by Sean Gibson
“Right. Look, I’m a little bit self-absorbed and I like to make fun of people. But, do you really think I’d be here with you now, hanging in on this crazy adventure, if I didn’t believe in you? If I didn’t believe you have the chance to do something special? The fact of the matter is that most adventurers don’t do anything great—they either quit or get killed before they do anything noteworthy. Actual epic, legendary quests are few and far between. So, to be on a quest to fight a dragon—and a minotaur to boot—alongside a group that I think is actually capable of defeating both of those creatures? That’s pretty much a bard’s dream.” I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you for letting me be here with you, and for the chance to tell your story. I know it’s going to be a great one—in some ways, it already is.”
Much murmuring ensued, the cacophony of polite noises people make when they want to say thank you but don’t really want to get into specifics or create any particularly emotional moments, which suited me just fine—emotions that aren’t rapture, joy, or derision make me uncomfortable.
After a few minutes, we gathered up our gear and set off down the tunnel we thought might lead us to the minotaur—and, after that, the dragon.
Chapter 23
TURNS OUT MINOTAURS HAVE A FLATULENCE PROBLEM (ONE OF THEM, ANYWAY)
After a while, Whiska’s map started to look like someone had plopped a bowl of spaghetti on top of a bowl of linguini. There were so many choices to make that we stopped trying to double back and apply any logic to our passage through the maze and started making directional choices based on who had the longest middle finger (Whiska, surprisingly—not Borg), the smallest feet (Rummy), or the silkiest, most beautiful hair anyone had ever seen (yours truly, naturally). We’d moved so far beyond hopelessly lost that hopeless would have been a welcome upgrade.
Rummy, of course, remained annoyingly cheerful, causing at least one of us to want to shove a long-heeled boot up his rectum (though all of us refrained from acting on that impulse, even if one of us surreptitiously sharpened the heel of one such boot just in case one of us decided to change her mind about not doing it). The rest of us alternated between grumbling and whining, and even even-keeled Nadi began scowling every time someone questioned our progress.
Telling time underground is a little bit like shaving a Borillian wiggle yak—difficult under even the best circumstances, but impossible without the right tools (and, frankly, not really worth the effort in either case—in the former situation, it doesn’t really matter; in the latter, wiggle yak fur is coarse and you can never really get the smell of the beasts—which is like pine tree mixed with milk vomit—out of it). It’s hard to say how long we stumbled around, but, based on consumption of our limited foodstuffs, at least a day and a half passed before our next notable encounter.
Tunnel goblins aren’t the most intimidating or skilled of foes, but they are fast, numerous, and persistent. It turns out they also happily throw themselves into confrontations even where they’re at an extreme disadvantage, as we discovered when a pack of them—around a dozen—ambushed us when we entered a small, low-ceilinged chamber somewhere around the time we finished the last of the dried cherries, which had saddened me (I love those things). Their shrill voices sang out gleefully as they rushed in, but their little swords and tiny clubs didn’t do much to Borg, who stood closest to where they entered the chamber. He paused, swatted two of them out of the way with one giant fist, and then reported, “I think we…are under…attack.” Pause. “By something…very small.”
Nadi leaped into action, her sword slashing, cutting, and thrusting, sending four of the goblins to an early grave (or, at least, incapacitating them to the point where they could no longer ineffectually punch Borg). Whiska shouted something in the language of magic and shot spectral, acid-tipped arrows into three more of the creatures, and even Rummy and I got into the act, mace smashing and dagger stabbing our way through a few more. Borg squished the last one with his foot and then laughed. “Feels like…stepping on…jelly.”
“Tunnel goblins,” noted Whiska as she inspected the corpse of one of the creatures Nadi had taken down. “We’re close.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rummy.
“Tunnel goblins always serve a stronger, more powerful master—often a minotaur. They’re utterly useless in a fight—sort of like you—and they’re morons—also sort of like you—but they’re fast and good scouts—unlike you. They also breed so fast they make rabbits look like the Ascetics of Bava.” (Ascetics of Bava, it should be noted, are not only not allowed to engage in conjugal relations, but need to chop off their means of engaging in said relations prior to joining the sect. I guess you could say that’s the only sects they get after that point.)
