The following chapters are excerpts from my work-in-progress novel, THE COMPANY. Sign up for my newsletter to learn more and to be notified when the book is available.
Chapter 1: Myth’s Landing
Dariel stood in the middle of the road, gazing with awe at the sprawling city before her, its stone towers and wooden storefronts, its brightly painted signs advertising every product and service imaginable, its people—hundreds of people—humans like her, but also dwarves, elves, goblins, gnomes, orcs, halflings, even the occasional lizard-person. Myth’s Landing.
And the smells! There was the shit, of course, but also freshly baked bread, and some kind of spiced candy coming from the stall across the way, and a heady wash of perfumes and incenses, and tobacco smoke, and the familiar animal smells of horses, and so many more. The riot of noise was the hardest to adjust to. Every sound seemed to draw her attention: a couple in conversation here, a merchant trying to get her attention over there, the braying of a mule behind her, the distant sound of music emanating from one of the taverns, and…
“Get outta the damned road, half-witted yokel!”
Dariel scrambled out of the thoroughfare moments before being run down by a pair of armored war horses bigger than anything they’d had on the farm back in Meadowshade. “Sorry!” she called, waving at the helmed warrior and the leather-clad orc as they went past.
“There are more of them every day,” the warrior muttered, ignoring her.
The orc adjusted the jeweled amulet at his throat and sneered down at her. “Just fodder for the funnels.”
They had passed her by before she thought to introduce herself or ask what a funnel was. She flushed, acutely aware of the mud caking her boots, the rust on her sword, and her unkempt mess of brown hair. It had rained two of the nights on her journey, and though she hadn’t been bothered by sleeping out of doors – she’d made a small fire and slept beneath a lean-to like they’d done during the long days of the harvest season – it hadn’t left her looking her best. Or smelling her best, either, if she was perfectly honest.
She needed an inn, preferably one with a hot bath, where she could give her boots and jerkin a once-over with her boar-bristle brush before she even thought about seeking an apprenticeship from one of Myth’s Landing’s great Adventuring Companies. The thoroughfare where she was standing was lined with shops selling arcane spell ingredients, fashionable armor accessories, exotic-looking weapons like the throwing halberd, and more than one tunic with the phrase “I Survived Mythbarrow” stitched on the front. Just beyond the shops was a row of restaurants and taverns with names like “The Rusty Eel” and “The Jeweled Pig” and a rowdy-looking one called “Cups and Blades.”
She gazed in through the open doors and windows at tables packed with laughing, bawdy patrons sloshing beer and chugging cups of wine—adventurers out carousing after their latest dungeon crawl, she guessed. She’d be celebrating with them one day soon. But not today, she thought, passing them by and pausing below the steps of a large, two-story inn. The placard hanging above the stoop named it “Fox and Toad” and was decorated with a brightly colored painting of the two creatures lounging together in the sunshine on a riverbank. She knew a real fox would more than likely kill a toad than sun itself next to one, but it was a charming image nonetheless.
A sell sword who called himself Carver had talked about the place when he’d stayed at the Public House in Meadowshade. Anytime an outsider came through Meadowshade, Dariel had made sure to visit, hoping to hear a story about one of the legendary Adventuring Companies of Myth’s Landing. This practice had gotten her into hot water with her parents more than once. But Carver had mostly droned on to Melvy, the ogress who ran the Public House, about all the people he supposedly knew in Myth’s Landing. The only bit that had stuck had been the praises he’d sung of the Fox and Toad. “Best stew anywhere in the Overworld, far as I’m concerned,” he’d said. “They buy ingredients from shadow dwarf merchants, you know. Bring them straight up from the deepest levels of Mythbarrow. Between that, the magical, self-cleaning rooms, and the voluptuous elf maidens working the bar, it gets so an adventurer doesn’t want to leave. Best Inn in all of Myth’s Landing, nobody will argue that fact,” he’d said. And no one in the Public House had disagreed with him, because no one in the Public House had ever visited Myth’s Landing, at least not to Dariel’s knowledge.
Well, she was here now. She mounted the steps and the door swung open in front of her. A well-groomed halfling in a black jacket appeared in the doorway, an eyebrow raised. “Excuse me, miss…?”
“Ryland,” she said, smiling and thrusting out her hand. “Dariel Ryland. I’m here to become an adventurer, and I’m looking for a room for the night.”
The halfling pursed his lips didn’t take her hand. He looked her up and down. “I have no doubt. And while I would welcome you to our humble establishment, I fear that we are well and truly full for the week, having no vacancies at present.”
“No vacancies?” Dariel withdrew her hand awkwardly. “I just heard this was the best inn in Myth’s Landing. Carver recommended it to me.” Not strictly true, but maybe the name drop wouldn’t hurt her chances.
“Can’t say I know the fellow. Hm. Well, we have earned the coveted Adventurer’s Gold Star five years in a row. But I’m afraid that has made us rather popular. And… rather… expensive. Perhaps you should try one of the operations in Red Rat Alley.”
