Chapter 6. Barn
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Quint was broken out of a trance by Rugrat making his way into his lap, and took a deep breathe to dive back into meditation.
Not that he was making much progress, anyway.
This was much, much harder to do when he was out of his dungeon.
_
Marcellus ‘Rugrat’ the Third sniffed curiously at the barn.
He had rarely ventured outside of the Haven, ever since he had found the way inside after being wounded by the Enemy.
The little ones had tended to his wound, assuring him that inside the Haven, not one of their many Enemies were to be found. Even the giants who sometimes set clever traps for them let them live in peace here, seemingly oblivious to their existence.
He had recovered, grateful to the little ones for their hospitality.
He had settled into a peaceful life of sorts, until the great Cataclysm had roused them all. They had huddled in their holes, as the very heaven and earth trembled with fury for many hours. But they survived.
And afterwards, things had begun to change.
First, he and the little ones had become aware of an immense mind brushing their own and knew instinctively that it would be but pup’s play for the mind to dominate and crush their own with ease.
It had taken all of their dignity and self-respect not to castrate themselves immediately before the smaller of the giant turned god, lest he crush them all like some tasty insect. But they had underestimated one thing.
The pure goodness of the master.
The master had opened his own stores of ‘bread’ and ‘cheese’ (o’ wondrous cheese), and fed them from his own hands. They were not deserving, but they could not resist the allure of this ambrosia, this very food of the gods.
And even as they fed themselves upon the generosity of the master, they had begun to experience an enlightenment, a transformation of both body and mind.
They had grown smarter, stronger, faster than ever before thanks to the master and his power.
Indeed, a few of the little ones had entered a deep sleep upon which they had grown into giants after a few cycles, albeit smaller than the master himself.
They had also listened to the master as he talked to them every night, telling them stories about a great wizard, his time from the ‘slums’, and many others besides, and learned.
Marcellus had chosen his name from one of these many stories. It was also one of these stories that inspired him to accompany the master when he had chosen to venture outside.
It was he alone, who had been only the second resident of Haven to have been gifted a title of power in the tongue of the two-legged giants, Marcellus ‘Rugrat’ the Third, who could keep their master safe from the dangers of the outside world.
He knew that the ‘Pipsqueak’ would keep the others safe and protect Haven. He was a great leader and warrior, after all.
Marcellus continued sniffing, catching the scent of enough food to feed dozens of mice and rats for many generations.
He also smelled some of his kin. Mice, to be exact. They smelled rather weathered, like they had traveled for many miles. He climbed out of the master’s warm lap to investigate. He was doing that thing where he sat still for hours, and Marcellus didn’t want to distract him.
A rustle from one of the stacks of grain alerted Marcellus to the fact a curious youngster was poking its snout out.
“Halt! I am Marcellus ‘Rugrat’ the Third, protector of the great ‘Dungeon Master’!” (The micekin of Haven had deduced from one of Quint’s many ramblings that this was some sort of title.)
Stolen story; please report.
Squeak? The youngster tilted its head as it came into full view. He was a brown barn mouse.
Goodness. Showing itself so soon to a stranger. Hadn’t this youngster heard of the idiom ‘curiosity killed the mouse.’?
“You. Smell Good.” the youngster squeaked.
Ah. He hadn’t realized it, but it seemed that the micekin of Haven had changed even more than they realized. The communications of this particular barn mouse seemed so… primitive to Marcellus.
“What you smell is called ‘Cheese’, my young friend.” Marcellus squeaked softly.
Chi?
“Indeed. Cheese.” Marcellus nodded as he approached the youngster cautiously, when an old, raspy squeak from above the haystack surprised him. Marcellus pooped out a pellet like a pup.
“Heard of Cheese. I have.” said the squeaker, and Marcellus jerked up in surprise as a gnarled old mouse with gray fur walked into view. He was missing a front paw, and a scar ran across his left eye, which gazed into nothing.
“Delicious, Cheese. But Cheese Is Traps. Many Die because of cheese and man.” the gray mouse continued, staring down Marcellus with one beady eye. It was an eye that had seen many moons and survived many enemies.
“Indeed. But my master is kind like no other and he feeds and houses us. Me and other micekin have grown in size and in intelligence, and no longer do we fear the many Enemies.” Marcellus called out.
As the old gray mouse and Marcellus talked, more and more of the mice that lived in the barn began poking their snouts out from holes and stacks of grain and a few more youngsters made their way forward to sniff at Marcellus, curious about what this heavenly smell they had never before encountered.
That was when disaster struck.
With a yowl, a fat orange lump dropped from one of the barn’s wooden roof bars, and on one of the youngsters.