(If anyone wants to hit a snare drum for me right now, I’d appreciate it.)
“So there will be more?” asked Nadi.
“Tons more,” replied Whiska, lifting her nose to sniff the air. “That way.” She pointed toward one of the tunnels that led out of the chamber. “They smell like something the garbage wouldn’t let in. I should be able to track them by scent from here on in.”
We formed up behind Whiska, Nadi right behind her, then me and Rummy, and Borg (slowly) bringing up the rear. Two rights and a jog to the left brought us into contact with another half dozen tunnel goblins, which we quickly dispatched. Several more scraps ensued, and though everyone managed to avoid major injury, the cumulative effect of nicks and scratches began to take a toll, as did the need for constant vigilance. Whiska had very nearly depleted her store of spells.
We entered a small cavern devoid of tunnel goblins and gratefully collapsed—most of us, anyway. Borg stayed on his feet to stand guard, and Nadi stalked a circuitous route around the cavern, sizing up the most defensible positions.
“Slurry?” asked Rummy, holding out a water skin that we had filled with a pureed mix of salmon, water bugs, crayfish, and crackleshell worms. Highly nutritious, easy to carry, and tastes like shark vomit.
“No thanks,” I said, pushing the skin away before the scent hit me and I promptly refunded everything I’d eaten over the past ten years.
Rummy shrugged and took a long pull before smacking his lips and sighing appreciatively. “Just like great Aunt Bubblekettle used to make.”
“Bubblekettle?” I raised an eyebrow.
“My mother’s maiden name. Auntie Bubs was a Master Chef, and a trailblazer—the first woman to hold the title in the settlement where my mom grew up. Kind of a family legend. And, bar none, the greatest slurry maker who ever lived.”
“I think that’s a low bar,” I said.
Rummy shrugged. “Come to the Danar Slurryfest with me some year and you’ll change your tune.” He winked.
“Is that supposed to be a bard joke?”
“Only if you thought it was funny.”
“So, it wasn’t a bard joke.”
“I guess not.”
“If you two are done with the lack of comedy routine, maybe we can come up with a plan for what we do now,” interjected Nadi.
“Sure thing, Nadi,” chirped Rummy. “Slurry?” He held up the skin.
She deliberated for a moment before reluctantly nodding. “We need to keep up our strength.” She shuddered only a little as she swallowed a big mouthful of the lukewarm liquid. “We need some rest.” She nodded toward Whiska.
“This cavern seems…defensible,” said Borg, turning his head slowly to survey the small room. “I am…not tired. I…will stand guard.”
Nadi nodded her thanks before turning to Whiska. “Is three hours enough time for you to recover and study your spells?”
“How in the name of Lapidius’s poop tunnel are you going to know when three hours have passed down here in the dark?” returned Whiska, who, for once, wasn’t being needlessly vulgar, but was simply using a common Ratarian colloquialism. Lapidius is a key god in the Ratarian pantheon, and his poop tunnel is the passageway through wh
ich Ratarians who have lived a good life gain access to their version of heaven. I should note that “poop” in the Ratarian tongue means “heaven” (which should tell you something about Ratarians), and those who lived a “good life” are those souls who, by virtue of their bluntness, cleverness, and intestinal fortitude, managed to amass considerable treasure hoards. I will, for once, refrain from editorializing, but only because Ratarians make it too easy.
Nadi bit back a retort. “How long do you need to rest?”
“I’ll tell you when I’m done.” With that, Whiska sank to the ground, grabbed a nearby rock for a pillow, and started snoring in less than three seconds.
“Let me know when you need a rest,” Nadi said to Borg, patting him on the arm. She sat down, cross-legged, and fell into the elven state of reverie—a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Sort of like smoking the hashish pipe, though Nadi doesn’t particularly like it when I compare the sacred elven ritual of communing with the inner-self to toking a Cantarian spliff.