“I see,” Dariel said, feeling herself flush yet again. She opened her mouth to ask for a recommendation, but the halfling had already shut the door. Dariel sighed and pushed her hair back.
What had she expected, really? She was a country bumpkin. She’d spent her whole life in Meadowshade working on a farm. She’d never seen anywhere like Myth’s Landing before. It far outstretched what she had imagined. There was just so much and it seemed like it kept going forever. And to think, beyond its gates, the entrance to the legendary Mythbarrow.
She pushed her shoulders back. She might be a country bumpkin now, but pretty soon she’d be a real adventurer. Dariel Ryland was here to stay and nobody was going to tell her otherwise.
#
Red Rat Alley turned out to be a street full of brothels and sex workers eager to relieve adventurers of their gold. After she fended off a few unwanted advances, a shirtless dwarf with washboard abs had taken mercy and directed her to a place further down the street called The Rat’s Nest. The sign in the window advertised their “by-the-hour” rates—not a promising start—but the mousy-looking elf working at the counter had been welcoming. Once she realized that Dariel actually wanted a room for the entire night—by herself—she showed Dariel to a room at the far end of the hall.
“The rooms near the front of the house get rented first, so it should be reasonably quiet back here,” the woman said, opening the door on a small room with a bed made to accommodate two. An empty wooden tub sat on one side of the room beside a table with a ceramic pot of stale-looking flowers. A small pane of wavy glass looked out on the back of another building. “It’s supposed to be the honeymoon suite,” said the woman with a chuckle. “Doesn’t see a lot of use.” She grabbed the pot full of dead flowers, tucking it under one arm. A heavy-looking book was tucked under the other.
“What’s that you’re reading?” Dariel asked. She didn’t have the opportunity to read much, but she’d always loved stories ever since her granddad had taught her to read.
The woman’s cheeks turned the same shade of crimson as her hair. “It’s a textbook. Gremelkor’s Introduction to Applied Arcanodynamics. I’m a student at the Mage Academy.”
“You’re a mage?” There’d been a hedge witch who lived outside of Meadowshade, but she’d never met a real, trained magic-user. “Why are you working here?”
“Paying my tuition,” she said. “These textbooks aren’t cheap!”
“Oh, I bet,” Dariel said, admiring the buffed leather cover and the gilding on the book’s spine. “I’m here hoping to become an adventurer, too.” She realized suddenly that this woman might not want to be an adventurer at all. There were plenty of careers for a trained mage besides risking your neck for treasure and glory. “Sorry, I shouldn’t presume.”
The woman smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth. “I do want to go on adventures someday! It’s why I came to Myth’s Landing. I was supposed to apprentice to the spellsingers in my homeland, but that would have meant a life singing to trees, using magic to convince them to turn themselves into elegant-looking bridges and houses. And that’s important, I know it is. But it just sounded so… boring?”
“I get that,” Dariel said. “I spent my whole life working on a farm. I’m Dariel, by the way.” She stuck out her hand.
“I’m Jase.” The woman shifted awkwardly, trying to balance the heavy book and the pot to free up a hand. The pot slipped free of her grasp and spun through the air.
Dariel lunged forward, catching the pot before it could hit the floor. But as she did so, she collided against a chest of drawers. The whole thing collapsed beneath her, wood splintering and cracking as she toppled over. Miraculously, she kept hold of the ceramic pot. The dead flowers remained undisturbed.
Dariel pulled herself free of the wreckage. “Jorbin’s Beard, I am so sorry! I’m such an idiot.”
“Are you okay?” Jase said, kneeling and squinting at Dariel.
“I’m fine. A bruise on my backside’s probably the worst of it.” She shook her head. She didn’t belong here. What was she even doing here? Her mother had been right. She belonged on a farm. Back home, if she broke a chair, she had the tools to fix it. And things there seemed sturdier. Here, she felt absurdly large and awkward. Her height—almost six feet—had been an advantage when doing manual labor. Here, she feared she would knock over or smash anything if she wasn’t constantly on guard.
“I’ve wrecked the furniture. I am really sorry. I’ll pay for the damages.” She fished out her coin purse, peering at the handful of silver and the single gold coin tucked inside. Her funds weren’t going to go far, and especially not if she was smashing up furniture. “Stupid, stupid.”
“It’s fine,” Jase said. “The furniture in here is all pretty cheap. Here, let me see if I can fix it.” She reached inside her jacket and removed a brass rod inscribed with runes. She knitted her brow together, mouthing a phrase silently and waving the rod. Then she spoke, her high, thin voice ringing clear and sonorous. “Intayacele traayuist aca-ana!”
The rod began to glow and the dresser pulled itself back together. Dariel yelped as a large splinter jerked itself free of her hip and wove itself into the rest of the dresser. The magic faded, leaving the dresser whole once again. “That was incredible!”
