Chapter 4: The Hole in the Ground

The town center became a well of laughter after Bushy Brows fell, save for the jaded few who only clucked their tongues and shook their head. Don couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed this hard.

Down, he thought and then drifted below.

People poked their heads out of archways as he floated past, their expressions ranging from exasperated to resigned. He bowed his head in acknowledgment before he landed on the bottom floor, some 12 stories deeper. Bushy Brows sat in front of him, his eyes squeezed shut even though he’d already landed, unharmed.

“Well, here we are,” said Don. He nudged the other with his boot. “The Hole in the Ground. The official name: the Temple of Myranheim. This is the bottom-most floor, which is dedicated to Gunthrie, the god of creation. If you look closely, you can see the symbol ringing this floor. And then—“

“I’m alive?” asked Bushy Brows. His eyes popped open and patted his body. He popped up. “I’m alive!”

“DONOVAN SHITEHEAD BERNHART!”

“Uh oh.”

A small figure glared balefully at them from five stories up. He jumped, and Don backed away as Archbishop Kranz nearly stomped his head in. Back-lit from the glowing runestones embedded in the temple floor and walls, Archbishop did not look happy.

Typically, Most archbishops, priests, and clergymen had what one calls a gentle air around them. Archbishop Kranz, whose chief patron in the Dwarven pantheon was the god of the hunt, had no such gentle air. He marched forward in his steel-gray archbishop robes with spittle already on his beard and his face a ruby red that could rival any actual ruby found in the mines.

“Thought ya was finally outgrowing these childish games and yet ya brought another stinking one yelling, interrupting our service—“

“It’s past noon, your service is done already.“

“Don’t ye play smart with me. Do you know how many times a day we get falling doggies? Too many! It ain’t how a temple should be run and we don’t need another trickster in this town. If yer mother weren’t in her sickbed then—“

“Then what?” Don’s voice dipped into a growl. His hand grabbed the hilt of his new short sword. “Then what?”

The archbishop, though, was not one to back down. “Then perhaps I’d teach you a lesson.”

Other members of the temple poked their heads from their rooms of worship. A screaming tourist was commonplace in the temple, but a following fight was rather rare. Add into the mix the familiar sound of their fellow clergyman, a certain follower of the hunt, and each one of them was glancing at each other from across the great divide, wondering, “Should you intervene, or shall I?”

But they needn’t have bothered.

“So is this not the hole I’m searching for?” asked one very confused Bushy Brows.

Archbishop Kranz took one look at Bushy Brows, the bald chin, the naked arms, and the lost look in his eyes, and said, “You’re nae a bright doggy, are you?”

He turned to Don. “You sent him here—“

“I didn’t send him here. I guided him here, but I didn’t send him here—“

“It donnae matter who sent him,” he snapped. “What matters is yer the one who lured him here. You can be the one to bring him back up. And I swear to the gods themselves, boy, if you send another doggy down here, I’ll teach ye what it really means to fall.”

And with that, the archbishop floated skyward, returning to the floor decorated with intricate carvings of Votac, the Dwarven hunting god.

“Was gonna show him the way out anyway,” muttered Don. He waved at the other temple keepers, a simple, ‘I have this handled, sorry for the disturbance.’ They retreated to their duties, murmuring.

“So this isn’t where I’m supposed to be?” asked Bushy Brows.

----------------------------------------

It took 10 minutes to teach Bushy Brows how to float, which was a new record as far as Don was concerned.

“Just think ‘up’!” he instructed.

“I am, mate!” said Bushy Brows. He floated a centimeter off the floor.

“You’re not actually afraid of heights, are you?”

“N- no? But if you had some stairs I can climb, or a ladder…”

“No stairs and no ladders, sorry. Trust me, if the temple could install them and turn off the floating, they would. Now concentrate with me. Up.”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Agrivik had a myth. It said that if you weren’t careful, whatever magic the ancient dwarves had instilled in the temple wouldn’t let go once you reached the top. That if you thought ‘up’ hard enough, you’d float past the town center and fall into the sky, floating for forever until you ascended high enough to meet the gods themselves. It was only a myth, but as Bushy Brows rocketed toward the sky seemingly faster than gravity itself, Don thought it best to double-check.

Up, he thought frantically. Up, up.

Don shot up just as Bushy Brows made his tremulous way to solid ground. He fell hard onto the cobblestone, trembling. Don walked his merry way past the temple’s borders and next to Bushy Brows.

“So you wanna check the Hole in the Wall next?” he asked.

A peal of loud, booming laughter answered. From one of the many streets connected to the town center came a hero in shining armor, his metallic eyepatch glinting in the sunlight. War Hero Jemrik Thorak strolled toward them, his smile as wide as the scar on his face.

Bushy Brows scrambled to his feet as the dwarf came closer. Jemrik may have had more gray than red in his beard, but pride and presence exuded from the man, which made it hard not to greet him like a general. The full, clanking plate armor usually added to the effect.

“You’re the dude I’m supposed to meet!” exclaimed Bushy Brows. A little quieter, he muttered. “So I did get the place right.”

“That you did, boy. That you did. Seems you found a friend as well. How’re you doing, Donovan?”

Don smiled. He should’ve realized Jemrik was the one who sent the guy here. Military general vibes aside, Jemrik could never pass up a good prank. “I’m doing good, sir.”