I looked at Rummy, who shrugged and laid out his bedroll. I took my own bedroll from my pack and did the same. Half-elves can’t engage in reverie; only full-blooded elves have the ability to do that, which is unfortunate, because a few hours spent in reverie is like getting a full eight hours of sleep. Think of how much more I could get done without having to sleep. So many shoes to try on, not to mention so much wit and wisdom to dispense.
Sleeping while adventuring is a strange thing. Obviously, you need sleep while you’re questing about to kill this dragon or find that treasure, and sometimes you need to do it when you’re surrounded by things that want to kill you (or, at least, eat your liver, even if they are generally indifferent to the prospect of your continued respiration), but those aren’t exactly ideal conditions for closing your eyes and falling into a peaceful slumber, you know? You have to learn to trick your brain. That guttural growling coming from the kobold encampment nearby? That’s the sound of gentle thunder rolling through the sky, presaging the soothing pitter patter of a soft spring rain. The raucous roiling of an active volcano that could explode at any minute? Just the hungry stomach of a fellow adventurer. The ear-splitting snoring of a Ratarian wizard? Simply the sweet, final symphony of a companion soon to be murdered in her sleep by a beautiful half-elf.
Beyond being able to block out the sounds of impending death, you also need to place incredible trust in your companions, whom you’re relying on to literally guard your life. It can take a while to build that trust, so you end up spending a long sequence of nights only half-sleeping, which means you’re exhausted (and half-sleeping) during the day, too. The only advantage to that state of being is that it can be confusing for zombies, who aren’t sure whether to eat your brains or make zombie small talk with you (“Grrrr frrrmmm urrggblat?” “Grumph. Hrrrmmm.” “Craaaaa.”).
(Incidentally, that all loosely translates as, “Don’t you think elven brains are the best?” “I prefer human.” “You’re cray-cray.”)
Fortunately, by this point, we had developed enough trust in each other that I felt comfortable closing my eyes. Check that—I had developed enough confidence in Borg as a sentry to close my eyes (sure, he wasn’t the swiftest thinker or mover, but he had surprisingly good hearing and a deep, booming voice, so I trusted him to not only raise the alarm in time, but to do so at a volume that would wake even those of us who have a tendency toward particularly deep states of repose (I like to think it’s because I’m tapping into some small piece of reverie…but I’m probably just a really heavy sleeper)).
Nadi shook my shoulder gently a while later. “Breakfast?” I said hopefully.
“Only if you want slurry cakes.”
“I’d rather starve.”
“You may get your chance.”
I sighed. “Time to move?”
Nadi nodded. “Whiska just needs a few more minutes to finish studying her spells.”
“Speaking of starving…what are we going to do if we don’t find the minotaur—or a way out of here—sometime soon?” I asked casually, not even a little bit worried (she said, convincingly).
“Think tunnel goblins are edible?”
“Maybe for Whiska.”
“I don’t know, Heloise.” Nadi sighed. “We’re so far underground, and so lost…I just don’t know.” She had big circles under her eyes. Clearly, reverie wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Or maybe the stress made it hard for her to do it properly.
I put a hand on her arm and squeezed. “We’ll figure this out. This is a pretty resourceful group.” A few feet away, Whiska belched. Borg tittered. “Not classy, mind you, but resourceful.”
“Thanks.” She looked away as her eyes teared up. She cleared her throat. “Finish packing your gear—we move out in five.”
A few minutes later, we were on the move, making our way cautiously down yet another tunnel.
They say that sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good, but I find that “they” say a lot of things, and I kind of think “they” are smug, know-it-all assholes.
Still, there’s something to be said for a stroke of good fortune when you’re in a tight spot, and, after another day of wandering, we were in desperate need of exactly that. Fortunately, it turns out that Rummy’s supply of luck corresponds with his annoyingly high levels of optimism. Just as we (or, at least, the most attractive member of our group) were about to mutiny, Rummy, in an effort to intercede and play peacemaker, took a step forward, tripped on a rock, windmilled his arms like a drunk hummingbird, and stumbled headfirst into a wall that turned out not to be a wall, based on the fact that there was no painful thud when he hit it and the fact that we could no longer see him.