Jase grinned. “I’ve been working on that spell for over a week. It’s the first time I’ve tried it on anything this large.” She reached over and pulled the top drawer out. It jammed halfway. Dariel noticed that the whole thing was listing a little bit sideways.
Jase sighed. “I did mention I’m still a student, right?”
Dariel laughed, the awkwardness she felt easing a bit. “It would have taken me a week to build a new one, and it probably wouldn’t have turned out any better.”
Jase laughed. “It’s probably not the first time it’s been broken, either. Sometimes the guests get, uh, enthusiastic, if you take my meaning.”
“I think I can guess.”
Jase took the pot back from Dariel. “I should probably leave you to it. Would you like me to send hot water brought for a bath?”
“That would be incredible,” Dariel said. The weight of a week of travel suddenly felt very heavy on her. “I probably smell like a waterlogged kobold.”
Jase winced. “I wasn’t going to mention it.”
“It’s fine,” Dariel said. “And send soap, too, please. Lots of it.”
Chapter 2: Looking for Work
The next morning, Dariel ventured out early. Jase wasn’t working at the front desk but the sallow-skinned human who was directed her to the Crier’s Board when she asked about finding employment at an Adventuring Company. She was clean and felt well-rested, but she couldn’t shake off the doubts that had crept in on her the day before. What if no one wanted to hire her?
It hadn’t taken long to find the public square off Grand Company Lane. An oversized copper statue of a band of adventurers stood in the middle of the square, clutching blades and bags of treasure. The Dread Delvers, the first Adventuring Company to successfully delve Mythbarrow and survive. In the century since their legendary achievement, Myth’s Landing had gone from being a few muddy hollows on a riverside to being the adventuring hotbed it was today. The statue gleamed in the morning sunlight like it was newly cast and polished; Dariel had heard they’d put an enchantment on it to keep it from tarnishing, so that the legend of the Dread Delvers would shine on forevermore.
Dariel peered at the figures, looking for any family resemblance in any of the figures. Supposedly, her great, great grandfather, Tobias Ryland, had been a founding member of the Dread Delvers, but his name wasn’t even inscribed on the Dread Delvers plaque. He’d retired to raise a family before the Delvers had their big triumph in Mythbarrow and instead of going down in history as one of the greatest adventurers of all time, his adventures simply became a minor footnote in their family history.
The square was crowded with visitors. Some of them seemed to be sightseeing. Others were clearly adventurers, garbed in cloaks that shimmered with magic energy or gleaming armor. There were some sleeping in the square—collapsed there after a hard night’s drinking, Dariel guessed. There were a handful of folks gathered around the large wooden board at the edge of the square. In its center was painted a map of the town. Surrounding this were tacked an assortment of notices: reward offers, job requests, a flier for a missing familiar, and advertisements for many of the local shops and taverns.
Dariel edged closer, trying to read some of the fliers to see if there were any from companies looking to recruit new fighters.
“Ouch! Watch yourself!”
She looked down to see a male gnome with short-cropped black hair scowling up at her. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered. “I didn’t see you.”
His face reddened further. “Didn’t see me? You think that’s funny, do you?”
“No, I mean, I was trying to read—”
“Psh. Read? You don’t look like you can count to five, much less read. Which muddy hole did you crawl out of, anyway?”
An elf with ash-gray eyes and a curved blade on his hips smirked. “You are a gnome, after all. It’s a wonder she didn’t step on you.”
The gnome turned on the elf. “Half-gnome, I’ll have you know. And proud of it!”
“Well, aren’t you special? Honestly, this town could do with a lot fewer bastards and illiterate farmers.”
The gnome clenched his fists. “You want to badmouth my mother and father? Back up your words, you smarmy git. I’ll take you on anytime.”
The elf snickered. “A duel? Very well. I accept your request.”
The half-gnome’s face blanched and he took a faltering step backwards. “Now wait just a minute…”
“You all heard it,” the elf called. “This worm-grubber dared insult his better and offered a fair challenge. I intend to take him up on it.” He reached for his blade.
Dariel thought this nonsense had gone about far enough. She caught the man’s wrist before he could pull the blade out. “It was a misunderstanding,” she said. “I bumped him. It was my fault.”
He bared his teeth and tried to pull the sword free, but Dariel squeezed harder. The man gasped and released the blade. She let go of him and he stepped back, rubbing his wrist with his other hand. “Don’t touch me, peasant.”
She glared at him until he turned with a sniff and walked away.
“I could have taken him!” the half-gnome shouted at her. “The last thing I need is a half-giant sticking her nose into my affairs!”
“Sorry,” she said. Her heart felt like it was pounding in her ears. That had been rash, but what had she been supposed to do? “I just didn’t want someone to get killed in front of me, alright? I thought the stabbing was for the dungeon.”
The half-gnome had the decency to look chagrined. “Well, whatever.” He turned away from her, studiously focusing on one of the flyers.
