Underleveled, p.6
Underleveled, page 6
It yelled back into the cave in a guttural, raspy, language. Then, in the span of two heartbeats, it ran forward and threw itself to its knees at the dinosaur’s feet, bowing forward and placing its hands on the ground. Echoes of the same tongue, which made Rolph’s skin crawl, erupted from the various openings, followed shortly thereafter by more lizardfolk.
They came in various shapes and sizes, adults and children by the look of them, and prostrated themselves before Gertrude. Once they hit some kind of critical mass, a chant began, led by the small one who had started the strange ritual. Rolph’s mouth hung open, and he stared at Gertrude who returned his look with a knowing reptilian grin.
Before he could stop himself, he cast his communication spell. “What, in the name of the Maiden, is going on?”
Some of the lizardfolk farther away from the feet of the dinosaur paused in their chanting to focus on Rolph. They hissed in unison, then returned to their bowing. Did they just shush me? He couldn’t help but feel offended, somehow.
“THEY WORSHIP ME, SUPPERLING,” she said, and instead of shushing her, the crowd below cheered ecstatically. Her voice, clear to Rolph though loud, had no translation for the worshippers. They must have heard it as a roar and made their own interpretation.
“How…did this happen?” Rolph wondered, a little more quietly than he had a sentence before. The lizardfolk at their feet shot him another withering glare but didn’t shush him again, overcome with the chanting.
Gertrude gave him a dinosaur’s equivalent of a shrug, given her tiny shoulders, and preened. The predatory ego made Rolph roll his eyes, but he couldn’t help but crack a smile. Considering the difficult life (lives?) she’d led, he was grateful she had some respite, even if it was in the form of being worshipped.
Once the small lizardfolk in front was done chanting, it peeled itself from the floor and bowed deeply over its arms. It hissed a few words and Gertrude bowed her head, as though accepting a blessing. Then, the lizardfolk stood in unison and encircled them, all cheering and shouting in that same painful, hissing language. The press of the crowd pushed Rolph forward through the tunnel in the rock.
“Where are they taking us?” Rolph asked, but the spell had worn off. Gertrude blew a stream of hot air from her nostrils, and as they drew him deeper into the hole the smugness dancing in her eyes shrank away from his view. He planted his feet amid the press of bodies but a lizardfolk nearby made an annoyed noise and pushed him forward. Rolph hoped he was safe by association with Gertrude, if nothing else but for being the dinosaur-god’s pet.
The tunnels led on for quite a way down. The loud whooping and hollering echoed around them. Rolph remembered the shaking in his home two days before (had it really only been two days?) and reconsidered his assumption that the vibration was Gertrude’s doing. Was his house falling apart at that very moment?
Eventually, they broke into a larger cavern, and Rolph’s feet slowed to a sudden stop. The view ahead of them left him completely breathless.
The tunnel opened into a kind of atrium. Three tiers of pathways crisscrossed in a downward spiral that must have run several stories deep. Strange looking mushrooms decorated the walkways, lit by the same strange glowing lights from the outside dungeon, and illuminated crystals. To Rolph’s surprise, pockets along the boundaries of the walkways were filled with lamplight. Are those homes? he thought, his jaw sliding open. Some of the living spaces were chiseled into the stone, some of them utilized natural occlusions in the rocks.
He cast about, trying to find Getrude and neared panic when she emerged from a much larger opening a hundred feet away from where he had entered. There must have been a bigger tunnel further on that he hadn’t seen. A happy roar preceded her appearance and as she stepped onto the main thoroughfare more lizardfolk joined the parade. Some young, some old, as far as Rolph could tell, all of them excited to witness Gertrude in all her T-Rex glory.
They led them down two tiers and into a large pocket—or what Rolph could safely call buildings at this point—that could fit Gertrude. Long, wooden tables filled the brightly lit space, and the familiar scent of ale tickled Rolph’s nose. Gertrude wriggled in on her belly, letting out a happy, dignified growl, as the lizardfolk barkeeper cracked open a large keg for her.
