Free The Dungeoneers by John David Anderson Page A

Involuntary dismemberment.” Finn picked a burr from his sleeve. “Bludgeoning, burning, magical transfiguration, the terror as you wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in your own cold sweat, memories of that giant spider scuttling across your paralyzed body, fangs hovering over your chest dripping with heart-stopping poison. It can start to wear on a man.”
    Colm’s pace slowed. It was three steps before Finn even noticed.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Finn said with a flash of teeth. “I’m making it sound worse than it is. Mostly it’s just trudging through dark, empty tunnels, hoping to uncover a gem or two. Most of the time it’s not that thrilling at all.”
    Colm nodded.
    â€œBesides, in order to become a dungeoneer, you have to train. And in order to train, you have to be admitted to the program. And in order to be admitted into the program, you still have to pass your test. After all, if you can’t get one measly little coin from me, there isn’t much chance of you becoming a dungeoneer. Not to mention I’ll have to come to Tye empty-handed when I promised him I’d find a worthy recruit.”
    â€œA worthy recruit?” Colm asked, feeling a slight flush of pride.
    â€œCertainly,” Finn said. “It was pure luck coming across you as I did. The girl I went looking for had already lost her hands before I could get to her. It’s hard to find good rogue material these days.” Finn looked up at the sun, then pointed to a patch of trees, one of them exploding with pears. “Looks like lunch,” he said.
    He led Colm to the spot of shade, then spread out his cloak as a makeshift blanket and propped himself against the tree trunk. Colm noticed the cloak had several little pockets sewn into the inside—he and the rogue shared a love of secret compartments, it seemed. They ate mostly in silence, splitting the cheese Colm’s mother had packed and eating two pears apiece—though Colm had to be careful of the thorny branches when picking them, pricking his finger once.
    â€œThe guild has its own cook, of course, though he mostly just knows how to make stew,” Finn remarked, licking the pear juice from his fingers with a deliberate smacking sound. Colm thought about the bowl of stew that Celia had secretly slipped him. He missed her already.
    Colm finished his second pear, core and all, spitting the seeds into the grass, then studied his companion. “Who’s Trendle Treeband?”
    Finn smiled. “A charming scoundrel, dark and handsome. Uncannily lucky at cards and dice. A clever fellow. I think you’d like him. But I was only Trendle for a spell. I’ve been Finn for all my life.”
    â€œIs that how you got that scar? As Trendle Treeband?” Colmpointed to the thick braid along Finn’s cheek. Finn stroked it self-consciously.
    â€œAlas, no. That’s a different story altogether. And one that I promise to share, but not right now. Now, I think, we need some quiet time. The ground is comfier than it looks, and I don’t sleep well at night. It’s hard with one eye open.”
    â€œBut—” Colm protested, a hundred more questions at the ready, but Finn stopped him with a warning look. Then the rogue dug into the largest pocket of his cloak and pulled out a roll of parchment and a rusty-looking padlock the size of an acorn. The lock was snapped tight.
    â€œHere, these should keep you busy for a while. The first is the guild’s contract. You can read it, but don’t sign anything.”
    â€œAnd this?” Colm said, holding up the lock.
    â€œThat’s practice,” Finn said. “Your father mentioned that you had some small experience with picking locks.”
    â€œBut I don’t have anything to open it with,” Colm protested.
    â€œA good rogue makes do with what’s around him. Use your imagination.”
    Colm wasn’t sure how his