“Ach. Again with the sir. How many times do I have to tell you people I’m retired? And I take it you’re the one who gave Sirius here the traditional tour?”

Bushy Brows—or Sirius, Don amended—looked between them, his face once again queasy. “Sir, are there really d- dragons in those mountains? Do I have to fight dragons if I join the guild?” He pointed his finger shakily at the Haunted Mountains.

If Jemrik still had his right eyebrow, he would’ve raised it. As it was, his eye patch twitched. “Dragons? In the Haunted Mountains? No, they were never there. They preferred to nest in Dragonrend Mountains—it’s why it’s named that, you see—but that was a century ago. There are no more dragons around these parts. Not after the war.”

“So there were dragons?” asked Sirus.

“Yes, boy, they were. If you look around you, you’ll even find a little gift they left behind.”

It was only then that Sirus seemed to register the uneven cobblestone beneath his feet. Deep gouges interrupted the otherwise smooth cobblestone, uneven lines that no rake or hoe could make scratched at the ground, all centering on the temple’s entrance with a ferocity that could belong to the gods. Claw marks.

Dragon claw marks.

In his panic, Sirus almost pitched himself back into the temple before Don caught him and led him far from the hole.

“But there aren’t any dragons anymore, right? I won’t be dropped from 5,000 feet in the air and go splat, right?”

“No. Not by dragons. Wyverns might, but not dragons.”

“Wyverns?”

A hearty laugh escaped Jemrik’s throat. He clapped Sirus’ back and, while the man was having an existential crisis, he leaned to whisper to Don.

“Wanna bet?” Jemrik asked.

“If it’s a hypothetical bet? Then yes. If you’re talking actual money, then I’ll have to decline.”

Jemrik snorted. Although the dwarf was retired and had been for decades now, it didn’t mean he put up the adventuring armor. In fact, most times he could be found at the guild, sponsoring new adventurers and training them up to be Merinmast’s next big hero. Or, at least, Agrivik’s next big hero. It was a bit of fun, he said. Sometimes his sponsored reached diamond rank. Sometimes they never made it past initiation. Most of the time, Don thought he only sponsored new adventurers to bet with other people.

“All right then. Have it your way, boyo. Hypothetical bet. I say he gets to silver rank by New Year’s next year.”

“With a team, maybe. But solo? No way.”

“I can see it.” He pointed at his eye patch. “20/20 vision right here.”

They shared a laugh. Don observed Sirius who, despite being on the edge of hearing range, hadn’t caught onto their conversation.

“Bronze by next year. Final answer.”

“Ach, how your doubt hurts this old heart so. Fine. Hypothetical bet taken. Meanwhile,” Jemrik produced a small leather pouch and pressed it into Dom’s hands.

“What’s this?”

“A little reward for leading him on so well.”

Don weighed the bag in his hands, the coins clinking noisily inside. “This isn’t what I’d expect to earn from playing a simple prank.”

“Look, I heard from Clarissa this morning. Bad form, closing a contract without telling you after you already gave a discount to them.” At the thought of the Fuck U Ups, Jemrik shuddered. “Think of it as repayment. The guild owes you, and as a high-ranking member of the guild—“

“You’re retired.”

“As a former high-ranking member of the guild who still has some way, think of it as… Ah, what’s that fancy word Edward’s always saying? Re- R- C-“

“Recompense?”

“No, too hoity-toity.”

Don wanted to point out that Edward was hoity-toity incarnate, but refrained.

“What’s the word?” Jemrik scratched at his beard. “It’s got an R somewhere in it…”

“Reparations?”

“Eh, close, but not quite…”

Don tried to think of a close R-word, but couldn’t. Jemrik, too, seemed stumped. “Ah, whatever. Anyway, think of it as payback payment. I ‘unno. Gotta go take Sirus here to his initiation, so see you later.”

With that, Jemrik took Sirus and led him in the guild's direction.

Left alone, Don wandered back to his own home. The sun was still high in the sky but inching lower, which meant lunchtime, which meant he needed to make lunch for his mom. On his way, he checked the pouch for its contents. At first, he’d been a little disappointed, realizing that the coins were silver instead of gold, but then he realized: these weren’t silver coins, they were platinum. Fifty, by the looks of it, which equated to five-hundred gold.

He could get more supplies! Maybe contract an artist for an advertisement and hang them across town.

Giddy, Don sped run home, his mind whirling with possibilities.

----------------------------------------

The next morning dawned foggy and cold as balls. After he went home yesterday, he’d tended to his mother and went outside again, ready to spend his newly gotten platinum only to realize—oh yeah, it was Camue and no one would be opened and the only reason Zera sold him weapons was because the Happy Cure-All was a longstanding business partner. It was okay, though. He could shop after the store closed.

Don was descending the stairs when a cacophony stopped him dead. It came from the store. The closed store. The store which he locked. Muffled cursing reached his ear even through the thick door separating the backroom from the storefront. There were only three people who had keys to the building; his mother, him, and Old Lady Agnes. His mother was sick upstairs and Old Lady Agnes didn’t curse to herself like a miner drunk on fumes.

Someone broke into the shop.

And, thought Don as he grabbed his newly purchased short sword from the enchanting bench, I’ll be damned if I let them steal anything.