Dariel shrugged and turned her attention to the board. Most of the postings were jobs for existing Adventuring Companies. There was a colorful poster advertising something called a funnel. “Big rewards” is all it said. There was an address and a company name, the Gleamers, on the bottom along with a date and time—tomorrow at noon.
She peered more closely at the map. It depicted the various districts of Myth’s Landing: Grand Company Lane and the adjacent Red Rat Alley, the Merchants’ Bazaar, the Sacred Temple District, Governor’s Triangle, Riverside, Peaktown, and more. A cutout showed Grand Company Lane, the square, and adjacent streets. A number of notable companies were listed on the map: Skull and Crossbows, The Jade Stabbers, Seekers of the Wyrm, The Golden Ogres, even Hell’s Hammers. Most of them were within walking distance from where she stood.
This was it, what she’d set her mind to so long ago. She was here, in Myth’s Landing, and she was going to carve out a name for herself as a great adventurer.
She went to the company house of Skull and Crossbows first; it was right on the square. The three-story establishment had a stone façade with granite gargoyles hanging off the corners and marble skulls looming above the windows. The front door stood open as adventurers passed in and out at a brisk pace. Dariel stepped into the flow of traffic and marched through the front door like she belonged there. A faint smell of incense and wine hung in the air. The entryway was a large hall with stone floors and dark wood-paneled ceilings from which hung magically-illuminated chandeliers. Banners covered the walls and large doorways with ornate frames opened into other rooms. Various adventurers moved through the hall, looking like they were going somewhere important and chatting to one another in low voices that carried through the hall like the rumble of distant thunder. All of them wore a pin on their jackets or robes or a brooch on their armor: it depicted a silver-filigreed skull mounted atop an iron crossbow.
She expected someone would rush to her to tell her she couldn’t be there. Instead, everyone completely ignored her.
Behind a desk in the middle of the hall, a white-haired goblin in a green velvet jacket sat pouring over a log and exchanging words with passing adventurers. Dariel approached, wishing she could simultaneously make herself invisible and also that someone would at least greet her. “Excuse me,” she said.
The goblin looked up at her and cocked a thorny eyebrow. “Your business?”
“I’m an adventurer looking for work,” she said. “I was just curious if Skull and Crossbows is hiring.”
He looked her over; she had the uncomfortable feeling he was examining the dents on her pauldrons and the stains on the old leather jerkin she wore. “Skills and abilities?”
She forced herself to smile—not an easy task under that piercing gaze. “Well, uh, I’m pretty strong. I can haul a full barrel of water. I know my way around horses and mules. I can read. I know plenty about farming. I can cook a little.”
“Blade craft?” the goblin inquired.
She shook her head. “I was hoping for on-the-job training.”
“Dungeoneering? Wilderness survival? Spellcasting? Trapfinding? Archery?”
She shook her head after each one, feeling her future dwindling into a tiny pinprick of dust to be swept away.
“What about references and recommendations? Any notable personages who would sponsor you?”
She thought of her cousin Faustin who worked for Hell’s Hammers, imagining him lounging about and eating grapes off a silver tray. If they asked him for a reference, he’d tell them Dariel was a dumb, uncouth peasant who was doomed to spend her life shoveling manure. That’s what he’d told her, anyway, the last time she’d seen him. “No references,” she said, feeling smaller by the moment.
“I’m afraid you lack the qualifications for employment here, miss,” the goblin said. “Without some experience, formal training, or at least a good recommendation, you’ll have trouble finding work.”
Frustration welled up inside her. “How am I going to get any of those if no one will give me an opportunity to show my abilities?”
The goblin shook his head. “Not my problem, I’m afraid. You might try one of the funnels. I think I saw an advert for one recently.”
She started to ask what a funnel was, but the goblin had turned his attention to a human wizard with a leathery-looking tentacle in place of his left arm.
She sighed and wandered back out to the square, now bustling with activity. Maybe she would have better luck somewhere else.
She tried The Golden Ogres next. They were only hiring clerics. The Seekers of the Wyrm wouldn’t even let her in the front door without a recommendation. At the Jade Stabbers, she heard much the same thing she had heard at Skull and Crossbows: she needed training, experience, or a notable recommendation if she wanted employment with one of the Companies.
By late afternoon, she had nearly exhausted her options. The only place left she hadn’t tried was Hell’s Hammers, but if she showed her face there, Faustin would find out. Not only was there absolutely no chance that they would hire her against the word of a well-respected spellblade like Faustin, but he’d be sure that everyone back home knew that she’d come to Myth’s Landing and fallen on her face.
The clerk at Jade Stabbers had recommended she try a funnel, too. He’d at least explained that a funnel was some kind of dungeon crawling trial. He couldn’t give her more details—the specifics varied depending on who was organizing it, apparently. But the more she thought about it, the more Dariel felt that it was her best option. If she got some experience in this funnel, maybe then one of the better companies would consider hiring her.
