The Dungeoneers Read online

  The farmer's expression had softened.

  “The king you say? Sent you to me farm to protect me?”

  “Aye, that he did!” Dadger answered. “Dadger Ben is the name, and this fine lot here is The Dungeoneers.” He gestured back at them without looking, safe in the assumption that they’d not wandered off too far. “We'll have that hole sealed up tight before you know it.”

  “There sure is a lot o’ you,” Farmer Radish said. He shifted back and forth and licked his lips.

  “Dungeoneering is a tricky business,” Dadger said. ”We like to be thorough. I expect you see people come through here often on their way to Tanahael? Adventurers and such?”

  “Used ta. Not so much anymore. Place is picked clean. All that’s left is the bones walkin’ ‘round and ain’t much draw there I reckon. Them sort ain’t much fer bravin’ danger less’n there’s a pile o’ gold at the end of it.” He spat. “Bastards used to come through, go through all me drawers and steal whatever they fancied, dig up me onions and off they go without so much as a ‘by your leave’.”

  “Why is your moniker Radish if your agricultural commodity is onions?”

  The question came from a very small dwarf with a patchy mottled beard and goggles whom Durham had heard referred to as Mungo. He’d wandered up unseen and now stood at Dadger’s elbow. Gnome, actually, Durham realized, now that he was getting a closer look. Mungo was a gnome. Disguised as a dwarf. The blatantly false beard was a giveaway. It appeared that Mungo had crafted it himself out of hair collected from a wide assortment of cats and then glued it to his face. Dadger hrmphed at the interruption.

  “Used to grow radishes,” Radish Wilson answered. “Switched to onions. Didn't want to change my name to 'Onion’. Stupid name, that.”

  Mungo nodded sagely.

  Dadger opened his mouth to regain control of the conversation.

  “Do the onions trade better?” Durham interrupted.

  “No, but they seems ta grow a bit better ‘round here so there’s more of ‘em.”

  “Mungo, have you shown Durham your new project yet?” Dadger asked in the polite sort of way that threatens murder.

  The gnome looked up at Durham, eyes huge behind his goggle lenses, disturbing grin on his face. Gnome mouths are wide and their facial expressions tended to wrap well around the sides of their head. Mungo had gamely crafted his false mustache to fit, causing it to extend almost to his ears like a horizontal sideburn. He grabbed Durham’s hand and began pulling him away.

  “Please pardon my associate’s enthusiasm,” Dadger said as they left, “I wanted to ask about camping the wagons…” his voice was soon lost among the bustle of the camp preparations as Mungo pulled Durham toward his wagon. The gnome was speaking, whether to himself or to Durham was unclear. A rapid mumble of words that sounded like a question and answer session.

  Mungo’s wagon had the look of an argument between a dozen cabinet-makers. The interior, when he swung the rear door open, was astonishing. Every inch of space was in use and labeled as such. The hammers and spikes strapped there, the ropes hanging there. The bin of chalk amid the drawers of twine. Pickaxes and shovels, ten foot poles, mirrors and tongs. Everything seemed to fold out and open into more things that unlatched and spun.

  The gnome squinted at him, an alarming effect through the magnified goggles.

  “Did you win the scooter race?” he asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “I observe that one of your boot soles is more worn than the other, indicating that you are a scooter rider. The presence of dried herbivore dung on the sides of your boots suggest an agricultural environment. Riding a scooter in an agricultural environment suggests a race at a harvest festival of some sort. Elemental!”

  “I came in third,” Durham said after contemplating alternative responses.

  “My powers of observation are finely honed,” the gnome said. Mungo tugged at a small lever and what seemed a rack of leather punches folded down into a workbench and with a few quick darts of his hands among cupboards and drawers he had a collection of parts and tools arrayed in front of him. He selected a brass tube and with a snap of his wrist it extended into a gnome-sized spyglass. He held it out.

  “Hold the lens in the smaller aperture to your eye and observe.”

  Durham braced himself. That the gnome had modified the spyglass in some way was a safe assumption and, while it was unlikely that it would be a spring-loaded spike modification, it was certainly possible that it might be a spyglass designed to helpfully moisten your eye for you or shine a light in it to help you see better. Consequently he was surprised to discover that he was looking at a patch of the onion field behind the farmhouse, except closer.

