Page 43 of Wizards & Weavers (Cozy Questing #1)
Elyssandra threw her hands over her head. “I don’t want to get my skull bashed in by a hammer. This isn’t how I wanted to go.”
“If you’re comfortable with some ruined merchandise and broken windows,” Augustin said, breath smelling of bacon, “I can conjure a gale and blow him out of here.”
“I can hear the three of you back there,” the orc growled. “And no, I haven’t come to bash your heads in.”
He propped his war hammer against the wall with a thunk, careful to settle its heavy metal head on the carpet, as if concerned for the floorboards. He raised his hands to show he was unarmed, then stepped forward.
“My name is Craghammer. I know how to wield the weapons of war, things made for slashing and crushing. I travel these lands to learn how the people of Aidun fight, ever honing my skills in battle.”
Braiden stepped out, at the very least satisfied that the orcish man hadn’t come to snap their necks.
“So why have you come to my craft shop?” Braiden asked.
The orc pulled his vest apart, revealing a muscular torso crisscrossed with scars. Elyssandra gasped. Augustin oohed.
“I have earned these scars in battle. I have been humbled enough times to know that I cannot master everything about the ways of war. But I am always eager to learn, especially from those strong enough to defeat me. Please. Teach me.”
Braiden’s eyes went wide as he regarded the orcish warrior. Strong? Braiden didn’t think he was very strong at all. And what could he possibly teach this seasoned warrior?
“I am not adept enough at weaving magic to teach you,” Braiden said. “But if you’re curious about the fiber arts, I have plenty to show you about knitting. And crocheting. And macrame. None of it is very useful in a fight.”
The orc looked around the craft shop, studying the handcrafts unperturbed as Braiden listed his skill set.
“There are lessons to be learned everywhere. This, for example.” The orc thumbed a hanging macrame display. “Is this not merely a miniature throwing net?”
Braiden thought back to how he’d entangled Warren in a huge net of his own making, how he’d similarly diminished the threat of both Bones and Craghammer by wrapping their extremities in large quantities of string. Maybe the orc had a point.
“I’ll do my best to show you everything I know,” Braiden said. “Still, I have to admit, the timing is awkward. We have something of a dilemma on our hands.”
Craghammer frowned. “The frozen chamber where we fought. Yes. Much colder there than in the rest of the dungeon.”
They gave Craghammer a quick account of what they’d discovered, and what needed to be done. Cube, sweaters, hurry. The orc frowned harder, more resolute than ever.
“I will bring as many of these battle sweaters of yours as I can carry.”
“Thank you,” Braiden said. “Also, they’re regular sweaters.”
“Of course. Regular sweaters that may be worn in battle and may potentially turn a blade or catch an arrow in their finely woven webbing.”
“Um, sure. Why not?”
Once he could secure a supply of moongrass filament, Craghammer’s wild notions might just become a reality, but first things first.
“We’re thrilled to have you on board, Mr. Craghammer,” Elyssandra said. “But the four of us together still isn’t enough to transport everything.”
The doorbell tinkled again. Braiden held his breath as the Gwerenese twins walked in.
“That bony bard of yours,” said Falina. “Where is he? We must speak to him.”
“He’s not here,” Braiden replied. “And if you’re thinking of hurting him — ”
Fedro raised his hands, showing his palms. “There is no cause for concern, friend. It is wondrous enough that you have recruited the undead to your cause. More wondrous still that this skeletal companion of yours bears forbidden bardic knowledge.”
Augustin cocked an eyebrow. “Forbidden?”
“The song he sang to deafen us all,” Falina said. “A dirge most heinous that some among our people consider it a war crime. We wish to speak to your friend and learn more of his horrific expertise.”
Before Braiden could speak, Elyssandra pushed past him to answer. “He is down in the dungeon, and we know where to find him. But first, a favor.”
Six pairs of hands now, still not quite enough to carry all the scarves and sweaters. But Braiden’s excitement was mounting, his exhaustion forgotten. If they could convince more adventurers to help them — perhaps a visit to the adventurer encampment outside town?
A third time, the doorbell tinkled. Dudley the bartender strode in, his knuckles white as he gripped his battle-axe. Braiden gasped. He’d never seen Old Betsy come off the wall.
“Now, Dudley,” Braiden began. “I know Augustin should have thought twice before getting his boots on your nice table, but — ”
“Hush, Braid. That’s not what I’m here for.”
He tilted his head over his shoulder. Braiden’s eyes lit up brighter than all the paper lanterns in the night market. How did he miss the mass of adventurers crowded outside the shop? A dozen of them, at least, that he could see by the moonlight. He recognized some of their faces from the tavern.
“But how?” Braiden breathed. “I thought they didn’t believe Augustin.”
Dudley shrugged. “Didn’t need believing. Told them I’d stop serving them if they didn’t come help. Bar’s closed until further notice. There was a brawl.” Dudley chuckled. “Was.”
On closer inspection, Braiden noticed the bruises — and the sulky expressions — on some of the tavern’s mouthier patrons.
He also noticed how Old Betsy was spotless, its bladed edges free of blood.
Good old Dudley taking it down to good old fisticuffs.
The axe was only a threat. Carry a big stick and all that.
Braiden gripped Dudley by the shoulder. “You’re a lifesaver. Literally. You don’t realize how many lives you might be saving tonight.”
Dudley chuckled. “You owe me so many beer cozies, Braid.”
With the moongrass filament, Braiden could make his enchanted cooling cozies permanent, in any color Dudley desired. But first: Cube. Sweaters. Hurry. All these hands to help — how quickly the tide had shifted!
It took less than an hour to clear out the storage room. Braiden tried not to linger too long to goggle at its emptiness. He hadn’t seen the floor in years. The room would need a good sweeping when he came back.
And he would be back, and soon, with all of his friends. They could actually do this now. A happier ending was finally in sight.
The caravan of adventurers marched through the streets of Weathervale and out to the dungeon, scarves and sweaters stuffed in every available backpack, satchel, and pocket.
When they reached the dungeon’s entrance, Braiden took a long, deep breath of the fresh surface air, preparing for another dive.
A lean black figure stood at the mouth of the cave, leaning on the crude DUNJON sign, a familiar spiky helmet covering his face. The procession of adventurers came to a stop.
There was nothing unusual about a man hanging about the dungeon mouth, but they’d surely noticed the unusual angle of his elongated feet.
Warren removed his helmet, his ears springing up high above his frowning face. Dudley’s conscripted adventurers — and Dudley himself — looked on in disbelief. Braiden smiled, taking note of Augustin’s smugness.
The adventurers murmured and argued among themselves. Braiden tried not to interrupt, suspecting that they were going through their own epiphanies about the forgotten races. What about the cat people of legend? Were they real, too? Or the fox folk, or even the fabled frog men?
“Enough yammering,” Warren said irritably. “What took you all so long?”