She returned to the board. There was only one flier remaining for the funnel. It seemed others had the same idea as her. “The Gleamers, huh? Well, I guess it’s one way to get started.”
Chapter 3: The Funnel
The next afternoon, Dariel found herself standing in a crowd of almost forty other would-be adventurers in an overgrown thicket facing several dark openings that led into a series of earthwork mounds. Apparently, this was the Grave of the Chaos Queen. The early autumn air was cool and crisp but the smell of decay pooled around the doorways that opened into the earthworks. Beside her, a pair of elves were complaining about the tall grasses getting their robes wet. She spotted the irascible half-gnome from yesterday’s confrontation on the other side of the crowd; she kept her distance in hopes of avoiding another altercation.
She’d arrived at the Gleamers’ office—a small, shabby building on the edge of the warehouse district—an hour early to find a crowd gathered out front. An orcish woman whose purple hair was bound in tight knots atop her head came out and organized them into groups of ten, handing out liability consent forms that everyone had to sign before they were allowed to participate. They’d then loaded everyone into flatbed wagons and hauled them out of Myth’s Landing. During the two-hour trek into the countryside, Dariel had tried striking up conversation with the others in her wagon—a trio of dwarves making wagers over who would recover the most treasure, a halfling with a raven on her shoulder, a pale-skinned goblin, two orcs who didn’t speak her language, and a human solider who looked like he was still hungover—but she didn’t get much out of them other than the name of the dungeon and the obvious fact that it seemed most of them except her were traveling in small groups.
Now she fidgeted with the old, tarnished sword she’d bought from a traveling merchant, hefted the unlit torch that someone had handed to her, and waited for instructions.
The purple-haired orc climbed atop one of the wagons. “Alright, new recruits! This here’s a funnel. There’re three entrances. Take your pick. Get in there, keep your wits about you, and clear out these warrens. No telling what you’ll find in there, but it shouldn’t be too dangerous being this close to Myth’s Landing. Kill any monsters you find and recover any loot. Bring it back here when you’re done. Those who bring out the most treasure will be considered for long-term employment. Questions?”
The halfling with the raven raised her hand. “What’s to stop some other adventurer hanging back and stealing treasure from someone else on their way out?”
The orc chuckled. “Nothing but your own blade,” she said, an edge of malice in her voice. “Now get in there!”
This whole thing was beginning to seem a lot riskier to Dariel. Most of these other so-called adventurers didn’t even have proper weapons or armor. What about making a plan? But what was an adventure without risk? she chided herself. She shrugged and moved towards one of the three entrances with roughly a dozen others. An elf in a black cloak standing by the entrance—one of the Gleamers—used a puff of magic to light her torch as she passed.
She stooped her head; the ceiling in the tunnel was low. Rough-cut stairs descended into darkness. The air here was cool and damp and smelled of earth and mushrooms. A pair of elves armed with hammers and daggers were just in front of her. A goblin with a cheap-looking short bow followed behind her. Dariel hoped the woman wouldn’t accidentally loose an arrow into her back.
Ahead, she heard the three dwarves she’d traveled with loudly arguing over who was going first. Suddenly, there was a pained shriek. “My foot! My foot!”
She reached the bottom of the stairs, passing through another doorway into a room with an arched, earthen ceiling supported by rotting wooden beams. Three rough-cut doorways opened into adjacent chambers off this one. The three dwarves were in the opening on her left. Two of them were kneeling next to the third, who was lying on the ground, clutching his leg. There was a dark, wet shape nearby.
“It’s his foot!” cried one of the elves, his voice quavering.
Dariel raised her torch higher, casting the chamber in flickering shadows. The elf was right. The dwarf’s foot lay nearby, cleanly severed just above the ankle. The wounded dwarf started to wail wordlessly. The two dwarves next to him shouted at one another, arguing over who was to blame.
“What happened?” asked the frightened elf.
The belligerent half-gnome appeared out of the shadows and Dariel jumped in surprise. She hadn’t even seen him enter this tunnel. “Blade trap triggered by a hidden tripwire,” the half-gnome said. “They were so busy arguing over who was going first that they didn’t look where they were going.”
One of the dwarves was trying to drag their injured friend back to the stairs; the other cursed them and proceeded on through the doorway, torch in one hand and hatchet in the other. The wounded dwarf was clutching his severed foot, sobbing.
“Help me, someone,” said the uninjured dwarf. “He’ll die if we don’t get him some healing.”
Dariel looked around, hoping maybe there was a cleric among the group, but the other people were studiously avoiding the dwarf’s attention and moving cautiously into the other doorways.
Dariel sighed. “I’m no healer, but I can at least tie a torniquet,” she said, placing her torch on the ground. She removed her belt and cinched it snugly around the bleeding limb. “Sometimes one of the sheep back on the farm would get out and wander into a hunter’s trap,” she said, feeling the need to explain how she knew this rudimentary skill. “This came off cleanly, though, so he might have a chance if you can get some magical healing and prevent it from becoming infected.”