  “Keep looking and maintain your normal demeanor,” the gnome said in a whisper from his elbow.

  Durham tried to do so, everything he did suddenly feeling unnatural.

  “As you are an officer of the law I feel I must confide in you,” the gnome said. He leaned past Durham, poking his head out the back of the wagon, eyes darting. He hopped up on the work table, allowing him to lean in close to Durham’s ear. “I’m not actually a dwarf. I’m a gnome disguised as a dwarf.”

  His beard tickled Durham’s ear and Durham sneezed. He was allergic to cats.

  “Don’t tell the dwarves” Mungo whispered. “They mustn’t know.”

  “But why?”

  “What do you see?” Mungo said, his voice suddenly louder as Gammi strode past them with a yoke of pots sloshing with water.

  “Onions.”

  “And with your alternate eye?”

  Durham switched the spyglass to his other eye.

  “Onions.”

  “Not the eye utilizing the telescope, the other eye.”

  “The inside of my eyelid?”

  “Precisely!” Mungo said.

  “Why are you disguised as a dwarf?” Durham asked, trying to bring the discussion back to a topic he felt was slightly more interesting. Gammi had reached the cookwagon and was happily adding things to his pots of water.

  “I’m undercover. Agent Mungo of the Universal Export Company.”

  “You work for an export company?”

  “No.” He rolled his eyes. “We don’t call it the ‘Gnomish Intelligence Agency’ because then, obviously, everyone would know. I’m informing you out of professional courtesy so we don’t inadvertently interfere with our respective operations.”

  “I’m not sure that I have an operation. I’m not even here as a guard.”

  “Yes, putting you right among the company leadership. Excellently done. I may have opportunities to utilize your assistance.” He’d taken the spyglass away and now produced a pair of spyglasses attached to each other with an array of folding brass pins and dials.

  “What exactly is your, erm, operation?” Durham asked.

  “Classified. Apologies. Now, look through these.”

  Durham looked. It was still a close up view of the onion field but now bored both eyes instead of one.

  “Much better viewing, yes? I call them duoculars but that’s just a working title. Clink wants me to call them a ‘telescoop’ with little dots in the Os so that they resemble eyes. Ginny said that would make them look like boobs though.”

  “Maybe spyglasses?” Durham said.

  Mungo frowned at him. “We may have different notions of the definition of the word ‘undercover’.”

  “I’m almost certain we do. Why would you think that I would help you against the dwarves?”

  “Against the dwarves? Oh, no, no. On the contrary. Their success is paramount. I assure you our operations have no cross-purpose.”

  “So why is it a secret?”

  “Protocols! I wouldn’t expect you to be familiar with them. Espionage stuff, you know.”

  “Do the farmer’s boots strike you as odd?” Durham asked. He was looking through the duoculars at Dadger Ben and Farmer Radish. They were still deep in discussion. He handed the duoculars back to Mungo.


  The gnome looked and frowned. “Mondalinian leather.”

  “Shiny, expensive boots. On a farm. Brand new boots.”

  “Farmers must get new boots sometimes, yes?”

  “New cloak too. Clasp looks silver. But, according to the farmer, nothing unusual about the local onion trade. Sometime in the last week or two he spent a fair bit of money.”

  “Ah!” the gnome said, “You suspect him of something! A murder perhaps?”

  “What? No! I’m just trying to make it fit together in my head and it doesn’t yet.”

  Mungo gave a sage nod. “Your powers of observation are excellent! Keep me apprised of the progress of your investigation.”

  Durham left the wagon, wondering why the gnome intelligence agency would have a spy amongst a dungeon crew. Was he spying on the dwarves or something else? Was one of the dwarves dangerous in some way?

  ᴥᴥᴥ

  The other dwarves had circled the wagons, squared the horses and triangled the tents. Gammi was puffing mightily at a stack of smoldering sticks that wasn't quite a fire yet. There was a vertical metal pole in the center of the prospective fire, rods sticking out from it tree-like, pots of water hanging from them. Gammi paused, catching Durham's eye.