Pandemonium erupted amongst the mice as they all ducked for cover, and even Marcellus quivered in fear as he caught the scent of the eternal enemy of micekin.
Behind him, however, sat his master. His master must be protected. How could he face any mouse back in Haven otherwise?
For the first time, a strange feeling bloomed in Marcellus’s heart as he realized with absolute clarity what he must do.
As the barn mice, even the old gray one, gasped in amazement and terror, Marcellus rushed forward at the Enemy and squeaked a mighty war cry at the Enemy, who eyed him like a particularly delicious piece of cheese-grub.
You shall not defeat me! I am Marcellus ‘Rugrat’ the Third, and behind me sits the great master of all mouse-kin! Dare ye test your mettle against his champion?!!
The Enemy seemed taken aback, and dropped the youngster from its maw while tilting its head to study Marcellus.
And though Marcellus felt terror, he stood his ground, resolute in his resolve to become strong enough to protect his master or die trying.
And as the great Enemy’s maw descended on him like the jaws of Death itself, that resolve, that ‘bravery’, transformed into something very real as he drew on the energy that had been growing inside of him unnoticed since the Cataclysm.
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Quint opened his eyes a slit at a pained yowl to look at the fat, orange tom, whose fur was standing like it had been struck by lightning and smoking lightly at the tips.
“Oh good gods!” He exclaimed as he saw Rugrat squeaking furiously at the cat. “Come here now, Rugrat! Cats are dangerous!”
He stood up and reached out to scoop up the rat, only to snap his hand back as Rugrats’ fur shocked him.
“Yow!”
Quint stared in disbelief at the rat squeaking its head off as he slowly came to a realization.
Rugrat could produce electricity.
Interesting! Quint thought as he recalled that the dungeon core had electrified both his master and himself during the binding process.
Could it be that a dungeon had affinity with certain elements of mana? Perhaps the grimoire would have answers…
Quint gingerly poked Rugrat again, still squeaking furiously at the cat who was now slowly backing away. To his relief, there was no shock.
“You gave me quite a scare there, little fella.” Quint sighed in relief as he cupped his hands under the rat and placed him on his shoulder.
“Garfunkle!” Greg called from outside the barn. “Get yer fat ass over here and stop bothering the wizard!”
The fat tom called Garfunkle gave Quint and Rugrat an evil eye and walked regally out of the barn, seemingly choosing to ignore his smoking fur.
Quint could have sworn that if rats could make expressions, Rugrat was making an awfully smug one right about now.
“Well, I think that’s enough adventure for today.” Quint said, before two dozen mice flooded out from the barn and surrounded him.
—------------
Old Greg and Romaldo stared in disbelief as the young wizard apprentice waltzed out of the barn with a line of mice following him.
“Wizards. Truly a strange lot, I tell ya. I don’t know what sort of strange wizardry could get those blasted nibblurs to walk out of that barn of their free will.” Greg wondered aloud, stroking a strangely burnt cat that growled aggressively.
“Ah, he’s not that bad. He even likes my game!” Romaldo exclaimed, though he was also quite surprised.
“No one likes feetball, you lout. He was probably just being polite.” Greg muttered.
“You take that back, old Greg!”
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Quint walked through the forest, looking back every once in a while to make sure that the dozens of barn mice were still following him.
The rest of the villagers had looked at him strangely, and he hadn’t blamed them at all.
He probably reminded them about the old folktale of Peter Piper, who had lured a bunch of mice away from a village with a bunch of fruit cakes. Legends said that when the villagers had refused to give him their first born for his services, he had also lured a bunch of their cows into a lake with a bunch of fruit cakes as well.
Ah well. That was just a folktale, and this was real life.
He wasn’t sure what exactly had transpired between Rugrat and the rest of the mice, but they had squeaked excitedly back and forth for a while, then formed a little line behind Quint and began following him around as he prepared to leave.
He assumed that Rugrat had greatly impressed them with his lightning attack on the cat, and he got flashes of impressions from Rugrat that confirmed this. And something about cheese.
Perhaps they thought that life would be better with this super rat and himself. Either way, he wasn’t going to complain about having more dungeon creatures.
He had learned from his few hours meditating at the barn that he was very much the apprentice he had been before becoming a Dungeon Master, as he hadn’t been able to sense the minds of the barn mice or the cat at all, or even been able to muster enough mana to detect their presence.
He would have to rely on these mice and Rugrat to protect the dungeon…
And so, thinking about many things on their way back to the dungeon, Quint did not notice the little sparrow staring at him with beady little eyes from the trees…