Page 23 of Wizards & Weavers (Cozy Questing #1)

Spear and staff clashed and cracked again as elf and intruder resumed their battle.

Braiden’s heart was threatening to punch through his chest. This wouldn’t have gone so badly if he could only contribute something to the fight.

Even seasoned adventurers like the Wizard of Weathervale only rose to heroic acclaim because they fought alongside competent, experienced party members.

The only party Braiden was remotely useful for, he knew, was a tea party.

At least he’d be able to supply a few attractive cozies for the teapots.

Gods, he really was in over his head on this one.

Maybe Dudley had been right all along. Braiden should have listened to his warnings the way he’d listened to his past as an adventurer.

All the dangers, the traps, the weapons —

Wait.

That was it. The spheres on a rope. Bolas, weren’t they called? Dudley had mentioned it once, a chance encounter with ravenous goblins, crafty and cunning on their own, dangerous in greater numbers. This particular annoyance of goblins had improvised their weapons, much like the thing in black.

Spears carved to wicked points out of sturdy branches, bark and animal hide for armor, and woven rope to use as nets.

Even against such crude armaments, Dudley and his party had barely escaped with their lives.

All the entrapping and entanglement had done so well at hindering and slowing his party down.

Entrapment. The bolas, the nets. Wasn’t a net basically the same as a weave of fabric, only with tighter knots, with a looser knit?

The right tightness here, enough looseness there — it just might work.

Braiden sprang to his feet, magic already sparking at his fingertips as he rushed toward Elyssandra and their assailant.

Her ears pricked up at the sound of his approach. Braiden knew better than to warn her out loud and alert their enemy, relying on the sensitivity of her hearing to time this just right.

Spinning the sturdiest, heaviest thread he could muster out of the ether, he dragged one arm down, then the other across, warp and weft, a loose and frankly amateur variation of Card No. 3.

Granny Bethilda might have chuckled at the sight of the thing he’d conjured, closer to a large web of macrame than a sheet of cloth. He grasped its edge and spun as he heaved it across the grass.

“Now!” Braiden cried.

Elyssandra slammed the butt of her spear into the thing in black’s stomach, staggering it long enough to force it to stand in place.

She broke away from the melee exactly as the net fell over the creature, the loops and gaps catching on the spikes of its thorny helmet, the webbing catching on its staff, its arms, its legs.

The creature struggled and squirmed, but Braiden’s improvised net held fast. He could hardly believe it himself. Elyssandra kicked the creature’s staff away, then stomped her foot close to its spiky head. She aimed her golden spear at its chest.

“I don’t mean you harm,” she said coolly, “but make one false move and I’ll gladly change my mind.”

The thing in black kicked at the grass one final time in defiance, its elongated foot thumping against the earth.

Braiden narrowed his eyes now that he was getting a better look at their attacker.

Something about its legs seemed different, how they were bent in an odd direction.

The way it kicked and pedaled at the air reminded him of a cat.

“Could someone help me up, please?”

Braiden snapped out of it, somehow having forgotten that his party’s great and powerful wizard was still neatly tied up in a bundle on the ground. At least the grass was nice and soft. Elyssandra clearly had the situation handled, her spear held with a terrifying stillness, her expression icy.

“Here,” Braiden said, assessing his approach as he studied the spiked ball still hooked into Augustin’s shirt.

The sphere was surprisingly light, its multitude of spikes naturally formed instead of being crafted that way.

It reminded him of a very large burr, or even a sea urchin, with all the lightness and durability of wood.

It wouldn’t have done much against someone wearing any form of armor, but against Augustin and his finely tailored clothes —

“Careful, you’re ripping the fabric! This was made for me by — ”

“Yes, yes,” Braiden grumbled. “Another fancy-pants tailor from the garden capital of Il-venesse, the same city where you found your fancy pants. Sit still, won’t you? This is hard enough as it is.”

Augustin sniffled. “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired.”

“Or I could just leave you here on the ground,” Braiden said, thoroughly tempted to do just that, except he’d already succeeded at unwinding the bolas from Augustin’s shirt.

He did the same with the bolas entangling his legs, managing to minimize the damage to the fabric. A grateful but slightly pouting Augustin followed him over to where Elyssandra still stood guard.

“Our friend still hasn’t said anything,” she said, unmoving, unflinching. This was the same elf who’d gotten so flustered when Braiden had bought her a dinner of seafood skewers, and here she was prepared to skewer their masked attacker at a moment’s notice.

The thing in black had resigned itself to lying mostly motionless in the grass. With its spiked full-face helm, without a visible face, Braiden thought that it looked almost comfortable.

He studied its uniformly black clothing, the material sleek and soft, like velvet, perhaps, or some kind of short fur. Most importantly, he noted how the creature no longer had any other pointy throwing weapons on its person.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Braiden said. “If you swear to do the same, we’ll be happy to let you go. We don’t want any trouble. We’re just exploring.”

The thing sat up, crossing its legs, a little too casual for something that was still very much their captive.

“Too many adventurers down here,” it said, its voice muffled by its improvised helmet. “Trying to keep them out.”

Braiden glanced at the others, finding that they too were surprised to learn that their would-be assassin could talk.

“I see your point,” Braiden said, “but surely maiming or killing adventurers isn’t the best way to get your message across.”

Augustin sniffed. “Neither is ruining their very nice clothes.”

Braiden glared at the wizard. The thing in black shrugged.

“If you try anything,” Elyssandra said flatly, “I will drive this through your throat.”

Braiden winced. Maybe he was worrying about the wrong assassin in the first place.

The thing in black nodded. It raised one hand, as if making a vow. “I swear that I will not attempt to murder you. Again. For now.”

Good enough. Braiden waved his fingers over his macrame battle net, prematurely dispelling the thread. The thing in black flexed its arms, then rose on its haunches, bounding in place once or twice. The tip of Elyssandra’s spear followed its throat without fail.

“Thank you,” the creature said. “I apologize for attempting to smash your head open.”

That was true. It had attacked Braiden first. The creature favored blunt weapons, blunt-force trauma, and blunt words, too. Good to know.

“Apology accepted,” Braiden said. He thumbed over his shoulder. “I think. It looks like our wizard got the worst of it in the end.”

The thing in black nodded. “He looked like the biggest threat.”

Augustin beamed, his chest puffing up. “Did you hear that? He thinks I’m the biggest threat.”

“He,” Augustin had said, for the creature did seem to speak with a masculine voice. The creature turned his faceless spiked head toward Elyssandra.

“But you turned out to be the deadliest of them all. You are a most formidable opponent. Thank you for the battle.”

Elyssandra’s spear finally wavered, a red rosiness flowering on her cheeks. “Oh, my goodness. I’ve never been thanked for almost killing someone before. Um, thank you. You too.”

“It is the proper thing to do,” the thing in black said. “And the proper thing now is for me to remove my helm and introduce myself to those who have bested me. Three against one is hardly fair, of course.”

Braiden thought he could detect the faintest hint of a smile in the creature’s voice. With hands protected by gloves of the same velvety black, the creature reached for his helmet, mindfully avoiding its many spikes.

Braiden held his breath in anticipation. He knew the others were doing the same. How many times had he debated this with Augustin already? All manner of creatures could be awaiting them in the dungeon, though Braiden hadn’t expected any to be very civil or polite.

Perhaps the thing in black was one of those beings Augustin had warned them about: an amicable representative of the living dead, or a decent demon come through a portal from the many hells.

With a wry smile, Braiden thought of his own silly joke about how the dungeon may as well be populated by bunny rabbits.

The helmet came off. Braiden gasped.