Dungeon Runner
The Tiger Writes
sciencefiction
sciencefiction
31K5
Tibs survived by picking pockets; until he's caught.
Instead of losing a hand, he's sent away and told he must now survive a dungeon.
How is a kid who knew nothing more than his ...Bottom Rung, Chapter 36
The Long in the Tooth tavern was nearly empty, something Tibs had never known it to be since it had opened. As Runners died, how full the tavern was diminished, but it was the first and most popular tavern in the town, in Kraggle Rock. The few people Tibs immediately noticed were townsfolk, a few merchants, and someone, head on the bar, tankard tipped over.
He realized the cleric might not be here; he might have left not long after the noble had seen him. He'd be somewhere on the field, being snatched by another team. But if he'd been wallowing, as the noble said, maybe he'd been too withdrawn to notice everyone leaving. If not, well, a second fighter would be a good fit, so long as they could take Jackal's orders.
He missed the man, sitting at the furthest table from the door, twice. He'd been looking for a white robe, like that of Paul; something similar to the sorcerers' but made of a heavier material, and with a hood, that Paul hadn't had lifted. The man's robes were black, and he had the hood over his head, creating shadows that entirely hid his features.
Tibs headed for his table. "Are you a cleric?" he asked, standing opposite from the man. Other than the color, he looked like what Tibs imagined a cleric would.
"Go away," the man said, without looking up.
"If you're a cleric, we—"
"I said," the man cut him off angrily, raising his head, "go—" he stuttered and his black eyes went wide, looking at Tibs. He sighed. "Kid, whoever put you up to this, it isn't funny." The man's eyes weren't that so pale color Paul's eyes had been. This was more like Bardik's eyes.
Maybe he wasn't a cleric, Tibs wondered. Only one way to know for sure. "Are you a cleric?"
The man sighed and took a long swallow from the tankard. "Yes, I am." He glared at Tibs. "Are you happy now?"
Tibs sat, grinning. "Do you want to be on our team?"
The man stared at him, then looked around the inn, searching.
"They're coming," Tibs said. "I ran. I wanted to make sure I was the first to ask you."
"The first?" The man chuckled bitterly. "You think you're the first person to ask me? I went around and offered my services and everyone laughed at me. You're the only one to ask. And I'm guessing whoever sent you running for me didn't tell you anything about me."
"He said you were mopping."
The man opened his mouth, looked at the tankard, then sighed.
"You're a cleric, I need you to heal—"
The man sighed. "Of course you do. I'm not that kind of cleric, kid."
"My name's Tibs. Aren't there just one kind of cleric?"
"That's just what those purity assholes want you to think. I—" The door slammed open and Mez entered, carrying most of Jackal's weight.
"That's them!" Tibs exclaimed. He ran to them. "What happened?"
"Just tired," Jackal said, his face pale.
"You shouldn't have run off, Tibs," Carina said, angrily. "We're a team."
"But I had to make sure we got the cleric." Tibs pointed to the table. "He's right there, and no one asked him to be on their team yet."
She looked, and her face darkened. "That's not a cleric,"
"He said he was," Tibs replied. The man was headed toward them, looking concerned.
"He lied," she snapped, glaring at the man.
"I did not." He looked at Jackal. "What happened to you?" He placed a hand on his forehead and frowned.
"Had some jackass sorcerer do something to my hand." Jackal tried to raise it, but his face twisted in pain. "Always thought I was tougher than this."