Fool's Errand

by David G. Johnson

  The group had tracked two Hobgoblins back to this lair, dispatching them quickly and quietly on the doorstep before concealing their bodies in the underbrush. More Hobgoblin raiders might be along any time. They needed to finish poking around in this hole as soon as possible and get back out into open country. These dark, twisting, and unfamiliar tunnels would give advantage in any battle to the gobblers.

  This particular gobbler hole was far more than it appeared on the surface. A hardly noticeable cave in a hillside soon morphed into a rapidly descending tunnel leading to a much larger complex. The entrance tunnels were rough-hewn and ragged; typical of Hobgoblin or Orc diggers. A few yards past that second trap, however, the tunnel came to a T intersection and changed dramatically.

  Here the smooth, even walls were perfectly squared. Lightly arched roofs supported the weight of the hill towering above them. This was section of tunnel was no gobbler dig.

  “Now we are in proper tunnels, lads,” remarked Duncan, who had also noticed the change. “This is Durgak work if I’ve ever seen it. But I have never heard of any Durgak leaving the mountains and living in the foothills.”

  “Likely they were hired to build this place,” replied the group leader, Captain Gideon.

  Gideon, the knight lord from Parynland, seldom spoke much. When he did, it was with wisdom and authority. He was in charge due to his contract with the city of Aton-Ri to serve as part of the mayor’s auxiliary forces dealing with the recent increase in humanoid raids in the area.

  Thatcher respected Gideon greatly. Parynland knights, or paladins, were the most famous hired swords in northern Ya-Erets. They were holy warriors, devout followers of the One Lord, and as such never worked for the servants of the fallen ones, the Ayabim. Gideon did not revel in the idea of battle as Goldain did, but when all other options were exhausted, their dark-skinned, blue-eyed captain could be a grim foe.

  “If so,” Duncan replied, “the hiring must have been long ago. The only Durgak in this region are from my city of Stonehold, and Stonehold Durgak haven’t hired out as builders for other races in my lifetime.”

  Duncan was only eighty-three, still young for a Durgak. If his timeline were correct, that would put these tunnels several generations back for the much shorter-lived gobblers. Durgak, servants of the One Lord and their patron Malakim, Hadaram, would not willingly come and dig tunnels for Hobgoblin servants of their Ayabim god, Shafik, lord of cruelty.

  “These Hobgoblin tunnels were not part of the original work,” interjected their shadowy mage-companion, Melizar. “I conjecture there is an original entrance elsewhere. The Durgak tunnels are likely a different complex entirely. Some lucky Hobgoblin miners must have intersected the tunnels and rousted the former inhabitants. That means we need to exercise even greater caution. If our entry was spotted, Hobgoblin raiders could split, sending forces two ways and catching us between the hillside entrance we found and the original Durgak entrance elsewhere.”

  Melizar, the wizard of the group, was a mysterious fellow. He dressed in dark robes and always kept his deep hood up, completely covering his head. By the muffled sound of his voice, he also wore some type of mask beneath his hood. Full flowing robes and supple, delicate gloves meant nothing beyond his height and general build could be discerned. He was taller than Duncan but shorter than the warriors. Thatcher was only sixteen, still with some growing to do, yet Melizar was at least an inch or two shorter.

  “Melizar’s caution makes sense,” agreed Gideon. “We must be careful. Goldain, I will take point just behind Thatcher, you keep an eye out behind.”

  “That is unnecessary,” Melizar interjected. “The barbarian, his torch, and his thumping clumsiness will be heard or spotted long before he sees anything. I will lag behind as rear watch.”

  At that moment, it dawned on Thatcher that Melizar was the only one not carrying a light source. Even the keen-eyed Durgak, whose people were accustomed to living underground and seeing in the dimmest light, carried a glow-box. Perhaps the wizard had some type of kashaph magic allowing him to see in darkness, or perhaps there was more to Melizar than any of them knew. Nonetheless, Gideon agreed to let Melizar act as rear guard. The mages flowing robes disappeared with only a whisper down the hallway behind them.

