“If we wanted you to know, little mouse, we wouldn’t bother with whispering,” Grahm Wolfe said with something that could be mistaken for a smile, though with the ranger it was hard to tell.
They approached the wall hedging the gardens and passed through the front gate and into the grassy fields beyond. Ahead lay Velmoth’s Rock, as it was now called, jutting obnoxiously out of the earth like a thorn in its side, a reminder of the time a war band of orcs was foolish enough to follow the ranger home. And there, off to Colm’s right, sat another stone reminder. Colm asked Master Wolfe to stop, for just a moment. There was one last thing he needed to take care of.
The man only looked like a semblance of himself, as if a sculptor had had to conjure him from listening to a description. One hand was still only missing a finger, but the other hand was now missing all of them. They had apparently broken off at the knuckles when Master Thwodin had wrenched them from his treasury door. One foot had a sizeable crack that threatened to work its way up the leg. But he was still smiling, at least.
Colm walked up to the rogue and dug into his own pocket. The one on Colm’s right held the purse full of gold that Tye Thwodin had given him. The one on the left held a single coin. Colm wasn’t sure who the coin belonged to anymore, not really, but he felt like he owed this man something still. He placed the silver coin at the foot of the statue and then stood there for a moment in silence, as if he were making a wish. “What’s yours is yours,” he whispered.
Colm remounted his horse and turned to Master Wolfe, who was also looking at the statue of Finn Argos guarding the outer gate. “They wrote a song about him once, you know?”
“They write songs about everybody,” Grahm Wolfe replied.
The rogue stood in the shadows.
Night had dropped like a hammer’s blow, setting a veil over the land. The road into Felhaven was narrow, hard to follow at times, but he was comfortable in the dark now, so long as it wasn’t absolute. As long as there was that sliver of moon, the smattering of stars. He knew where he was. There was the expanse of plowed fields, stretched wide and stitched together with fence lines. The familiar smells. Farm smells, not pleasant, but comforting in the memories they brought. He had certainly smelled worse.
He was alone. The ranger had said farewell a ways back, showing him what he needed to do to return. He hadn’t even bothered to say good-bye, only “Till next time,” spoken with an almost ominous certainty, a sureness the rogue didn’t share. Still, he shook the ranger’s hand when it was offered, just as he had the hand of the man who had taken him from this place what seemed like ages ago. Then the ranger turned and went back the other way, taking the extra horse with him—property of Thwodin’s Legion. Rules were rules.
More or less.
So the rogue had made it the rest of the way home on foot, keeping out of sight, more out of habit than anything. The house was asleep when he arrived, everyone tucked in. He picked the front lock easily and just stood there for a moment, savoring the breath, the scent of honey and lilacs and burned wood and glue. Then he set his little trap and escaped back into the shadows, closing the door less than softly behind him.
He stood in the darkness and waited.
Watched as each of them emerged, dressed in their nightgowns, converging on the dining table and the treasure it held.
“What is that?”
He listened to his father’s booming voice, peered through the window at the man’s wide red face, blooming big eyes, and pout-lipped expression. They were all together, staring at the leather purse, its contents scattered across the table, gleaming in the firelight.
“It’s money, Papa.”
“I know it’s money, Cally!” the old man shouted. “How did it get here?”
Rove Candorly looked from daughter to daughter and then to his wife, who propped herself against the wall, eyes wide, hand to her mouth. Nobody answered. No one dared say it out loud. He watched as Celia stepped slowly to the table, taking up the silver butterfly in her hand, then ran to the window, pressing her face against it, looking into the shadows.
He should go inside, he knew. But as soon as he showed his face, the crying would begin. The smothering, lung-crushing embraces. The sound of snot wiped on sleeves. And the look on his father’s face, that trace of doubt, as if it was too good to be true. As soon as he stepped out of the shadows, there would be stories and explanations and what-ifs and even-thoughs.
And it would be harder, so much harder, to say good-bye again.
Because he would have to. Eventually. He had had a taste of it, and it was inside him now.
Finn was right. He had seen it with his own eyes.
There was so much more where that came from.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“I don’t believe anybody makes it in this world alone.”
I’m no ranger. I’m barely a passable bard. So there is no way I could have ventured into the depths of The Dungeoneers without my stalwart party of fighters, magicians, and rogues by my side. First, many thanks to Quinlan Lee and the rest of Adams Literary for recognizing the story’s potential and for making me a part of their guild. It’s nice not to have to tackle this all on my own. I’m happy to share the stash.
As for Walden Pond’s Legions, much credit goes to Debbie Kovacs, my devoted champion, who is truly outrageous, and to Danielle Smith, whose work on the novel continues long after it’s published, along with the trio of marketing mavens at Harper—Jenna Lisanti, Emilie Polster, and Caroline Sun. Thanks to Jon Howard, Renée Cafiero, and Laaren Brown for watching my missteps and disarming the linguistic traps that I riddle my manuscripts with, and to Katie Fitch and Amy Ryan for shaping the words into a tangible treasure. For the richly adorned depiction of my band of heroes descending into the depths on the cover, thanks go to Dan Santat. And for his wit and roguish charm, not to mention his unerring guidance, mentorship, and support, many thanks to Jordan Brown, who shows me there are always more doors to unlock and waits patiently while I fumble with the picks.
Finally, thanks to my friends and family, specifically my parents, who scrabbled to make ends meet so that I could grow up and go on these adventures. To my wife, Alithea, who shows me the beauty in all things. And to my children, Nick and Isabella, who are the greatest treasures I could ever hope to have.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOHN DAVID ANDERSON is the author of Sidekicked and Minion. A dedicated root beer connoisseur and chocolate fiend, he lives with his wife, two kids, and perpetually whiny cat in Indianapolis, Indiana.
You can visit him online at
www.johndavidanderson.org.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
BOOKS BY JOHN DAVID ANDERSON
Sidekicked
Minion
CREDITS
Cover art © 2015 by Dan Santat
Cover design by Katie Fitch
COPYRIGHT
Walden Pond Press is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
Walden Pond Press and the Skipping Stone logo are trademarks and registered trademarks of Walden Media, LLC.
THE DUNGEONEERS. Copyright © 2015 by John David Anderson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2014949457
ISBN 978-0-06-233814-3
EPub Edition © June 2015 ISBN 9780062338167
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FIRST EDITIO
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