Meanwhile, lizardfolk closed in on them, each of them wanting to step a bit closer to Gertrude, which caused Rolph to stumble back several steps from her side. Immediately, his former space was filled with zealots, leaving him with no way to get back to her. Rolph reached for his communication spell, hoping to grab her attention, but the magic didn’t surface. In any case, Gertrude was far too distracted sampling the dishes being offered to her large maw and accepting reverent touches.
A lizardfolk bumped Rolph’s shoulder, tongue tsking as it passed. “You wish to ssspeak with usss? Trivial ssspell, human.” The lizardfolk’s voice was deep and raspy. “But we need no ssspellsss here.”
“You can understand me?” Rolph asked, surprised. He hadn’t known until this point how intelligent lizardfolk were, and his education had clearly been lacking.
The lizardfolk gave him a baffled look. “Of courrssse we can. We ssspeak the common tongue, even in these depthsss.” It looked about them and snickered. “I’ve already paid my ressspectsss to the Great Mother. You are Her pet?”
Great Mother? The parallels with his own goddess gave Rolph pause. He gnawed on his lip, uncertain whether it would give him a leg up or harm him in the long run. “Something like that,” he compromised.
“You mussst drink with me,” the lizardfolk took his elbow and hauled him through the crowd. “The Mother will sssleep after she hasss eaten her fill.”
Rolph cast a look over his shoulder at Gertrude. True to the lizardfolk’s word, Gertrude was clearly enjoying herself. She wouldn’t move for a time. He hesitated. They’d come to find Eliard. “I have a question,” he asked his handler, as he was pulled through the throng of folk. “We were tracking our prisoner, he’s human like me. Do you know what happened to him?”
The lizardfolk raised its brow bones at him and gave a knowing smirk. “He will be okay, he isss, asss you sssay, alssso out cold. You are free to drink.”
Well. That answered that question, then. If Gertrude felt safe here, and they accepted him as her companion, he must be protected. And if she thought he was in danger, she would have warned him, wouldn’t she? Except she definitely seemed distracted enough. But they hadn’t harmed him yet, and if they were going to slit his throat, they outnumbered him enough to do it in what passed as daylight.
Rolph grinned sheepishly and extended his hand. “I accept your offer. My name is Rolph.”
“Excccellent! You may call me Mazden.” The lizardfolk clasped wrists with him and led Rolph further into what clearly operated as a tavern.
Together they bellied up to a bar carved from the stone itself. While they waited to be served, Rolph examined their handiwork. Everything was rough-hewn, with no polish to be seen. Perhaps they had finer establishments or dwellings, but so far nothing he had seen showed a level of craftsmanship to rival even his own meager work.
His inspection was interrupted when a chunky wooden mug full of something as brown as the vessel it came in appeared before him, liquid sloshing over the side and splashing his hand.
“Mossst delversss don’t make it thisss far, human.” Mazden lifted a mug of their own and held it out to toast.
Rolph hoisted his and clonked against Mazden’s, then held the brew under his nose while Mazden eyed him. It had an earthy nose, almost like a soup, but a slight burn of alcohol tickled his nostrils.
I’ve come this far, he thought. Poison would be a disappointing way to go.
Rolph raised his mug again in salute and took a deep draw. It was certainly fermented, with a fragrant character and full body. It wasn’t like the stouts or ales at home, but a distant cousin with a strange haircut. He couldn’t place the flavor, and his brows furrowed in confusion as he set the mug down.
Mazden chuckled and seemed to take pity on Rolph. “Bucha. Mushroomsss. Most outsiders don’t care for it, but it will grow on you.”
“Like a fungus?” Rolph offered, as a spare joke.
Mazden stared at him for a solid thirty seconds, and Rolph began to worry he had somehow offended them. Eventually, however, a mighty hiss emanated from Mazden’s mouth like a tea kettle overflowing. The only clue Rolph received was when the lizardfolk pounded their fist against the bar, then turned to their neighbor and said something in their raspy tongue.
