small nod of acknowledgment. “Whither goest thou in yon forest glade?”

  “Erm…” Dadger said.

  “He wants to know what we’re doing here,” Ruby translated.

  “Ah. Just traveling through,” Dadger said. “Forsooth,” he added.

  “Pray, state thy purpose, be it errand foul or mission blessed, lest we for injury claim redress.”

  “Bloody hells,” said Dadger. “Never had a headache come on quite this fast before.”

  “He wants to know what we’re up to,” said Ruby. “Your answer is going to determine whether or not he’s mad about us hurting the moose.”

  “Mad that we we hurt the moose? Damned thing bashed in a wagon, near crushed three of us and wanted to mate with the oxbears!”

  “I would remind you,” Ruby
said. “That there are a remarkably large number of bushes visible from here.”

  Dadger cast a wary eye at the forest.

  “We’re on our way to the ruins of Tanahael,” he answered.

  The elf’s eyes widened. “Shadows hang over thee! A darker and more wretched place is not to be found ‘ere week’s journey. Seek ye thy doom?”

  “He says…” Ruby began.

  “Yeah, caught the gist o’ that one,” Dadger said. “We…uh…goest forthwith to Tanahael to…erm… banisheth shadow and…er…bugger it. We’re gonna clean the place up and put the lich in its second grave.”

  Serril considered this then leaned to the side to peer around them at the wagons and the rest of the dwarves. The vines of his face wriggled into a new expression that was distinctly skeptical.

  “I fear thy skill and number be sorely lacking, for a lich offers perils a moose doth not.”

  “I’ll take your concerns under advisement. We’re a little more prepared for delving underground to root out a lich than we are for moose surprise.”

  The elf shrugged. “I’ll not stop thee in thy determined doom.”

  “Well, that’s good, then. You know where Tanahael is? If you can give us directions it’ll save us some wanderin’ around.”

  “Reach forest’s end, then three leagues beyond. Look to the side for a climbing, winding path of stone. Thy wagons will have an ill-time of it.”

  “Well, we’ll worry about that when we get there. Thanks for the directions. Erm, sorry about yer moose.”

  Serril gave a dismissive wave. “Ill-tempered beast. We’ll set its hurts aright.”

  There was a loud crash behind them. They turned to see that the other dwarves had managed to tip the overturned wagon back onto its wheels. Clink was still manning The Diplomat. He’d reloaded it and had it pointed at the woods where the moose had disappeared, watching suspiciously.

  Serril walked past them, moving confidently through the dwarves’ midst as if they presented not even the slightest concern. He approached the broken wagon and reached out to the splintered boards, pulling them back into place with his hands. He began stroking them, singing softly as his fingers traced across their surface. There was a crackling noise and a few small popping sounds. The elf stepped back with a satisfied nod and Durham saw that the wagon was fixed. Not in the way a carpenter would have done it. The boards seem to have actually grown back together, tinged with green as if the wood were alive and unseasoned.

  “How did he…” Durham began.

  “Fae magic,” Ruby said. “Some of the dwarves can do similar things with stone. Cardamon over there is one, think Giblets might be another. Mend cracks, smooth it, even push their hand through it. Haven’t you ever noticed how the city walls of Karthor look like a solid sheet of stone? Dwarven-made.”

  “I always thought they’d just plastered it over with cob or something.”

  “Pray,” the elf said, turning away from the wagon. “Accept our hospitality and join us for repast and refreshment.”

  Durham heard a hiss of breath from Nibbly. There was a glint of panic in his eyes.

  Dadger scratched at his beard, considering. “Yer offer is a great honor but, meanin’ no disrespect, we’ll have to decline. We can’t leave the wagons unattended and I don’t want to have to make some of the lads wait here while the rest of us enjoys yer company. Also, we just ate and we’re full to burstin’.”

  Nibbly sighed with relief.

  “Then we’ll not hinder thy journey,” the elf said. “And if luck smiles upon thee, no moose haunts Tanahael.”

  Dadger’s cheeks reddened. He looked like he was of half a mind to say something and half a mind telling the first half to keep its mouth shut.

  “We shall drink to thy fortune,” Serril went on. “Peace in Tanahael shall be welcomed with open arms.” He nodded a farewell, turned and stepped back into the forest, disappearing from view as quickly as the moose had.

  “Nicely done, lad,” Thud said to Dadger, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re worth every thumb o’ yer pay savin’ me from havin’ to talk to elves.”

  Gong muttered under his breath as they reloaded the wagon and harnessed the oxbears, neither of which looked entirely convinced that the moose was gone. On the plus side, there was no hesitation on their part when the order was given to move.

  “What’s the problem with eating with wood elves?” Durham asked as they got under way again. “Are they like the fae mound feasts?”