  “Do the Durgak have any standard signs for their construction indicating the leadings in or out?” Gideon inquired of Duncan.

  “Not if it is a digger worth his salt. Durgak memorize their tunnels, and if you dropped one in the middle blindfolded, it would take at least a turn or two for him to find his bearings even in a tunnel he had dug himself.”

  “Well,” Goldain said, “my people have a saying. In tunnels, left is right and right is wrong. If there is no other deciding factor, then I’d say follow Qarahni wisdom and go left.”

  “Hah,” Duncan snorted, unable to resist the opportunity for a snarky comment. “Qarahni wisdom, now there’s a contradiction in terms!”

  The Durgak, quite pleased with his jest, continued to chuckle under his breath. Thatcher even caught Gideon cracking a smile. Goldain was considerably less amused. Seeing the potential for escalation after the snide remark, Captain Gideon quickly defused the situation.

  “Nonetheless, master dwarf,” he said using the pejorative—which Durgak strongly dislike—as a way to even the score and appease the barbarian’s temperament, “barring any better ideas, we will follow Goldain’s suggestion and bear to the left.”

  Seeing the chuckle stifled in Duncan’s throat by the word dwarf, it was now Goldain’s turn to smile and enjoy his proxy victory.

  Not far down the tunnel, it again branched off to the right while the main tunnel continued straight. Thatcher, slightly ahead of the others, decided to disregard Qarahni wisdom for the moment and check the right-hand branch.

  He discovered a large dining room. Huge wooden tables lined up down the center of the chamber, capable of feeding several dozen men. The fine woodwork on the chairs and tables showed this was no Hobgoblin made furniture, but the filth and the stench from piled garbage and unidentifiable smells filling the place showed left no doubt the former inhabitants were long gone. This was a gobbler mess hall now.

  At the far end of the dining room, a closed door stood breaching the wall. Gobblers did not place doors in their tunnels, so this also must have belonged to the former owners. Thatcher returned to the main hallway to let the group catch up before deciding what to do about the door.

  “Right is wrong,” said Goldain, contributing his thoughts. “We go exploring that way, no telling what we might open up. I say stick to the main hall.”

  “If the dining room was Durgak designed,” Duncan replied, “and based on the non-gobbler furniture that would seem to be the case, then the door off the back would typically lead to the kitchen and pantry.”

  It was a reasonable assumption. Thatcher, emboldened by Duncan’s suggestion, volunteered to check it out. The rest of the party waited just inside the dining room in case the young thief uncovered something more than a mere kitchen.

  Thatcher quickly confirmed Duncan’s supposition. A filthy kitchen with a well and a fire pit lay just beyond the door. Inside, another door lead to a pantry filled with foodstuffs only fit for consumption by gobblers and their ilk. No other exits lay beyond, so Thatcher returned to the group, his head still reeling under the noxious olfactory bombardment from the pantry.

  “I don’t think I shall eat again for a week. These Hobgoblins are the most disgusting beings I have ever encountered.”

  “Well, lad,” replied Duncan, “you obviously haven’t met their less-advanced cousins, the Orcs. If you ever have the displeasure of exploring an Orc-wallow, you will regard this place as a fond, fair memory.”

  Thatcher’s meager breakfast began to rise up in protest at that thought, upon which he wisely ceased to dwell.

  “You see, kid,” Goldain grinned, “left is right, and right is wrong.”

  Thatcher wasn’t entirely sure Goldain was serious in his statement
but hoped Duncan would forego any further attempts at ridicule. Thatcher liked the northerner, and his simplicity and straightforwardness was refreshing. Thatcher’s gut told him there was more to the Qarahni than the simple sword-slinger he seemed to be. Whether the Durgak did not hear Goldain’s comment or for once Duncan chose restraint, the comment went unanswered, and the team returned to the main hallway.

  Soon the passage took a right turn, and according to Duncan’s reckoning, they were now heading south. Thatcher was not sure how anyone got their bearings underground. He preferred city streets to these convoluted caverns, Durgak-carved or otherwise.