  “I sees you met Mungo,” he said. There was a twinkle in his eye.

  “Yes,” Durham said. “Ummm…interesting fellow.”

  “Lad’s cracked as a stone pick. Thinks he’s a dwarf. We plays along with it ‘cause he’s damned good at making useful little gizmos. Best just play along with it. He gets right ornery otherwise.”

  “Noted.” Durham mentally debated telling him about the ‘Universal Export Company’ but decided that would be a conversation best had with Thud, if, indeed, it was a conversation he should have at all.

  “If'n ya wants somethin' other than mole for meal ya might wants ta go thump one o' them chickens on the nog,” Gammi advised.

  “An excellent suggestion,” Ruby said as she walked up and began inspecting the contents of Gammi’s pots. She gave Durham an expectant look that made it clear she intended to take no part in plucking or cleaning the chicken but every intention of taking several parts of the chicken once it was edible.

  Durham cast a slightly helpless glance toward the chicken wagon.

  “I've never...uh...”

  Ruby sighed.

  “You're a guard. Surely you know how to hit something over the head with a stick.”

  “Well, yes, but usually only if they have it coming.”

  “Pretend it asked you for a copper for some soup.”

  Durham made his way to the chicken wagon and stood there, doing his best to look lost. It was a trick that had served him well over the years.

  “Oy?” Goin said, when he'd spotted him.

  “I'm supposed to have a chicken for dinner,” Durham said.

  “Ah,” Goin said, arching an eyebrow. “Well, they likes corn quite a bit, with some water, though I doubt they'd turn down a spot o' ale if'n ye offered. Which one ya fancy, then?”

  “To eat. To eat for dinner.”

  “Aye, lad,” Goin grinned. “Jest havin' ya on a bit. Here, I'll get ya this fat lump 'ere.” He reached into a cage and with one deft motion removed a chicken and made a little twisty motion on its neck with his hand. There was a distinct snap and the chicken went limp.

  Well, that solved one problem, Durham thought.

  “What do I...?”

  “Ya pulls out all of its feathers, lops off the head and feet, then ya reaches up its bum and pulls out all the wriggly bits. Save them bits, though. Good fer soups and such.”

  “Reach up its bum?” Durham repeated, his brain having paused at that part.

  “Aye,” Goin said. “Think of it as a character building experience. If ye don't mind me sayin' so lad, you could use a bit more character. Yer a bit drab amidst this wondrous company o' fine dwarves. No better place to start lookin' than up a chicken's arse.”

  ᴥᴥᴥ

  Durham was still picking a stray feather or two out of his teeth after dinner when Thud stepped up to the fire and made a twirly 'gather around' motion with his cigar. It left a flat ring of smoke that floated in the air in front of him.

  “All right lads, here’s what we’re up against,” Thud said. The orange light flickered on him, drawing long shadows on his features. “Whatever’s left o’ Tanahael is up top them cliffs. Tomorrow we’re going to scout up there and decide if we’re going to take the wagons up or leave ‘em down here. This ain’t exactly a hidden ruin and it ain’t particularly far from civilized parts so I expect adventurers been crawling over this place for centuries. Like as not the place has been played out for a long time. Nevertheless, our benefactor is of the belief that there’s still an artifact here, in Alaham’s crypt. As best we know, that crypt ain’t been discovered yet or, if it has, it either ain’t been opened or no one’s managed to plunder it. That tells us it’s either well hidden, well secured, not easily accessible or extremely dangerous.

  “Alaham was a necromancer in his day, and also the king o’ these parts. So we can surmise that he had the resources to make his crypt to his liking. He’s had a lotta years that he's likely been occupyin' hisself with orderin' dead things around to improve on the place. Ain't gonna make many guesses until we sees the place and gets a feel for it but I'm expecting it's gonna be a damned sight more than a hall and a coupla burial chambers. We can also expect the usual sorts of necromancy like wot we saw in Mondalin last summer. Skellingtons, walkin' corpsies, so on and so on.

