23 – Prisoners

“Ahh…” Simon groaned, his hands searching blindly through the pitch black for the immense weight pinning him down. He tried to shove the obstruction aside, but his fingers sank into something strangely yielding.

“This rock’s too soft,” he muttered, his voice echoing flatly against the nearby stone. “And warm?”

The darkness was nearly total. Not quite absolute, but close enough that his eyes caught only the barest ghost of shapes just beyond reach.

A dizzying nausea spun through his skull, a lingering gift from the force that had hurled him through the air. He recalled spinning midair after… “Ouch!” He winced, his fingers probing a tender, swelling bump right along his hairline.

A rogue stone had clearly clipped him during the collapse, knocking him clean out. Or perhaps he had landed headfirst on the ground.

“No more flying for me,” Simon said, pressing a hand to his throbbing temple. “No, sir. My feet stay firmly on the dirt from now on.”

The soft rock resting on his sternum suddenly growled. The deep, rumbling vibration traveled through Simon’s ribs and up into his collarbone. The heavy mass shifted, talons scraping against the unseen ground in the dark.

“Uh… Paco? That you?” Simon wheezed, his lungs burning under the compression. “Come on, buddy. Get down. I can’t breathe.”

The suffocating pressure lifted. Before it vanished entirely, a thick, wet warmth traced a gooey line from his chin all the way to his ear.

“Yes, yes. I’m glad we’re alive too. No more licking!” Simon grunted as the dragon finally scrambled off his torso.

He sat up, rubbing his cheek against his leather sleeve. Or rather, he tried to, though only managed to smear the gluey mess further across his jaw. He squinted into the dark, waiting for his vision to adjust to the oppressive, ink-like darkness of the sealed tunnel.

“Ugh,” Simon spat, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Now my face smells like rotten eggs.”

If this is what being a hero smells like, I want a refund.

He turned back toward the passageway they had been thrown from, but the passage was gone, sealed shut by a massive wall of freshly fractured bedrock.

The unstable heap rumbled softly to itself. A handful of loose pebbles broke free from high up on the pile and skittered all the way down, scattering across the stone floor with a series of sharp, echoing clicks.

Through the dense, choking veil of settled dust, a faint blue luminescence pulsed rhythmically against the stone near its base. It was his sword.

Only the leather-bound hilt poked out from the base of the rockfall. The blade itself was buried, pinned flat beneath a jagged boulder significantly larger than Simon himself, with a precarious stack of debris heaped on top of it.

He leaned over, to grab it with both hands, and yanked sideways. The metal didn’t budge a single inch. The weapon was anchored by the sheer weight of the collapsed ceiling.

Grimacing, he reached out with his other hand to secure a two-handed grip, determined to pull with every ounce of his remaining Strength. Before his hand could even close around the crossguard, an unexpected voice cut straight through the darkness, making him instantly snap his head around.

“You there! Don’t move a muscle,” a voice barked. It sounded muffled, as if the speaker were shouting from inside a bucket.

A beam of light cut through the gloom, blinding Simon. He squinted, shielding his eyes as the light swept over him.

“And a tail,” the voice added, the tone shifting to a sharp alarm.

A shape in dark armor stepped forward, a strange luminous device fixed to his shoulder pouring a beam of white light across the chamber.

His plating was scorched and battered, and he leveled a wide-muzzled shotgun at Simon’s chest before jerking it toward Paco, then back again. The weapon was shaking, dripping with water.

“Um… hey, kid?” Simon said, drawing himself up to his full height. “I don’t think that thing can shoot a damn thing, wet as it is.”

He was trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel as He reached instinctively for his sword.

His hand grasped empty air.

Ah, yeah. I don’t have a holster. The sword is still stuck.

“Hey! Don’t move, I said,” the bucket-voice stammered. “Or I… I…”

Simon and Paco exchanged a long look, then turned back to the gnome, both tilting their heads to one side in unison.

“Listen, kiddo. I know you’re brave and all that,” Simon said, thumbing over his shoulder toward the pile of grey rocks obstructing the entrance. Debris was still trickling down the heap. “But don’t you think we have more pressing matters right now? This thing is not exactly stable.”

“You are my prisoner now,” the voice replied, this time with a wet, gurgling sound.

A stone the size of Simon’s boot dropped from the ceiling and split against the floor between them. Neither of them looked at it.

Simon narrowed his eyes. He could see the shattered glass on the armor where the visor should be. Water was sloshing behind the cracks, and dark rivulets began to leak out, dripping onto the rock beneath.

“Ah, yes. You and what army?” Simon asked.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“I have a blunderbuss! This thing can kill three hummies with one shot. I’ll shoot you if you won’t coope…”

“Go on then. Shoot,” Simon interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. “But if that thing doesn’t work…”

What can I do? Can I punch through still? That thing is reinforced as a… what is the word? Ah yes. A tank.

He pressed his palm firmly onto Paco’s scaly back. The dragon’s throat rumbled, and small, flickering purple flames licked at his fangs, casting an eerie violet light across the room.

“I will incinerate you with my mighty companion’s fire.”

That armor already withstood Paco’s fire. He’s never going to fall for that.

Simon thought, glancing at his stuck sword.

The gnome froze. Then, with a sudden, jerky movement, he dropped his weapon. He tore his helmet off and kicked it with a frustrated shout, sending the metal bucket smashing against the stone wall. “Why does everything always have to go so wrong! Durking hell!”

Now that the helmet was gone, Simon recognized the thick fur and the goggles. It was the scared gnome they had seen entering the tunnel, the one who had been terrified while repairing the thing Celestine called a Mecha.

The gnome raised his small but pudgy hands as if he were ready to punch the very air.

“Why? Why does it never go the way I want? They say ‘don’t do that’ or ‘do this.’ I do it! I even try to make things better, but in the end, something always goes wrong.” The gnome’s hands were still raised, but they weren’t threatening anymore. They were shaking. “Is it my fault? Why does everything explode or fall apart around Gomp?”