The Dungeoneers (16 page)

“Of course, no reward comes without some risk,” Master Fimbly concluded.

“I think I'm going to pass out,” said the girl with the long braids on the opposite side of the room. Serene had stopped
looking long ago, her hands cupped over her eyes. Lena doodled on a piece of parchment. Colm was fascinated.

Master Fimbly put his gory sketches away and took a deep breath. “The history of dungeoneering is essentially the history of retribution. Ever since the first goblin raiding parties decided to venture out of their caves and steal our sheep and torch our crops, our kind has sought to settle the debt. Only we can't very well steal our livestock back after the filthy, bloodthirsty creatures have devoured them raw, can we? So instead we take their gold. You might say that it is the orcs and trolls and goblins and all the other shadow-loving, vile denizens of the deep who brought it on themselves. We're just taking back what's ours.”

Colm thought of the silver coin. It was still in his pocket. He had put it there this morning when he changed. There was nothing to spend it on here—everything he could want was provided for him—but he thought it might be good luck.

“Dungeoneering,” Fimbly continued, “is about a group of people coming together, using their various skills and talents to face untold dangers in the hopes of sharing the bounty bought by their courage. It is brothers and sisters standing back to back amid the crash of blades, the sizzle of spells, and the snarl of hideous beasts. It is the snap of the lock and the creak of the lid as the chest opens to reveal a sea of sparkling coin that blinds you if you stare too long.

“But mostly it is about revenge.”

“Dungeoneering is little more than armed robbery.”

Those were the first words out of Herren Bloodclaw's mouth the moment Colm and his companions shuffled in and took their seats. At first he hadn't actually even seen the goblin, standing behind the podium in the front of the room, his head barely tall enough to crest it. Only when the bell chimed did Master Bloodclaw get their attention, scrambling on top of the podium so that he was finally taller than they were—provided they stayed seated.

“Let's get one thing straight!” the goblin shouted. “I don't like you. In fact, deep down, I detest each and every one of you. It's in my blood. I'm a goblin, and that's just how it goes. The truth is, none of them like you. Not the trolls or the orcs or the ogres or the crawlers or the kobolds or the wyverns. Not the basilisks or the brownies or the lichs or the wraiths or the wights or the gorgons or the gargoyles. To them, you are nothing more than a bunch of gold-grubbing thieves with pasty faces and sticky fingers.”

Lena and Colm looked at each other. She shrugged.

“Unfortunately for me,” Herren continued, “my parents didn't like me either. Kicked me out of my clan when I was a wee gob because I forgot to set one little trap and a buncha bloody chest snatchers like yourselves took everything we had. Now, as a result, here I am, teaching
you
all about
them
just to earn my keep.”

Herren Bloodclaw hopped down from the desk and proceeded to walk up and down between the rows, giving a glare
to each young dungeoneer in turn, sometimes pointing with his crooked green finger for emphasis. “I don't like you. Or you. Or you. Especially not fond of you,” he said to Quinn. “You. You. You. You. Or you.” He turned around and ambled back down the center aisle and resumed his spot at the front of the room.

“But we all agree on one thing. We all like . . .
this
.”

The goblin reached into one of the pouches hanging from his belt and produced a single gold coin, holding it up so it caught the light from the window.

“Over the course of your training, I will tell you everything I know about dungeoneering from the perspective of those who inhabit the dungeons themselves. By the time I'm finished, you will know how to slay every creature you're likely to run across, though knowing and doing are vastly different things.”

“I know how to slay goblins,” whispered one of the other trainees, a sinewy, sword-wielding boy with bronze skin and black hair. He must have forgotten he wasn't in Fimbly's class anymore. The goblin could hear just fine.

“And I know how long to roast a human over a spit to keep his juices in, Mr. Dagnor, so maybe you should shut your trap.” The boy huddled, browbeaten, in his seat. “Let's start with the basic, fundamental question: Why do monsters build dungeons?”

The goblin looked around the room for an answer. Serene timidly raised her hand.

“Because they like the dark?”

