Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Cast of Characters
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Afterword
Acknowledgments
The Dungeoneers:
Blackfog Island
Jeffery Russell
The Dungeoneers: Blackfog Island
Copyright 2106 by Jeffery Russell
All Rights Reserved
1st Edition: October 2016
For Ken, the finest patron of the dwarven arts.
The Dungeoneers:
Command Team
Thud: Leader of The Dungeoneers.
Ginny: Leader of Trap Team.
Nibbly: Leader of Acquisitions Team.
Gong: Leader of Vanguard Team.
Trap Team
Mungo: Gadgeteer. Beard of suspicious provenance.
Cardamon: Engineer.
Acquisitions Team
Dadger Ben: Public relations and requisitions.
Leery: Inaccessible asset recovery.
Tuft: Carrier of particularly heavy things.
Support Team
Goin: Animal wrangler.
Gammi: Cook.
Doc: Medical services.
Vanguard Team
Clink: Siege weaponry.
Rasp: Blacksmith.
Grottimus: Special weapons and tactics.
Keezix: Tactical weapons and tactics.
Max: No one is quite sure what Max does.
Specialists
Gryngo: Demolitions.
Giblets: Geologist.
Ping: Logistics.
Durham: Cartographer/king
Not The Dungeoneers:
Lucretia: The Widow
Catchpenny: An elf of questionable morals
Laughing Larry: A pirate captain
Raggins: A pirate of demerit
Obiya: A witch
Aldine: “The Hag”
Korak: A ship captain
Johnni: A sailor on the katies jigger
Rack: A very large sailor
Gr’bl-Neb’gthrb: Gr’bl-Neb’gthrb
Prologue
The sail on the horizon loomed closer and the flag above it was black.
The Cackle Squiffy was running full sail, charging across the rolling waves, the gale winds snapping at the rigging.. The Katie’s Jigger ran alongside, fifty yards to port, the sea churning white around her prow as she tacked. Their entire livelihood depended on speed.
But the sail on the horizon was closer.
“Run up the red flag,” Samona ordered. “Let them know we be smugglers.”
“Mayhaps they’re looking for help?” Skulk asked. He was first mate or, sometimes, quartermaster, depending on what in particular Samona wanted him to do.
“Not with that flag flying,” Samona said. “At least they be up front about their intentions.”
“Why they comin’ after us? Plenty of merchants risk the Cloud Sea. We’re carrying rum for bleedin’ Stilton.” Skulk went to the stern rail and cupped his hands around his mouth. “We’re on the same side you idiots!”
The Katie’s Jigger had run her flag up as well. She was moving further to port, widening the distance between them. Marin, her captain, knew that a missed shot could become an accidental hit if the ships were too close.
Samona raised his spyglass to his good eye. The other eye had been missing for longer than he could remember but he still squinted it whenever he used the telescope. He watched and waited.
One minute. Two.
The black flag still flew. The pirate ship was still closing. Samona pulled his signal mirror out of his vest pocket. The clouds of the Cloud Sea ordinarily lay across the waters like a blanket. They had aspired to new heights today, however, and hung sullen and swirling in the sky, thick enough to hide any hint of the sun save the wispy gray light that hung in the air like smoke. Skulk had to hold a bullseye-lantern up for Samona to be able to signal.
A single flash was all he needed.
Break.
“Hard to starboard!” he shouted.
The Cackle Squiffy leaned into the turn and he braced against the port-rail as he watched the Katie’s Jigger mirror the maneuver, showing him her aft. He was able to hear her masts creak as the booms swung.
The pursuer turned as well.
“They’re not after the rum,” Samona said. “They’re steering to follow the Jigger.”
Skulk looked insulted. “What’s she got that we don’t?”
Samona knew the answer to that but kept silent. The rum in each ship’s hold was just the weevil in the biscuit. The real cargo was tucked away in the Jigger’s skirts and, as far as Samona knew, five people knew it was there. He was able to reduce the number of suspects to four by mentally crossing himself off of the list. It at least gave a sense of progress. Had Captain Marin set this whole attack up against his own ship as a ruse? A means to steal a valuable cargo without losing his reputation as a smuggler? No, Marin wasn’t that smart. He could probably cross Marin off of the list.
The pirate ship was near twice the size of the Jigger. It was impossible that she was faster, which meant she was using magic. Weather mages didn’t come cheap. Samona knew this because he’d helped pay for the one that they had aboard the Jigger. The pirates had apparently paid more and gotten a better mage. Samona had no idea what was actually in the crate that he and Marin had stored deep within Katie’s Jigger but someone was going to a lot of effort to obtain it. The crate had been on the small side, very heavy for its size. If it were a block of pure gold it would cover the cost of a weather mage and leave about enough for a pitcher of ale afterward.
“She’s firing!” Skulk yelled.