  Not more than a hundred feet onward, they came to another door on their left. The door was slightly ajar and opened easily, revealing a small, disheveled guardroom of sorts. A pair of metal cots in serious disrepair and covered in soiled and smelly bedding revealed that gobblers had regularly used this room. For now, it was fortunately empty.

  Another hundred feet or so brought a turn westward. Thatcher stopped short. The long, thin, almost invisible slits in the right-hand wall, one about knee height and the other nearly mid-chest were clear indicators to Thatcher’s keen eyes. This was another trap. While he waited for the others to catch up, he searched diligently for a control mechanism but found none.

  “Sorry, guys, but this is no gobbler rigged trap. This is precise and deadly work. Looks Durgak made, unless I miss my guess.” Seeing Duncan’s nodding head confirmed Thatcher’s assessment. “And worst news of all, there doesn’t seem to be a control box on this side.”

  “You fixed the others just fine, kid. Why is this one different?” Goldain’s sincere question echoed Gideon’s eyes.

  “Well, the gobbler traps were set on the way out as a way of protecting the hideout while they were out raiding. This one is designed to keep anyone from getting any further down this hallway. If this trap is active, whatever is past this is worth protecting. That also means at least one live gobbler up ahead who can disarm this. Of course, the other possibility is that it isn’t armed at all, but I can test that easily enough.”

  Thatcher slipped off his backpack and removed a length of thin, well-made rope. Securing the rope to one of the shoulder straps of his pack, he slid it down the hallway. Upon reaching a point twenty feet down the passage, the pack triggered a pressure plate in the floor. Rotating blades emerged from the slits in the wall. Had they walked down this hallway, none of the troop would now be any taller than Duncan, having been clipped above the neck and below the knees. Thatcher’s keen eyes spotted the flaw in the trap.

  “I think these blades were designed to be in synch, but for some reason it has become misaligned. The top blade is spinning slightly slower than the bottom. I think I can get through this gap.”

  Thatcher hauled his backpack to himself by the section of rope. As soon as the pack was off the pressure plate, the blades returned to their hidden resting place.

  “Thankfully, Durgak traps work fairly quietly, so hopefully, there are no surprises ahead, but the torches don’t show me much past the trap, so no idea what the corridor ahead looks like.”

  A voice startled them all and even drew Goldain’s and Gideon’s hands to the hilts of their swords before they realized it was Melizar who had silently caught up to the group.

  “The corridor turns sharply north just beyond the blade trap,” Melizar added matter-of-factly. “If there is indeed a Hobgoblin ahead, that would be the perfect place to attack anyone who cleverly slipped through,”

  Thatcher was not sure if he was more comforted or disturbed by Melizar’s visual acuity so far underground.

  “Okay then,” Thatcher continued, “you guys ready whatever ranged weapons you have because if there is a control box on this little contraption, it ain’t on this side. Aim quick and well. I am not getting through this trap with anything on me heavier than a dagger.”

  With that, Thatcher unslung his crossbow and dropped his hip quiver of quarrels. He unbuckled his longsword and laid it aside as well. Securing his tool belt close to his body and taking his single-edged boot knife in his teeth, he prepared himself for the feat ahead. He tossed a torch forward on the floor just before the place where the backpack had triggered the pressure plate. This would give enough light to see the blades.

  Suddenly and without further fanfare, Thatcher sprinted down the hallway. Even running at full sprint, he kept his well-trained eyes focused on the lower slit, from which he knew the leading blade would emerge. Upon reaching the pressure plate, the lower blade rocketed toward his knees with its upper companion close behind.

  Thatcher dove forward in a rolling tumble threading him between the spinning blades. His jump was slightly higher than intended, and he felt the upper blade scrape a layer or two from the back of his leather jerkin as it passed above him. Fortunately, it had not severed the tool belt strap slung across his shoulder.

  As he rolled to his feet, he continued his sprint to the turn in the corridor beyond the trap. The blades made one more circuit before returning to rest, indicating at least one additional pressure plate beyond the first they had discovered. As Thatcher reached the corner, he snatched his dagger from between his teeth, crouching in a defensive stance. The nervous youth expected gobblers waiting in ambush. He was happily disappointed. The corridor beyond was too dark to see, but he could hear nothing beyond, and no attacks came.