The uninjured dwarf thanked her profusely. The wounded dwarf was looking pale and glassy-eyed. “Let’s get him out of here,” Dariel said. “You take his shoulders.” Gingerly, they hefted the dwarf and carried him up and out of the barrow into the bright sunlight.
“One down already?” asked the black-robed mage curiously. “That didn’t take long.”
“Can you get him some help?” Dariel asked. “Surely you brought a cleric along.”
The mage shrugged. “I’ll ask Nadia about it,” gesturing towards the purple-haired orc on the other side of the clearing. Nadia was leaning into the doorway of one of the other earthen mounds, shouting encouragement or taunts, Dariel wasn’t sure which.
The uninjured dwarf unstrapped a metal buckler from his forearm and handed it to her. “Here, take this. Might keep you alive in there. And thank you. Pfiff would certainly be dead without you stepping up to help.”
Dariel nodded. She felt like she should stay, but there was nothing else she could do here. She was no cleric and her abilities as a healer didn’t extend much further than tending a cut or splinting a broken bone. “I hope he’s okay.”
She strapped the buckler onto her forearm and once again descended the steps into the dungeon, picking up her torch. The entry chamber had cleared out, leaving her alone and directionless.
She peered through each open doorway, trying to guess which way she should go and more than a little worried about stumbling into another trap. The opening the remaining dwarf had gone through led into a chamber filled with stacked pots, most of which looked like they’d been smashed open. The center doorway led down a short hallway that opened into another chamber, this one holding what looked like stone plinths. The third one was another hallway that sloped down further undergrown and bent towards the left.
She was about to try the center doorway when she heard a scream and shouting from down the sloped hallway. She yanked her sword out of its scabbard—the loose hilt rattling a little in her grip—and charged down the hall. As she rounded the corner, it occurred to her that most sensible people would have turned and run the other way. Well, no one had ever called her sensible before. There was no reason she should start being sensible now.
Down a short flight of steps was a stone archway opening into some kind of gallery. All Dariel could see were figures moving and a flickering green light. She leapt down the steps and rushed into the room, leading with the buckler on her forearm.
Here, the floor was stone blocks instead of packed earth and sconces on the wall glowed with unnatural green flames that burned from no visible source. Piles of bones were gathered in alcoves along the walls. Several of those piles had apparently collected themselves together and stood, because there were four skeletons in the room. The eye sockets of their skulls glowed with red light and they clutched long, rusted swords. At their feet lay one of the elves, a rusted sword stuck through her throat. The other elf was cowering against the opposite wall, screaming.
“Lookout!” shouted someone behind her. She heard a thwang, and an arrow whistled past her head, shooting into the ribcage of one of the skeletons. The arrow punched clean through a ragged scrap of fabric and out the other side but the skeleton seemed unfazed.
One of the skeletons lumbered towards her, swinging its sword awkwardly. Dariel raised the buckler and the blade clanged off it, making her arm vibrate. She swung her sword down hard, chopping at the skeleton. Her blade struck the thing’s clavicle and she heard a crack, but the old blade broke free of the hilt and clattered to the floor uselessly.
“Shit!” She scrambled backwards as the skeleton swung awkwardly again. “Blades and arrows are useless,” she cried, hoping either the elf or the goblin had some other weapon handy.
A second skeleton clambered towards her. The other two were heading across the room towards the other elf. Dariel dropped the useless hilt and swung with her fist at the skeleton in front of her. She hit it square in the face. Its jaw careened off into the darkness and its nose and cheekbone shattered. The thing staggered back just as the other skeleton closed in on her.
She tried to twist to get the buckler raised in time, but it was on her opposite side and she was off-balance. She felt a blow on her right bicep and then a jagged spike of pain that made her shout. Black spots swam in her vision and tears sprang unbidden to her eyes.
Was this it? Was this how she was going down? Her first dungeon crawl?
To hell with that. She rolled out of the way, landing atop the skeleton she had punched just as it was trying to climb back to its feet. She caved its skull the rest of the way in with the buckler, trying not to worry about the blood that seemed to be everywhere.
“Use this!” someone shouted. She glanced up and saw the half-gnome. He was holding one of the long, wooden hammers that the elves had been carrying. He slid it across the floor towards her.
Dariel snatched it and swept it up in one motion, driving the hammer’s head into the breastbone of the second skeleton as it bore down on her again. Bone splintered as the skeleton exploded into dusty shards. “Thanks,” Dariel called.
She glanced down at her arm. It was bleeding pretty badly and hurt worse than the time a hornet had gotten stuck in her trousers, but it wasn’t about to come off or anything. She could still move it. The remaining two skeletons had fallen onto the other elf, who was on the ground, screaming and kicking. The goblin with the short bow was nowhere to be seen.