Samona looked to see dark shapes spin through the air from the pirate ship’s catapults. Squidchain. It tore into the Jigger’s sails and rigging, ripping cloth and tearing lines. One corner of her mainsail sagged then flapped loose in the wind. The squidchain began to constrict and Samona could hear the snap of breaking spars. He could see figures scurrying up the rigging. The clouds were descending as curtains of mist, wreathing around the ships as they went.
“Bring her back port!”
“Captain?” Skulk asked.
“We have to try to flank.”
“They’re moving mighty quick, sir.”
“We can get within range of the bows. It may not be much but we have to try.” There were only three names left on Samona’s mental list. He didn’t know which of those names was behind this but he did know that none of them would be happy with him if he lost the cargo. Maybe between the two ships they could harass the pirate enough to force it to break off the chase. Or at least survive until the weather mages wore themselves out.
“Captain…” Skulk said.
Samona shook his head. A cargo moving between two different groups of fanatic cultists. Taking this job had been a bad idea in the first place. Not a bad idea.
A gamble. Well…no. Definitely a bad idea.
“Captain!”
Samona looked up.
There was a great dark shape ahead. The wind was screaming now, as if trying to lift their ship and fling it forward.
An island? In the middle of nowhere in the Cloud Sea?
Another name whispered into his mind, cold fingers trailing along his spine.
“Blackfog!” Skulk screamed. “Furl sail! Hard to port! Lay in! Lay in!”
The maneuver took them straight into a wave and the Cackle Squiffy groaned with the strain as the helmsman did the nautical equivalent of sailing into a brick wall. Water exploded across the bow as they bisected the wave, the spray sending sailors rolling across the deck. The ship tilted up as the wave rolled beneath them, tossing them playfully at its peak before dropping them down its back like a slippery bar of soap.
It served its purpose, however, arresting their speed and turning them away.
In a corner of his mind, Samona could still hear Skulk screaming orders and left him to it. His eye was on Blackfog.
The stories were true.
The Katie’s Jigger was tiny against the face of it, her torn sails writhing uselessly in the gale. She was trying to turn but it was too late. The ship reached the wall of darkness and vanished, sailing into a curtain of night. He wasn’t sure if the pirate even tried to turn. Had they just charged forward in their mad pursuit or was the momentum of the magic too much to overcome? Whatever the reason, the ship did not attempt to escape its fate. It was still gaining, even as the darkness swallowed it.
Then came the sounds that haunted his nights ever after.
* * *
Durham was the king of Tanahael and nobody cared. Well, Gammi did present him with “Your majesty’s royal eggs” each morning, following it up with a great “Ha!” It seemed the sort of joke that one would tire of after a single use. Two, perhaps, if there were varying audiences involved. Gammi’s idea of what was funny, however, had an unshakable staying power.
The Kingdom of Tanahael’s most significant problem, at the moment, was that it had recently become nine-tenths lake. A lake with the ruins of a city and the remains of every generation of its populace swirling about at the bottom. Not quite a vacation destination. The Dungeoneers prided themselves on being thorough. They’d left the ruin with a population of one: a skeletal dog named Squitters.
He’d chosen to leave with them. They still carried the artifact they’d recovered and he’d wanted to see it through. After all, it had been recovered from his kingdom. Also, he didn’t want to have to drink any of Tanahael’s lake water. Squitters had been left to watch over the kingdom in his absence. Once the dog got a certain range from the city it collapsed into a pile of bones and had to be carried back into range in a bag until it was close enough to reanimate again.
Now, a month later, he found himself standing on a wooden lift platform with a scarf wrapped around his face to protect from the crisp mountain air. A dwarf in a top-hat stood across from him. He was tugging on a bell-rope attached to a melon sized bell that hung from a post on the cliff face overhead. The dwarf’s name was Thud and he led the Dungeoneers. His top-hat had fold-down woolly ear-flaps but he’d foregone the scarf in favor of a cigar. Also, Durham suspected, due to the beard issue. Did dwarves tuck their beards up into their scarves or just let them hang down underneath? Ruby stood next to Thud. She was human but had a few wisps of beard as well due to being long past the age where the body gives up trying to maintain things. She’d added a shawl and a pair of green mittens to her usual ensemble of scribe stole and red cassock. Her journal was balanced on one mitten, a quill pincered in the other as she scritch-scratched away.
There was also a donkey.
Durham fantasized about murdering the donkey.
They’d rented it from the stable in Nave, the little village that sat at the mouth of the Godspire Valley. The paths through the valley were impassable to wagons. The stableboy had silently accepted their coin then handed Durham the lead and a stick. Moving the donkey had turned out to be a two person job. One in front with the lead to steer, one behind with the stick to drive. Ruby had elected to make the trip sitting sideways on the donkey as if it were a bench. This was fine, as it had no discernible effect on the donkey’s forward progress. Thud had taken the lead and Durham had been put in charge of stick motivation on account of his experience as a city guard. At no point during the journey did the donkey take the notion to achieve forward progress of its own volition. Side progress it was happy with, zig-zagging the path to check any object passed for delectability. Objects tested included but were not limited to bushes, rocks, trees, beards, cloaks, dwarves and a hapless passer-by named William.