The goblin took a deep breath, then threw the gold coin at Serene, just missing her. The coin clattered across the floor and landed next to her. “We build dungeons to hide from people like
you
. My ancestors used to live on the surface in large, sprawling villages, till
your
ancestors forced us into caves and tunnels, sent us into mountains and the thick hearts of dark forests. And even then you followed us.”

“But Master Fimbly said—” Serene began.

“I know what that old coot said, something about stealing goats and burning cows and the bonds of brotherhood or some ballyhoo, but make no mistake. Your kind started it. Waited for us to do all the dirty work, mining the mountains and caves for metals and gems, then came and snatched it out from under our noses. So we had to get creative. We started designing ways to keep you out. We added locks to our doors. We added traps to the locks. We put traps on the traps. Then, when all else failed, we hired help.”

The goblin got on his knees and crawled under a table, pulling out a metal box and pushing it toward the center of the room. From his chair, Colm could see that the box contained a clay jar of some kind, nearly twice as big as his head.

“Gather around, now. Come on. Don't be shy. You there, pickpocket.” He pointed to Colm. “Give me a hand with this thing.” As everyone else formed a circle, Colm helped the goblin lift the jar out of the chest. He noticed the lid was sealed tight, but he could feel the weight of it shifting. There
was something heavy inside. And it was moving.

“Now spread out a little bit, give us some space,” Herren Bloodclaw said, motioning for Colm to set the jar on its side. Colm stepped back between Lena and Quinn as the goblin straddled his mysterious treasure, his yellow-clawed fingers grasping at the lid.

“Whatever you do, don't panic. Some of you are green as a lily and will likely not have seen anything quite like this before, but you are in no real danger.” He started to twist the lid, then stopped, looking back at the class. “Not mortal danger, anyways.”

Herren Bloodclaw twisted and pulled, popping the seal, and then leaped aside. Colm instinctively took another step back, as did everyone else, including Lena. They all watched the mouth of the jar.

Nothing happened.

The goblin stood behind it, arms crossed, waiting.

Colm angled to get a better look inside, but the opening was too narrow to see anything.

“There's nothing in there,” the boy named Dagnor said, taking a step forward and then kneeling down, pressing his face into the hole. Herren Bloodclaw shook his head.

“I don't think that's such a good—” Serene started to say, but it was too late. A handful of green slime shot out of the opening, latching onto the boy's cheek like a leech. Dagnor screamed and staggered to his feet, spinning wildly and grabbing the goo with both hands, flinging it against the wall,
where it hit with a slurping, sucking sound. The boy brought one hand to his face and drew his sword with the other, holding it in front of him, ready to strike. Colm watched in horror as the rest of what was in the jar slowly slithered out.

“
Jellus ooziferos
, also known as a slime. Sometimes called ogre's jelly, dragon snot, vile pudding, or simply a bloblin. It comes in over a dozen known varieties, each with varying chemical properties and resistances, some of them quite nasty. This one is known as the common green and is the least dangerous of its kind.” The goblin grinned mischievously.

The pool of slime inched over the lid of its jar with a sickening
shlurp
. It didn't appear to have eyes or a nose or any sensory organ of any kind, yet it seemed to feel its way around regardless. As it moved, it spread and then contracted, leaving a gluey trail behind it.

“The green slime is not lethal,” Herren Bloodclaw said. “It is, however, toxic to the touch and will cause a man's skin to blister or break into boils on contact.” He pointed to Dagnor. Colm noticed that the boy's left cheek had turned a sickly shade of yellow and that several large, round pustules had started bubbling up from the skin. The goblin was no longer the owner of the ugliest face in the room.

Dagnor raised his hand to his cheek, a look of anger on his face. Then he shouted, raised his sword, and attacked the blob in a flurry, hacking away at it with ferocious strokes. Everyone instinctively stepped back even farther, including Master Bloodclaw, as the slime was split into a half dozen pieces and those same pieces split again. Colm noticed that Lena was the
only one in the room with a weapon who wasn't cupping its hilt, as if she knew something Dagnor didn't. The boy stopped to catch his breath, standing over his vanquished foe, now diced into a dozen quivering chunks.