“Give me a hand!” Dariel shouted at the half-gnome. She ran across the room without waiting to see if he was behind her or not. But before she could get close enough to strike, one skeleton plunged its sword into the elf’s stomach. He screamed, but not for long, because the second skeleton shoved its blade into his open mouth, killing him instantly.
Something hot and uncontrollable surged inside of Dariel. Those bastards above had thrown them all in here with no preparation and no warning for what they’d find. They didn’t care who lived or who died as long as someone brought back some loot. Fuck them! And fuck these skeletons!
She swung the hammer with all the fury boiling inside her. She struck one of the skeletons and it was like snapping dead tree limbs during the fall cleanup, its bones splitting into twigs. The force of her blow was so powerful that it carried through the first skeleton, snapping its spine, and smashed through the ribcage of the second skeleton as well.
Chips and shards of bone rained down around her. The skeletons stopped moving.
Dariel was breathing heavily. As the adrenaline wore off, her legs went wobbly and she sank to her knees. The hammer slid from her grasp. Her arm was soaked with blood and burned like it was on fire. She felt a wave of nausea coming on and swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to lose her breakfast on the remains of a skeleton.
“Are you alright?” asked the half-gnome behind her.
She saw the poor, dead elf before her. He’d died down here, helpless and terrified. Her gorge rose again and she blinked away the tears and looked at the floor. “I’ll live if I don’t bleed to death. Can you help me wrap my arm?”
“Sure, I…” He glanced down at the dead elf and his face went pale.
“Don’t look,” she said. “My name’s Dariel Ryland.
The half-gnome tore his gaze away from the elf’s mangled corpse and looked at her. “Quintus,” he said. “Quintus Avery-Remplenimple.”
Dariel snorted a laugh in spite of herself, causing her arm to shoot with pain. “Remplenimple?” she gasped.
Quintus scowled. “The Remplenimples are a proud and storied gnome family stretching back generations, I’ll have you know.”
“I apologize for laughing. That was rude. You’re the first gnome—sorry, half-gnome—I ever met. And Avery?”
“My mother’s surname. My mother and father combined their names when they married.” He sat down next to her and opened a small satchel that hung over his shoulder, removing a round tin. “I bought this healing salve off a merchant from Grimduck. It was half-price cause of the smell.”
He twisted the cap off the tin and the gloomy chamber was immediately filled with the eye-watering reek of rotting onions. “Ugh! Are you sure that’s not going to poison me?”
Quintus scrunched his nose. “Not sure, no. You want it or not?”
She nodded. In her experience, foul smells usually went hand-in-hand with medicine. Whenever she’d gotten anything from the hedge witch in Meadowshade, it had always smelled like camphor or curdled milk, so maybe it would work.
Quintus used his dagger to cut away the sleeve of her shirt and then rubbed in the greasy mixture over the wound. She winced at his touch, but the burning sensation eased immediately. The wound began to close, and in a few seconds was nothing more than a raised pink line of new flesh. “It worked,” she said, honestly surprised.
“Course it worked,” Quintus quipped.
“Thanks,” Dariel said. “I’ll pay you back.”
Quintus waved a hand. “Call us even, since I’d still be stuck down here trying to hide from those skeletons if you hadn’t smashed them.” He stood and dusted off his hands. “Come on, there’s another room back here.”
“What about… them?” She nodded towards the corpses of the elves. “Shouldn’t we bring them out? We can’t just leave them down here.”
“I suppose we should. But let’s check this other room first. I don’t want a more skeletons or a purple ooze to come creeping out of there while our backs are turned.”
“Right,” Dariel said. She picked up the hammer, raised the torch, and they edged into the adjacent chamber.
It was a smaller room than the ossuary. In the middle was a stone bier with an open-topped coffin. Characters were inscribed on the outside in strange runes. Inside lay a skeleton covered in cobwebs. A golden circlet rested on its breastbone. Dariel raised the hammer, but the skeleton didn’t move.
“What do you think those runes say?” she asked.
“Curse ye who dare enter here, tremble at the terrible majesty of the Chaos Queen?” Quintus said.
“Really?”
He shrugged. “No, I’m just guessing.” He pointed at the crown. “Don’t touch that.”
“I wasn’t going to,” she said. “It doesn’t seem right to take it.”
“It’s a fake anyway,” he said. “Gold paint, probably over iron. Grab it and she wakes up and tears you a new orifice.” He crouched down and crept around the base of the bier. “Aha!”
“What is it?”
“Bring that torch closer.”
She lowered the torch and Quintus fidgeted with seemed to be loose piece of stone in one of the runes. A panel slid open on the side of the bier, revealing a small niche. After examining it for a moment to ensure it wasn’t trapped as well, Quintus reached inside and withdrew a tarnished golden circlet. A small ruby was mounted in the center.
“Wow,” Dariel breathed. “It’s beautiful.”