The strange whistle traveled around the tavern as the joke made its translated way around the room, and Rolph finally joined in with Mazden. The lizardfolk wiped a tear from its eye and drank more of its mushroom beer. Rolph, feeling quite proud of himself for making a good impression on his hosts, tried to savor more of his strange beverage.
By the end of the third mug, he agreed the flavor had grown on him. That, or his taste buds had been obliterated by the alcohol, and it no longer mattered. In either case, Rolph was extremely comfortable with his place in the world for the first time in…well, ever. Perhaps things were looking up. He leaned over to his drinking companion, curious whether Mazden had heard of the guardian he was looking for.
“Ssso,” he said, slurring his speech enough to sound like a native. “Have you heard of this ‘pet master’?”
Mazden cocked their head to the side like Rolph had grown a second head. “The what?”
“Not what, who. The mini boss with the pet it summons from a necklace. Eliard, the man we’re tracking, told us he could lead us to it.”
“The bucha isss getting you too, I think.”
“No, it’s why we’re here. Getrude—uh, the Mother, wants to leave the Labyrinth and I need a way to bring her with me.”
The silence which fell across the tavern was sudden and complete.
“Sssay that again,” Mazden demanded.
“She…wants to leave the Labyrinth.”
Mazden’s tongue flicked in and out of their mouth angrily. “And how do you know thisss?”
“I spoke with her.”
The anger in their eyes was replaced with a kind of respect. “You ssspeak the Mother’s tongue?”
“Sometimes…”
“You are a Druid, then? Speaker of animal tongues. We never sssee your kind, though have heard tell of them."
Am I? He wondered what the one spell would constitute, from that perspective, but had been fighting for his life enough to not think about it until now. “I guess I am. Why don’t you see Druids around here?”
“Our people have no such designations, we are sssimple folk. But you delversss, the onesss who make it this deep, are…different.”
“How so?” Rolph sipped more bucha, the taste really had grown on him. The conversations around them picked up, and the hairs on the back of Rolph’s neck finally lay down again.
“Those powerful enough to travel thisss far ssseek few things. Either more power, or an exit. Sssometimes it takesss one to get the other. Our people suffer for thisss.” Mazden lapsed into silence without further explanation. Eventually they shook themselves out of whatever painful reverie they had conjured. “But who are we to question the will of the Mother?” Mazden drained the remainder of their cup, slamming it onto the bar with a crack. “Alasss, I know nothing of thisss ‘pet massster’ you ssspeak of.”
Rolph’s thumb traced the grain in his mug. It wasn’t any surprise Eliard had misled them. It wouldn’t be so far out of the realm of possibility that he would have lied to them to save his life. Or, a simpler explanation: Eliard didn’t actually know anything, and had been hoping for his release. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, the last few days’ events rolling over him in complicated and frustrating shapes and sounds in his mind’s-eye.
“Do you know how I might be able to honor the Mother’s wishes to leave?” he asked.
Mazden’s lip curled in a smug grin. “That all dependsss, traveler,” they took a deep drink from their mug and drummed their talons on the table. “What can you offer usss in exchange?”
Chapter ten
IN THE LAND OF THE BLIND
What could Rolph offer? The question spun in his mind as he went to fetch Eliard the next morning.
The Shulzuh people, as Rolph had come to learn their name, had also allowed Rolph access to the holding cells where Eliard had been incarcerated. And Gertrude, as it happened, was greatly hungover and demanded rest. At least, that was the best Rolph could guess, given her grumbling and growling that next morning. The Shulzuh hadn’t moved her, only draped her large body with flowers and lined her with painted stones. The priest had even thrown skins over her back like blankets, but none of them quite stretched all the way over her.
Mazden had found a boarding space for Rolph to sleep the night before, allowing that he followed through on his promise the following day. And thus, the stonemason slash druid slash bumbling adventurer found himself descending the carved steps of the makeshift prison behind a lizardfolk guard with a ring of keys. He was surprised that in the dankness of the cave, he had not experienced his usual sneezing or coughing fit. His best guess was that his new druid distinction had rid him of his pesky allergies. “Thank you, Linath. At least I’ll die here with a clear nose,” he muttered beneath his breath, and was rewarded with a strange look from the guard.