  “No, they has their own hazards,” Nibbly said. “Plate of leaves, twigs and berries for the food but the worst part is after. That’s when they start recitin’ poetry for ya.” He shuddered. “S’all gibberish words with dots and ‘postrophes and they can go fer hours on end. S’all ‘bout elves meetin’ and romancin’ then one of ‘em dies nobly and the other one pines away for fifty or so stanzas. If you’re truly cursed some other elf plays the music to go along with. Elvish music sounds like someone blowing on a set o’ wind-chimes with a flute.”

  ᴥᴥᴥ

  They reached the edge of the forest several hours later and the caravan slowed to a halt again. Serril and two other elves stood in the road ahead. They watched in silence as Dadger Ben walked forward to meet them. After a minute, the elves each handed him something then vanished into the trees.

  “What was that all about?” Durham asked.

  “Elvish gift giving ceremony,” Nibbly said. “They likes giving presents when you leaves their lands.”

  “Nice of them,” Durham said.

  Nibbly snickered. He stood and cupped his hand to his mouth.

  “Oi! Ben! What’d we get?”

  Dadger stood and called back. “A box o’ dirt, a clump o’ hair and a sack o’ pancakes!”

  Nibbly arched an eyebrow at Durham. “And that’s elves for ya.”

  -6-

  The sun was low in the sky when they reached a river and the road turned South to follow it upstream. The water was deep and clear, frothing white as it streamed over tumbled boulders. They hadn’t gone far when Durham became aware of a faint roaring sound ahead. It grew louder as they approached, drowning out the rushing noise of the river. There was a thick mist in the air and Durham could see tiny rainbows where red sunbeams broke through the trees. The riverbank rose as they went, taking the road with it until the river itself was well below them.

  The waterfall, when they reached it, was a white torrent thundering from the mouth of a great stone face carved into the cliff nearly a quarter mile above. The face was cracked, eyes rimmed with moss. The base of the falls was a great swirl of mist beneath them.

  The road ascended one side of the falls, steep and narrow, zig-zagging its way to the top. The wagon train rolled to a stop and Gong trotted forward to confer with Thud. They had their heads together for a minute, gesticulating. It looked as if they were having to shout in each other’s ears to be heard. Gong was pointing back alongside of the road. Durham looked and realized that there was a break in the trees, indicating that there had once been a road there, leading away from the river. A pair of dwarves trotted into the break, returning shortly to wave the wagons in. It took a few minutes of merriment to turn the wagons around. The break continued in a tree-lined swath, the road it had once been overgrown with thick grass but not enough to impede the wagons. Two hundred yards in it widened into a clearing, dim with shadow. They were just far enough from the falls to reduce their volume to background noise, more soothing than deafening.

  A sagging farmhouse sat at the end of a small patch of onions, faint yellow light flickering between the gaps in its shutters, giving the drifts of mist a wan tinge. It had a thatch-bonnet roof, tall and narrow, the hay gray with age and green with moss. The hut looked like a great shaggy beast in the fading light, about to lumber off.

  “Circle the wagons up and make full camp,” Thud called. “We ain’t taking the wagons up that trail until we have a full day to do it and have a chance to scout up top.”

 
“Not too bad,” Nibbly said, looking the site over as he maneuvered their wagon into its place in the ring. He glanced back at Durham. “Some of the places we’ve made base camp…” he widened his eyes and shook his head. “Hey,” he said to Cardamon as he passed by toting a bundle of gear. “Remember that camp in the swamp?”

  Cardamon grunted. “Had stuff growin’ ‘tween me toes for a month after that.”

  “Nice spot, this one,” Nibbly said. “Fresh water close by, plenty of shade…”

  “River of death to fall into in the middle of the night when you’re having a pee,” Cardamon added. “Probably a damn plague of pixies once night falls, this close to the water. We’ll have to put the nets and blinds up.”

  “We like to see both sides of things,” Nibbly said. “Keeps us prepared for all eventualities.”

  “Except mooses,” Cardamon said. “Was expecting a bear.”

  A man appeared in the doorway of the farmhouse. He wore a green cloak with a silver clasp and shiny black boots. He made his way down the slope to them, a pitchfork casually resting on his shoulder as if he'd been forking hay in his dining room. His face was browned and lined like dried beef and bore the sort of expression one might expect upon finding ten wagons, twenty dwarves and a pair of humans in one's onion field.

  “Oi there!” Dadger bellowed, stealing the initiative. He strode out to meet the farmer. “Might ye be Farmer Radish Wilson?”

  “Yuh,” the farmer responded, his expression adopting a faint touch of curiosity and a healthy slap of suspicion.

  “Got yerself an active tomb hereabouts somewhere, eh?”

  The farmer nodded slowly.

  “Mebbe. Who's askin'?

  “Word of your discovery has reached your king and he was so concerned fer the wellbein' a' you and yours that he sent us out to make sure that tomb ain't going to be a danger to nobody.”

  Ruby, standing next to Durham, made a small 'hunh' noise in her throat.

  “Nicely done,” she murmured.