The Dungeoneers by John David Anderson Page B

you.” The boy smiled brightly.
    Lena made the choice on which direction to take. She made all the choices as the forks multiplied. She led them right. Then left. Then right again. The idea, she said, was to avoid going in a circle.
    â€œThe idea,” Colm said, “is to find the way out.”
    â€œThe idea,” Quinn added, “is to stay alive. And m-m-maybe f-find something to eat. I’m starving.”
    Colm fished in his sack for his last apple and handed it over. Quinn took it eagerly.
    â€œI wouldn’t worry,” Lena said. “We’ve been down here for some time now and haven’t seen anything remotely dangerous. I’m guessing the place is deserted.”
    Quinn reached out and clutched Colm’s arm as a shrill screech, like the sound a wounded animal might make, came from their left.
    â€œThat doesn’t sound deserted,” Colm said. “Maybe we should go right this time.”
    Lena looked like she wanted to disagree, but instead she nodded and turned right, Colm following behind her. Stay behind the big guy, he thought to himself. That was Finn’s advice. He just hadn’t said that the big guy might be a girl. Or that the girl would have such brilliant red hair.
    They continued deeper, away from the screeching, Colm walking on tiptoe. He listened for sounds. He watched for traps.He inspected the walls for levers or pulleys or anything vaguely mechanical, something that might trigger a secret door or a falling rock. He wasn’t sure why he was doing these things or what, exactly, he was even looking for, but his instincts—honed by so many years of sibling torture—had kicked in. Quinn held on to Colm’s belt strap the way Colm used to do with his father when he was three. He had finished the apple.
    â€œSo you say you’re a mage,” Colm whispered behind him. “That means you cast spells and stuff?”
    â€œI’m n-n-not qu-qu-quite a mage yet. I’m only a m-m-m-m—”
    â€œMageling. Yes. But even a mageling must know some magic, right? I mean, you could maybe fill these tunnels with light or see through the walls or even maybe teleport us all out of here,” Colm suggested.
    Quinn shook his head emphatically, eyes somehow growing even wider. “Oh, you don’t want me to do that,” he said.
    â€œNo, you really don’t,” Lena seconded from up ahead.
    â€œI t-t-tried t-teleporting my cat once. Poor F-F-F-Friskers. All that was left was her t-t-t— her t-t-t— her—”
    â€œTail?” Colm guessed.
    â€œToes,” Quinn said. “Four little sets of toes. C-c-claws and all. And all the rest . . . p-p-poof .”
    Quinn let go of Colm’s belt long enough to make an imitation of a cat exploding, then latched back on. Colm decided that was enough talk of spells. He focused his attention forward and then ran smack into Lena’s backside.
    â€œSshhh!” she hissed. “Hear that?”
    Colm listened. He could hear something coming from up the hall. It sounded like someone singing. Soft and melodic. Much better than the screeching they had left behind. Colm thought of Finn humming on their way out of Felhaven. Maybe it was him. “Maybe this is the end,” he said.
    â€œOr maybe it’s a trap,” Lena countered, but even as she said it, she smiled, as if a trap were preferable to an exit. Beside Colm, the mageling started to shiver, but Lena Proudmore was already moving in the direction of the sound, torch in one hand, her makeshift stone dagger in the other. The three of them turned the corner.
    They found themselves staring into a small chamber, lit with another torch. There was no ogre, but there was something. Another girl, her features sharper and even more angled than Lena’s. She had skin the color of tree bark and short black tufts of hair that were cinched with all manner of thread and twine, making little horns jutting out