  “The scribes say seems Alaham turned hisself into a lich. He’s going to look like a skelly with his meat dried on him and is gonna be able to likely lay down some pretty tough magic as he’s had a few hunnert years o’ practice. Now liches work by a necromancer putting his soul somwhere’s outside his body. In some sort of container, typically. You can’t kill the lich unless you find and destroy that container. Bein’ as such, liches usually put quite a lot of thought into hiding and protecting their phylactery, as they calls it. We don’t know what it looks like but Ruby tells me that liches tend towards bein’ a bit full o’ themselves so it’s probably shiny. Think it has to be of a certain quality to even be used as a phylactery thingy so it ain’t likely to just be some clay pot in a corner.”

  Nibbly raised his hand. “Are you telling us we need to break any valuable looking containers?” His voice quavered slightly.

  “Gods no,” Thud said. “Part o’ the process is them sticking their heart in there while it’s still beating. So check fancy containers for anything that looks like a big, nasty thumping prune.”

  “Technically,” Ruby said, “any part of them that is still living will suffice. The heart is traditional but, as long as they do it quickly, they could conceivably perform the ritual with any body part.”

  “Valuable point,” Thud said. “So, check fancy containers for anything shrivelly. I ‘spect your first clue will be something trying to kill you afore you can check.”

  The faint breeze shifted and sent a swirl of campfire smoke into Thud’s face. He coughed and flapped his hands at it before going on.

  “Now, our ray of hope here is that Farmer Radish seen undead ‘round here. With all the adventurers been through the place, active undead tells us that there’s still somethin’ here that’s raising them, otherwise they’d a been cleared out long ago. A necromancer lich would be a pretty damn good candidate for that. And if there ain’t no lich then there’s something else responsible so don’t miss the silver fer seekin’ the gold.

  “We’re after an artifact called the Mace of Guffin. Story goes that it imbues the bearer with necromantic power so it ain’t too much of a stretch to figger why Alaham mighta had it and be wanting to hang on to it. Black haft with a head that gives off little green magic wispys and whatnot. Like green steam, kinda. I recommend that you avoid breathing that in should you come across the thing. Don’t know what it might do to ya but I ain’t aiming to find out. It’s also s
’posed to pack one helluva wallop should you get hit with it so’s if ya sees something comin’ at ya with a wispy mace try and avoid getting hit by the thing lest you get knocked through a wall.

  “The city ruins themselves is likely clear of anything readily portable. That don’t mean there ain’t stuff to be found there, of course, if you’re savvy like we is. Keep an eye out for good stonework or statuary and if you find something, doc it. Just last month Rasp got a nice little sack o’ gold for a nekkid lady statue he documented in Barmay. Sittin’ in some lord’s garden now.”

  There was a chorus of congratulatory proclamations aimed at an inscrutable looking dwarf with a long, narrow white beard and lines of script tattooed across his face. Durham hadn’t gotten close enough to read them yet and wasn’t of a mind to. Rasp bowed slightly in acknowledgment.

  “As for tomorrow, scouting team will be me, Ruby, Nibbly, Giblets, Mungo and the full vanguard team. Vanguard might wanna get an early start. That trail up looks mighty fierce and I ain’t helping roll Gong to the top of it.”

  Gong snorted.

  “Rest o’ yous rest up tomorrow, see to the gear and supplies. Ginny’ll be minding the camp. Questions?”

  There weren’t any, though Durham had several dozen that he decided to refrain from asking in front of an audience for fear of looking like an idiot. Everyone knew quite a lot more about what was going on than he did and making them all wait while things were explained to him didn’t seem like the best way to garner good will.

  “Unlikely that there’s going to be an undead presence this far from the city but I want a full watch posted tonight jest in case,” Thud called out as the dwarves began drifting away from the fire. “No tellin' how far a skelly might take it in its skullbones to wander. We're pulling outta here at sunrise which means you scouts need to be up and hopping afore then. I'll send Gammi around banging a spoon on a fry pan by means of early warning.

  “You heard the dwarf,” Gong bellowed. “Quit with yer mumbling. Clink and Rasp got first watch. I’ll take second watch with Keezix and then Max and Grottimus gets to be the early worms.”