  After a few seconds growing increasingly confident that he was not in imminent danger, he called back to the group in a low voice.

  “Goldain, I will need light to search for the control box, can you toss a torch all the way to me?”

  “You got it, kid. You might want to step around the corner though. It’s hard to aim a thrown torch, and you don’t want to be where this one lands.”

  Thatcher put his back to the east wall just around the corner, and soon a spinning torch clattered against the west wall and fell sputtering to the floor. The force of Goldain’s throw sent shivers down the wood of the torch, and it nearly went out after dropping to the floor. Thatcher scrambled to stabilize the flame.

  He could now see the hallway went at least twenty more feet northward beyond the corner before it stretched beyond the edge of the torchlight. Still no unwanted company seemed close. Nonetheless, Thatcher continued his work in silence. After searching for a few more minutes, Thatcher found no controls on this end either. He called back softly to the group.

  “Worse news, fellas, there doesn’t seem to be a box on this end either, and getting back to you is going to be much harder than getting to this side.”

  Duncan offered his guidance.

  “Laddie, look for a part of the wall that is different from the rest. It will be subtle to be sure, but the rock grain will be slightly misaligned. That’s how Durgak mark trap boxes.”

  After blowing on the torch to inspire the flame and carefully reexamining the walls past the trap, Thatcher did discover a small square of wall where the grains in the stone were just slightly off true. After another minute or so, he found the hidden catch. The small section depressed, sliding to the side and revealing the mechanism beyond.

  This was definitely not a gobbler trap. The controls were strong, perfectly adjusted and well-engineered. Thatcher doubted if he could break these controls if he hit them with a hammer. He soon had the trap lock in place and called to the group that it was safe.

  None of them seemed particularly trusting of his affirmation having seen the trap in action. Thatcher allayed their fears by walking back through the trapped hallway to the group to collect his belongings.

  “So, not sure you trust the kid-thief yet, eh?”

  Thatcher asked this question half in earnest and half in jest. The others sheepishly remained silent but gathered themselves and proceeded forward.

  The corridor past the trap continued north only about forty feet and then turned again west. While there were no further traps ahead, they had definitely reached somewhere important.

  Ahead was a secured metal doo
r blocking any further progress. If there were gobblers down this hallway, they were on the other side of this door. As they stood wondering how to get past the formidable hatch, they heard voices from the corridor behind them. Thatcher quickly readied his crossbow, and the others drew their weapons. Melizar slipped into the shadows beyond the circle of the torchlight.

  A gravelly voice from beyond the trapped corridor behind shouted in broken Adami.

  “Hey, Girblaz, you all right down there? We got ‘truders. They garbled duh entry traps. Let us in so’s we can get ready for dem.”

  Different Hobgoblin and Orc tribes spoke vastly different dialects, so many resorted to Adami for intertribal communication. Adami was the trade language for most of Ya-Erets. The gobblers must have just returned from their raiding, not realizing the blade trap was disarmed.

  Seconds later, the sound of a large bolt drawing back came from the other side of the metal door. It slowly creaked open. A surprised Girblaz met a silent end with Goldain’s hand over his mouth and the barbarian’s sword in his throat.

  Thatcher spawned an idea. He quickly returned to the trap box and slid the locking mechanism out of place, rearming the trap. He then did his best imitation of a gobbler accent and called out to the returning Hobgoblins.

  “M’kay, safe. Hurry.”

  Apparently, it was enough to fool the weary gobbler raiders. Within a few seconds, the whoosh of the blades and the cut-short screams of blade-mangled Hobgoblins echoed down the hallway. Melizar, settled in the corner at the bend beyond the trap, called out to his comrades.

  “There are three dead and six more have just drawn weapons and retreated back around the corner at the other end.”

  Thatcher quickly relocked the trap and called to the warriors.

  “Safe. Go!”

  Goldain bounded down the hallway with Gideon a half-step behind. Duncan had his war hammer in hand, but his shorter legs trailed a few paces behind the taller warriors. Melizar and Thatcher brought up the rear.