Where Rolph had slept in a surprisingly comfortable bed made of moss covered in skins, Eliard had no such luxury. He was dirty, bloody, and slumped against the wall. “Couldn’t fix your wounds?” he asked. “I thought you were a cleric.”
Eliard’s gaze shot up at the sound of Rolph’s voice. His face turned a ghostly pale. “You?” the man managed. They must not have given him water, because his voice, like his lips, was cracked.
Rolph shrugged. “They’re letting me take you, since you were our rightful prisoner to begin with.” He planted his hands on his hips. “But I wonder what I should do with you.”
Eliard scrambled to the wooden door, grasping the rungs. The wood must have been enchanted in some way to keep their inhabitants contained within. In any case, it was a pitiful sight to behold. “I’m sorry for running away,” Eliard pleaded, “Please don’t let them eat me.”
Rolph exchanged a glance with the guard, who gave him a pointed Like we would ever, look of disgust at the mere mention. According to Mazden the night before, magic users weren’t particularly tasty morsels. Neither were humans, as a general rule, unless there was a great shortage of food. No, they had found Eliard after he had escaped his bonds and intended to use him for a laborer, at best.
Rolph shrugged this thought away. Eliard didn’t need to know. “That all depends on you, Eliard,” he crouched down to the man’s level. “I have it on good authority you not only escaped, which I can understand—but you also lied to me.”
Eliard’s bottom lip quivered and in that moment Rolph wondered whether Eliard was more of a coward than he was.
In all of Rolph’s short acquaintance with the cleric, he had never known the man to do anything other than try to save his own skin. He remembered Rosalind snapping at Eliard to shut up, and guessed the behavior was not limited to being held captive to a strange druid and a dinosaur.
“I’ll do anything. I swear, I didn’t know. I don’t know.”
Rolph scratched at his jaw, and the stubble that had grown there over the past few days. “That’s good to know. Anything, you say?”
Eliard nodded adamantly. “Yes! Yes! Please, just let me out!”
Rolph motioned to the guard, who unlocked the cell. “Great,” he dragged the man onto his feet by his collar and set a bag of tools into his hands. “You’ll carry these for me, then.”
If he could draw Eliard’s baffled expression, it would be a satisfying memory to keep forever. As though walking through a haze, Eliard dutifully followed Rolph up the stairs and out into the street followed by the guard, his arms laden with the equipment Rolph had given him to carry.
Rolph bent to ask the guard before they stepped onto the street. “About those bars, are they reinforced?”
The guard grinned. “Not in the ssslightessst,” he told him in a low voice, as though sharing a delightful secret.
Rolph supposed the implicit threat of becoming a meal was enough to keep most people from attempting to escape. The keys in the guard’s possession were rough creations, made of heavy cast iron. The lock had appeared to be just as primitive. Glancing at the weapon at the lizardfolk’s hip, the cudgel with rough metal studs didn’t strike him as particularly finessed. He had requested a makeshift set of tools, piecemeal from Mazden as they didn’t possess a stonemason among them. Then again…he mused. Maybe my offer is worth more than I thought.
“Do you have a quarry here?” he asked.
The guard’s expression was all the answer he needed, and he nodded to himself as they passed down the street and across a stone-hewn bridge spanning a small river. Normally he wouldn’t have carried his tools on an exploratory trip, but with Eliard at his side, he decided it would build some character in the man.
When Mazden had asked what he could offer, Rolph had no idea. He was still riding a bit on the high of survival at the time and not an insignificant amount of buch to brighten his spirits. In the morning, he had stared at the lone mason’s hammer next to the makeshift bed. The sight coalesced a number of his observations into a surprising conclusion. The lizardfolk were even worse at working stone than he was. Crafts, in general, were not their strong suit.
Rolph led Eliard past his theoretical job site. He had visually picked it on the way out of his lodgings that morning, borne on an inkling of a plan. No quarry meant no raw material to work, so his path took him out of the main tunnels back into the larger cavern to scout for the right stone. He would be starting from scratch, which was a daunting proposition.