“There are, as I said, lots of different varieties,” the goblin continued over the sound of Dagnor's grunting. “But all slimes have three things in common. First off, they are notoriously slow, which makes them easy to avoid. They also feel absolutely no pain, so far as we can tell. And finally,” he said, pointing to the various puddles of goo that were now crawling back toward each other, inching along the stone floor, “they are all fully capable of reassembling themselves.”

Colm watched, fascinated, as the slime fused all its parts back together, including the one that Dagnor had thrown against the wall, regaining its original size. Dagnor dropped his slimy sword in disbelief.

“For that reason, blades and arrows are quite useless against it. However, each slime is highly susceptible to a certain element that can be reproduced through either chemical or magical means. The common green, for example, is particularly vulnerable to fire. Mister Frostfoot, if you don't mind?” The goblin pointed to the blob, which was very slowly inching its way toward the outer ring of trainees.

“Me?” Quinn pointed. “I really d-d-don't think that's a g-g-good—”

“Stop your stammering, boy, and give us some flames. You certainly didn't have any trouble scorching
me
a couple days back.”

“B-b-but Master Velmoth said . . .”

“That cantankerous old rat put you on his leash already? Bah.” The goblin turned to a boy with a purple cloak that clashed considerably with his orange hair. “Mister Tobbs . . . you're not Velmoth's lapdog yet, are you?” The boy shook his head. “Good. Then toast this jelly before it makes Dagnor any uglier, will you?”

The boy took a step forward and rolled up his sleeves. Beside Colm, Serene gave a little whimper. Colm looked at the seeping gelatinous mass wobbling on the floor, the same one that had just attacked poor Dagnor, leaving one side of his face a weepy mess. Tobbs clasped his hands together and began chanting under his breath, and a jet of flame burst forth, orange to match his hair, slamming straight into the creature. The slime writhed for a moment, then began to melt, forming a slick green smudge on the floor. Dagnor, the right side of his face now fully erupted in a rolling sea of boils, said, “Good riddance.” Lena noted that it smelled a little like Fungus's kitchen. Colm just stared at the puddle.

“Well, now,” Master Bloodclaw announced, rubbing his hooked nose. “That's probably enough hands-on experience for one day. Miss Johaggen, if you would please escort your overzealous companion to Master Merribell to have his face tended to, I'm sure she has some kind of ointment that will clear that up nicely. The rest of you gather your things and be careful of the floor. I'd hate for one of you to slip and hurt yourself.

“All except for you, Mr. Frostfoot.”

Quinn pointed to himself.

“Yes. You haven't proven yourself to be much of a spellcaster today, I'm afraid, so let's see how you handle a mop.”

“That was . . . so wrong,” Quinn said when he finally joined the others out in the hall. His entire body was shaking.

“I don't know,” Lena countered. “At least Master Bloodclaw let us get our hands dirty. Or your hands, anyways,” she added. She still sounded disappointed. Colm saw the look in her eyes. He had only known Lena Proudmore a day, yet he already knew what she was thinking.

“How badly did you want to take a swing at it?” he asked.

Lena bounced on her toes. “
So
badly,” she said. “Good thing I didn't, though.” She turned to Serene. “Let me guess. You wanted to rescue it, didn't you?”

“What? No! Of course not.”

They all looked at her.

“Well. Maybe a little. It was kind of cute, the way it just inched along like that.”

“That's because you didn't have to mop it up,” Quinn remarked. “Or what was left of it.”

Finn was waiting for them out in the hall when they made it to their last training session of the morning. The room was the same as the others, except, Colm noted, there was no tower of books on the desk and no mysterious chest underneath it. As they took their seats—Colm making it a point
to sit next to Lena again—the girl named Johaggen with the long woven hair returned, assuring her own companions that Dagnor would be okay.

“I'm glad,” Colm said from across his table, but the girl just gave him a dismissive look, as if he had been the one who'd tried to suck the boy's face off. He began to wonder if he was automatically limited to having only three good friends in this place, if that was just the way it had to be. He knew everyone had their group—whoever they were matched up with at the start—but did that mean that the groups themselves couldn't get along? Obviously Tyren's group didn't think so. Maybe none of them did.