In spite of it all, it was the most amazing place Durham had ever seen, due entirely to the Godspires. There were twelve of them, a quarter mile around at their base. They loomed against the sky, great pinnacles of craggy stone, draped in green vine lightly frosted with snow and long tufts of catgrass that grew from the shelves and hollows of the rock. They were set along the length of the valley, in pairs and trios, towering overhead. Lights shone at their crowns from the monasteries and temples built on their summits.
The three of them had followed the pilgrim’s path. It wound between the bases of the monoliths. Altars lined the way, their surfaces covered with tiny statues, coins, precious stones, beads and prayer scrolls. Thud had left a pinch of salt on each altar as they passed, the acceptable offering of respect for a non-penitent to make. Dwarves didn’t pay much attention to the gods of the humans but considered it good policy to not annoy them.
Thud yanked on the bell rope again. The peal was deep and rich and echoed among the rock faces.
High above them they could see the lift-house. It hung from the side of the cliff like a backpack. A pale face appeared in the dark opening on the bottom, tiny with distance.
“We bid you welcome,” a voice said. It came from a small horn at the end of a very long metal speaking tube affixed to the cliff face. The voice did not sound like it was bidding them any sort of welcome that it could possibly avoid.
Thud waved up at the face then leaned over to the tube.
“Comin’ up!” he said.
There was a contemplative silence from the tube, the face high above staring down at them.
“Is that a donkey?” the tube asked.
“Aye,” Thud said.
“See, it’s just that I’m the one that’s pulling the winch up here and you’ve loaded a donkey.”
“If you dinna want donkeys on yer elevator then you shoulda made the platform too small for donkeys. I know damned well yer lot hoisted all that lumber up there to build your monkhouse. Now get to winchin’!”
The tube emitted a word that Durham had previously thought to be an Ellian noodle dish. A moment later the ropes creaked and vibrated and the lift started slowly ascending.
“They tell us no wagons,” Thud muttered, “rent us a malfective donkey, then have the gall ta…”
“I trust,” Ruby said, “that you are intending to conduct this meeting with suitable decorum?”
“Your history book might be more interesting if I didn’t,” Thud said.
“It might also be much shorter,” Ruby said. “You are intending to meet with one of the Hermits. Kings doff their crowns before one of the Hermits.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take me hat off. Be sure and make mention of their shady donkey rental practices in yer journal.”
“How did you not bring Dadger along for this? He’s the team mouthpiece.”
“He’s out diggin’ up our next job. Also says he has a rule against meeting demigods. We’ll be fine.”
The lift had ascended halfway and the valley was spread out before them, the spires both above and below. Durham thought he could see a few goats on the rock face across from them, white blobs against the gray of the cliffs. A god slept in each spire, or was entombed, depending on which religious schism you listened to. The H
ermits resided atop each pinnacle, the three high priests of their god, each imbued with one third of its power. It was one of those things that Durham had heard about all his life but never really imagined as a place that actually existed. He looked at the stone moving past them, mere yards away. Was there really a god in there somewhere? Was it encased? Or perhaps in a cave? Did it snore? The donkey was chewing on one of the lift ropes. Durham whacked it on the nose with the stick.
They were ascending the spire of Grimm. Each god had a long string of responsibilities that trailed along after their name, again a thing that differed depending on who was making the list. Grimm’s domains were among the most consistent, however, if not cohesive. God of death, that was the first one that came to most people’s minds. Grimm’s shrines were usually found between crypts. God of bone. Went with the death theme, really. God of justice? Durham wasn’t sure where that fit in. God of balance. Durham felt that was more of the good vs. evil, right vs. wrong sort of balance, rather than one’s ability to walk a rope. That at least slightly fit with the justice angle.
The lift house was just above them now. Durham could hear the rhythmic clicks of the gears turning. They rose through the floor. Above them was a large array of gears and pulleys that gave Durham some unpleasant reminiscences. The speaker of the tube had enlisted some aid, it seemed, as the giant crank at the end of the pulley had two people working it, one a Durham-sized sort, the other half again as big. There was a slight thump of impact as they reached the top and the lift came up against the braces. The smaller monk quickly slid the pins in to lock the crank in place. The gigantic monk gave them a polite nod then stepped back, deferring to his partner. Both of them wore swords across their back. The monks of Grimm had a reputation for not shying away from bladepoint justice.
“I’m Brother Crow,” the monk said as he straightened up from the winch pins. He gestured at the tall monk then winced, rubbed his shoulder and frowned at the donkey. “This is Brother Oak. Welcome to Grayrest. How might we be of service?”
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