Fool's Errand (4 page)

Chadash Year CY1800, circa AD 1895 Earth reckoning

A single drop of sweat trickled and tickled its way down Thatcher’s brow as he focused intently on the control mechanism. His job was to secure the hidden trap barring the group’s progress. The mechanism was simple enough. Had it been in decent repair, Thatcher could have disarmed it in his sleep. The problem with these Hobgoblin boxes was the neglect of their maintenance. At any moment a key piece might break, obliterating any hope of disarming the trap. That annoyingly ticklish drop of sweat was not helping his concentration. Neither were the incessant jeers and inquiries from his compatriots.

“Hey, boy,” jibed Duncan, “you almost finished? I’ll be done with my valor quest and on my way back to Stonehold before we make it down this hallway.”

Duncan Silvermane was not the typical dour Durgak. He had a bit more sense of humor than most dwarves did, or so he thought at least. Duncan was undeniably more loquacious than most of his race.

 “Well, Master Durgak,” Thatcher answered without taking his eyes off the control mechanism, “if you feel you could do this any quicker, by all means be my guest. If these were well-maintained Durgak boxes, we should all be back in Aton-Ri, sharing a pint by now. Hobgoblins, however, don’t take the same pride in caring for their dangerous toys as your people do.” At that moment, Thatcher slid the locking mechanism carefully into place, rendering the trap harmless. “But unless you would rather stand around complaining for a while longer, we can safely move on.”

“The digger talks too much.” The word of encouragement came from the large Qarahni warrior, Goldain. “Don’t you worry, kid, you are doing just fine.”

This was some comfort. Goldain was a prince of the Qarahni people, fierce barbarian warriors inhabiting the Clan Lands at the far north of Ya-Erets. Despite being a prince, Goldain was a very down-to-earth companion with no use for putting on airs or condescension. He treated Thatcher, a teenage thief from the worst part of Aton-Ri, with the same respect he afforded anyone else.

That meant a great deal to Thatcher. Although this group of stalwarts had formed less than a week ago, he already knew the northerner was not overly fond of Duncan’s sense of humor. There were certainly tensions in the newly formed group, but these were some capable adventurers it had been Thatcher’s lot to fall in with, and for that he was grateful.

As they formed ranks to proceed, Thatcher once again took point. In situations where traps might be present, having a scout well versed in finding and disabling traps leading the way was practical wisdom. They had already encountered two Hobgoblin traps, but Thatcher hoped there were not many more surprises ahead. Even with keen eyes and experience that belied his youth, running point into an enemy stronghold was always a risky business. No matter how skilled a thief was, it only took one little misstep while disarming, or one missed clue about dangers ahead, to end his life. This is why despite their skills, so few thieves took to adventuring. Picking pockets and burling empty houses in the city was far less dangerous, but greater risk could mean much greater reward. Thatcher was hoping a lucrative find while adventuring might give him the means and opportunity to leave the Rogues Guild forever.

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.