Page 77 of Wizards & Weavers
“Ourtalents,” Elyssandra said, taking both their hands in hers, joining them in the center, fingers all in a reassuring knot.
The Wizard of Weathervale nodded and smiled. “Then we’re off.”
And off they went, taking out of the Underborough at top speed. Braiden’s legs were a pair of pistons, a ragged blur. Still his muscles didn’t tire. Augustin had understated the efficacy of his hastening spell. This was wildly powerful wind magic, indeed.
A journey that should have taken hours took only a fraction of the time. They tore rapidly through the luminous cavern, somehow without ripping up the wild grass that grew freely there. The lesser elementals they encountered were too slow too react.
Soon the three found torches lining the walls. They sprinted through the dungeon haven, then stumbled out into the light of day.
Birds twittered. Trees swayed in a gentle, balmy breeze. As strange and wondrous as Braiden’s encounters had been underground, nothing would ever compare to the delights of the surface world. He savored the warmth of sunlight on his skin and gulped down great big lungfuls of fresh air.
“To the Dragon’s Flagon,” Braiden said, surprised to find he wasn’t out of breath. “It’s where adventurers gather. Maybe we’ll find more hands to help there.”
“Excellent idea,” Augustin said. “And I’ll head straight to Grandmother, and after the shouting match that will no doubt ensue, I’ll convince her to come down the dungeon with us.”
“Later,” Elyssandra said, a hand on Augustin’s shoulder. “You’re the Wizard of Weathervale. Other adventurers are bound to take your word over ours.”
Lines creased Augustin’s forehead as his expression turned resolute. He led the charge back to the streets of Weathervale.
Braiden never thought he would miss it so much, and he’d only been gone a few days. The voices of merchants barking and haggling, the clatter of carts over the cobblestones. Far above, white clouds swirled, seagulls calling as they searched for scraps. And nearby, the ocean lapped at the docks, the waves insistent, perpetual. How could Augustin stand staying away for so long?
The Dragon’s Flagon seemed no busier than it did on most days, a smattering of adventurers lingering at the questing board in search of new jobs to pick up. Through the windows, Braiden could see that the tavern’s tables were just full enough.
His shoulders broad, his head held high, Augustin Arcosa threw the doors open and strutted inside.
“Friends,” Augustin crowed into the tavern. “Pray, lend me your ears!”
Barely taking a running start, Augustin leapt onto the table closest to the center of the room, his jump no doubt boosted by the tiniest dose of magical wind. Plates and tankards clattered, though little food or ale was spilled.
The adventurers in the tavern didn’t look at all perturbed, to Braiden’s surprise. In fact, they seemed quite interested in what Augustin had to say. A Gwerenese man popped a bit of sausage in his mouth and chewed expectantly.
“You may find this an amusing turn of phrase,” Augustin announced, “but I must inform you all that the dungeon at the edge of town is in grave danger.”
Braiden rushed for the bar, waving his hands emphatically as Dudley reached for his old battle-axe still hanging above the counter.
“Let him say his piece,” Braiden said, his hands clasped. “Don’t kill him. Yet.”
The bartender’s knuckles only whitened as he gripped the handle of his axe tighter. “You’d best tell the pretty boy to get those filthy boots off my clean table before I lop his feet off at the ankle.”
“Please, Dudley. He’s not exaggerating. There’s trouble in the dungeon that could put the town in real danger. We need all the help we can get.”
That did it. Dudley of all people knew that his tavern’s brisk business and the dungeon’s well-being were intertwined. He reluctantly removed his hand from his axe, letting it linger on the wall. For now.
Augustin ran through a rousing, if very abbreviated account of their journey through the dungeon. Elyssandra gasped and clapped in all the right places, as if hearing the story for the very first time, as if she hadn’t lived it herself.
For how loquacious he could be, Braiden thought the wizard was doing an excellent job of editing their adventure down. He scanned the tavern, nodding in approval. The patrons were rapt with attention.
And then Augustin’s story ended. The first peal of disbelieving laughter rang throughout the tavern. Braiden bit his lip.
“Rabbit folk?” someone asked, slamming their tankard of ale on the table for emphasis. “You seriously expect us to believe that?”
“Burrowfolk, actually,” Augustin corrected. “And yes, there is an entire colony of them in the dungeon depths. Been there for generations. We adventured with one of them, except — well, he had to stay behind. His name is Warren.”
More laughter, and this time it came with sneers of contempt and rolling eyes. Braiden could hardly blame them. Why would anyone believe fantastical stories about rabbit people and oversized elementals and life-threatening cubes of ice unless they saw them with their own eyes?
“The sweeping cold of the elements will come for the Underborough,” Braiden said. “And then they’ll come for Weathervale, too.”
Someone piped up from the back of the room. “At least we’ll have your sweaters to keep us warm.”
