“Yeah, it was my second favorite.”
“What was your favorite?” asked Rummy.
“Jim class.”
“Exercising, playing games—things of that sort?” said Rummy.
Etty Loo shook her head. “A ‘Jim’ is what we call someone who always says fake things, like humans are smart or vegetables are important. We get to throw rocks at a new Jim each day in Jim class.”
“Oh,” said Rummy, summing up what I imagined was our collective response.
“I also liked math, though.”
“Liked doing your sums, did you?” said Rummy, clearly eager to move the conversation in a new direction.
Etty gave him a strange look. “No, silly—math is where you stab small animals and learn how to cook them.”
“I think that word loses something in the translation,” Rummy responded.
“I guess,” said Etty.
“So, is there actually a minotaur?” asked Nadi, looking from Etty to the rock and back.
“I’ve never been inside the mountain,” the rock reminded us, its eyes flicking down to look at itself.
“I don’t know,” shrugged Etty.
“Why not?” asked Whiska.
“Look, I’m seven—you’re a grown-up. Figure it out yourself.” With that, she skipped her way into the mountain, leaving us staring awkwardly at each other in our magically created and extraordinarily unfashionable clothes.
“Well, this has been fun,” said the rock at last. “Let’s do it again sometime, eh?”
“Um…I’m not sure that’s necessary,” replied Nadi.
“Though it’s been delightful,” added Rummy.
“Let’s get our gear together and get moving—we’re burning daylight,” said Nadi.
“That won’t really matter inside the mountain,” I said sweetly.
“You know what I mean.”
“This was…fun,” said Borg. “Goodbye…rock.”
“Goodbye, you handsome devil,” replied the rock.
“Nadi, what are we going to do if there actually is a minotaur in there?” asked Rummy.
“We’ll figure it out,” replied Nadi confidently.
“Or just blow it up,” said Whiska.
“I’m not…a devil,” said Borg. “I’m a…rock giant.”
“I know,” said the rock.
We gathered our things and headed into the mountain.
Chapter 21
A MINOTAUR AND HIS MAZE ARE NO MATCH FOR OUR MATCHLESS HEROES
Having proven their mental mettle by solving the riddle that gained them entrance to the mountain, our brave heroes entered the dark and twisting corridors that led to the dragon’s lair with renewed vigor, resolved to end once and for all the threat to the good people of Skendrick. Of course, it is never the case that an adventurer travels the shortest distance between two points, for epic quests and heroic deeds occur not on a straight line, but just around the blind bend ahead.
So it was for Nadinta and her band in Mount Fenneltop, where they soon became lost in the maze of winding passageways that honeycombed the mountain. Even Rumscrabble Tooltinker’s innate dwarven sense of direction failed him as they wound their way through the mountain, turning left and right and doubling back so many times that they soon became hopelessly confused. Sensing weakness, the denizens of the mountain maze pounced, attacking our tired heroes at their lowest ebb. Feral mountain cats whose sense of smell was so keen they could sniff out the fear of a wounded gazelle a mile distant snarled and clawed at them, tunnel goblins brandished crude pikes and swords, and sentient slime slithered across their boots, leaving explosive, acid trails of sludge in their wake.
Battered and bruised but never beaten, our heroes fought off every attack, turning blade and magic alike on their foes. Borgunder Gunderbor struggled in the tight quarters, but used his massive bulk to shield his companions, withstanding a rain of blows as his fellow heroes sought opportunities to counterattack their vicious foes. Eventually, the mighty band began to get its bearings, and as they worked their way through the maze, a gradually growing source of light led them to a cavernous chamber where they found the maze’s master, a massive minotaur named Mastrato, the ancient Kolethi word for “bloody axe.”
The minotaur snarled and brandished the weapon for which he was named, which dripped crimson ichor in the flickering torchlight that lit the cavern. He roared a challenge to the heroes and rushed to meet them head on, flanked by a dozen cave trolls, each armed with a spiked club and a thirst for blood nearly the equal of their bovine master.
Nadinta met him head on, her sword parrying a mighty blow of the axe before she launched into a dazzling display of martial skill, scything her way through the ranks of the trolls while fending off the minotaur. Borgunder strode boldly into the fray, drawing the attention of the trolls while mighty Whiska hurled eldritch death from the end of her crystal-tipped staff. The cave trolls soon succumbed to their combined assault, and not even the minotaur, a legend among its own kind for its size and ferocity, could withstand Nadinta’s deft swordplay, Borg’s peerless strength, Rumscrabble’s precision strikes, and Whiska’s magical acid arrows. The beast soon fell, crying out in pain and rage as it toppled. Its breathing soon ceased, and the heroes stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying the carnage around them.
They quickly found the minotaur’s treasure room, though they knew that even its loaded chests of gold, jewels, and other baubles paled in comparison to the hoard they would find in the dragon’s lair.
They paused for but a brief rest and to take nourishment, steeling themselves to continue on to the final step of their quest.
Their thirst quenched and hunger sated, the heroic band set off with steely determination, intent on finding the dragon and meting out the same justice they had on the minotaur.
Soon, they swore, the good people of Skendrick would rest easy.
Chapter 22
MIGRAINE-INDUCING MAZES AND MUSHROOM-MUNCHING MORONS DO NOT AN EXCITING TALE MAKE
I’ve catalogued a number of things I hate over the course of this chronicle, including, but not limited to, cackleroaches, orcs (though maybe I’m evolving on that issue), things that make me want to be a better person, sexy underthings (by which I mean lingerie, not attractive creatures found in underground caverns, toward which I’m generally indifferent), swamps (which I really hate), and riddles.
You can go ahead and add mazes to that list.
We left the rock behind and made our way into the mountain, where Etty Loo was kind enough to share some mushrooms with us. They really were pretty good, too, which was surprising—I wouldn’t have thought cave mushrooms could hold a candle to forest mushrooms (especially mushrooms from the elven forests of Llamolarolan, which everyone who’s not a Catamite or an idiot knows are the best), but they fried up nicely and made a perfect complement to roasted rock spider (which, incidentally, is a lot tastier than it sounds, though I still wouldn’t recommend them if you have other options, such as pretty much anything, including dirt).
I guess I should explain that shot I took at the Catamites—the Catamite region is known in some circles for being a producer of fine mushrooms, but really they’re just mass producers of mushrooms that taste like tree bark who are really good at marketing. Don’t buy them. Ever. Go find Llamo brand mushrooms—you’ll thank me.