“Sure is,” Quintus said. “And probably worth a bundle, too.”
“You think it’s okay to take?”
Quintus shrugged. “I don’t think she’s going to miss it. Besides, isn’t that what we’re here for?”
Graverobbing wasn’t exactly what she’d dreamed of when she had decided to become an adventurer, but Quintus was right. If she wasn’t going to collect the treasure, what was she even doing here? She sighed. “Alright. Let’s get out of here.”
It took them over an hour to carry the two dead elves out of the crypt. By the time they finished, Dariel was filthy, covered in sweat and blood, and her back hurt. There were no more than a dozen of the other would-be adventurers around. Many of them were badly injured. The dwarf she’d carried out earlier was lying still in the dirt; his friend sat next to him, sobbing softly.
“Thanks for bringing them up,” said the Nadia, the purple-haired orc. “But you could have just emptied their pockets and left them down there.”
“What are you talking about?” Dariel asked.
“Look around,” Nadia said. “You survived the funnel. You won. Now we go sweep the dead and collect any loot they picked up or coin they brought in with them.”
Dariel felt rage boiling inside her again. “You can’t just leave them all there!”
“Of course we can. They signed the waiver, just like you. Don’t get so bent out of shape. You’re alive. They’re dead. It’s how it goes. You stand to profit. Now, what did you find in the Cave of the Chaos Queen?”
Before Dariel could think to stop him, Quintus showed Nadia the crown and she plucked it out of his hands.
“Ah! The Crown of the Chaos Queen! Excellent!”
“Hey, that’s mine!” Quintus snapped.
“Look at that release form again,” she said. “Section three, paragraph L, any valuables recovered during the event period will become the property of Gleamers, Inc. Subcontractor shall be compensated at fifteen percent of the going market value, as listed by the Dungeoneer’s Yellow Book, 5th Edition.”
“But that’s not fair!” Quintus argued.
“It’s all in the agreement you signed,” Nadia said. “Don’t be pissy. You should be celebrating. You two survived and recovered the most valuable item so far, meaning you’ll both be eligible to join the Gleamers as new recruits. You beat the funnel!”
Dariel clenched her fists. “You’re a bunch of con artists and swindlers,” she snarled. “People are dead because of you. And now you want us to loot their bodies?” She wanted to hit someone, break something. “I’ll never work for scum like you.”
Nadia’s face darkened. She leaned forward and jabbed a finger into Dariel’s chest. “You have no idea what I’ve been through to get where I am. Call me scum again and you’ll be walking home with your teeth in your hands.”
Dariel was about to tackle Nadia when she felt a tug on her trousers. “That’s fine,” Quintus said. “Difference of opinion is all. We’ll collect our fifteen percent and go our separate ways.”
Nadia smirked. “You survived your first funnel. Consider it a well learned lesson. The dungeon isn’t some playground for yokels.” She turned away and went back the wagon where a man was loading crates filled with ill-gotten goods into one of the wagons and the black-cloaked mage was paying out rewards to the few other adventurers who made it out of the dungeon.
#
It was dark and the second moon was up by the time Dariel and Quintus arrived in Myth’s Landing. After Dariel’s outburst, Nadia had refused to let them ride in the wagon. They’d barely spoken on the long hike. The thirty gold coins—more money than she’d ever had in her life but a fraction of what the crown was worth—weighed heavy in her pockets. She kept having to remind herself she hadn’t taken it from the others who had died.
As they reached the entrance to Red Rat Alley, Dariel stopped. “This is my exit,” she said.
Quintus made a face. “You live there?”
She smirked. “Not the brothels. There’s a cheap inn down there, the Rat’s Nest.”
He nodded. “So, what now?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m never doing another funnel again, that’s for sure.”
“Are you giving up on the adventuring life, then?”
She thought about it for a moment. The Gleamers had taken advantage of people eager for an opportunity, like her, and the whole thing had left a sour taste in her mouth. But she couldn’t deny the fact that down there in the crypts, she had felt more alive, more present, than anytime she could remember in her life. “I don’t think so, but I need to get some real training and equipment before I ever try anything like that again.” She shuffled the coins in her pockets. “I don’t think this is going to get me very far, though.”
He grinned. “You should try the Dwarf Corps Fighter’s Guild. I heard they’re offering a deferred-interest student loan program.”
“Fighter’s Guild, huh? Maybe I will. What about you?”
Quintus tapped the coin purse hanging from his belt. “Gonna start with a good meal and a bottle of ale, then take in the sights. I haven’t thought much about what’s beyond that. I’ll just see where the wind takes me, I guess.”
Dariel nodded. “Well, maybe we’ll work together again one day.”
“I’d like that. Turns out you’re not too stupid after all.” He stuck out his hand.
Dariel chuckled and shook it. “And maybe you’re not as hotheaded as I thought, either.”
“See you around, Dariel.”
“See you, Quintus.”
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Shannon Rampe 