“Rummy!” called Nadi, eyes wide. “What just happened?”
“Did he fall in a hole?” I asked. From where I stood, I hadn’t gotten a good look at what had happened. “Kind of looked like he fell in a hole. He’s not that tall, you know, or even that bright, though I’ll grant that he’s pretty street smart and is really good at—”
“He didn’t fall into a hole—I saw him hit the wall, and pretty hard,” replied Nadi. “Rummy? Rummy!”
“I’m all right!” came Rummy’s voice from the wall.
“Ah, crap on a cracker!” said Whiska. “Did you get turned into a wall? Because we’re leaving you here if you did. I’m done talking to rocks!”
“I didn’t get turned into a wall,” said Rummy. “I just fell through one. Actually, I don’t think it’s a wall at all.” Suddenly, he reappeared, having apparently stepped through the wall.
“It’s an illusion!” cried Whiska.
“Certainly seems that way,” said Rummy, nodding. “There’s a passageway on the other side.”
“Way to sniff that one out, wizard,” I said, slow clapping in Whiska’s general direction.
“I will turn you into a glorphid,” she responded, narrowing her eyes dangerously.
“I have no idea what that is,” I returned.
“An insect that, when pregnant, must crawl up a yak’s anus to lay its eggs or else it dies a horrible, painful, bloated death.”
“I’d rather not be one of those.”
“Don’t insult me again.”
“Duly noted.”
“Perhaps we should check out my discovery?” interjected Rummy.
“‘Discovery’ might be giving you a bit more credit than you deserve,” I noted.
“Not now, Heloise,” said Nadi through clenched teeth. “Rummy—lead the way.”
We plunged through the illusory wall and found ourselves in a well-lit stone passageway.
“Dwarves worked this tunnel or I’m a glorphid,” said Rummy as he ran his hand along the wall.
“Does that mean this is a dwarven complex?” asked Nadi.
Rummy shrugged. “Probably was originally. I doubt it is now—dwarves don’t tend to get on too well with dragons and minotaurs. I’d guess that the dwarves are long gone. Someone’s been using this tunnel recently, though
.” He gestured toward the torches that lined the wall.
Whiska muttered something and then held up her staff, which glowed orange. She shook her head. “Maybe not—those are magic torches. There’s an enchantment on them to make them stay permanently lit.”
“That seems like a pretty handy spell. Can any old wizard cast that sort of thing?” I asked Whiska. “Not that you’re old, I mean. That wasn’t an insult.”
“No—you’d need a pretty powerful wizard for that kind of magic.”
“Do minotaurs do spells?” asked Rummy.
Whiska shook her head again. “‘Do’ spells? You don’t ‘do’ spells, you five-toed waste of hair surface! You cast them. You cast spells.”
“How many toes do you have?” asked Rummy curiously.
“Four—the optimal number. Unlike you overbalanced flatfoots.”
“I had no idea that was the optimal number. Learned something new today, I guess.” Rummy shook his head with what looked like…was that wonder? Sometimes I hate that guy and his wide-eyed innocence. “Okay, so do minotaurs cast spells?”
“No—not that I’m aware of, anyway.”
“Who do you think enchanted the torches, then?” asked Nadi. “The dwarves who built the tunnel?”
Whiska looked ready to unleash a rant, but Rummy held up a hand. “I’ve got this.” He turned toward Nadi. “Dwarves do—er, cast—some magic, it’s true, but it’s not the same as what a wizard like Whiska might, um, cast. Lots of healing spells, spells to make barley grow underground—for ale, you know—and other things that might be practical in battle or for strengthening weapons and armor. Accent lighting—well, that’s unlikely to be a dwarven magic user’s forte.”
“You said that too nicely, but you’re right,” confirmed Whiska.
“Doesn’t really matter,” said Nadi. “Let’s just see where this tunnel leads. Weapons ready. I’ve got point—fall in line behind. Borg, cover the rear.”
We did as Nadi bid and began slowly working our way down the passageway. A moment later, I heard Borg chuckling softly. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that he had placed his hand over his (fairly gargantuan) backside. I raised an eyebrow.
