The Art of Four - Dungeons and Dragoons Book 1

Davick could barely contain his excitement as he made his way to Alderferth, his heart pounding with anticipation. Today was the first day of recruitment, and he had waited for this moment for what felt like a lifetime. Joining the military wasn’t just some passing goal—it was his path to greatness, a chance to forge himself into something stronger, something worthy of his family name.

Forgewell, he thought, gripping the straps of his pack tighter. His father had always said that their family was as strong as the metal they worked with, and Davick was determined to prove that true. Not just by shaping steel, but by shaping himself.

He could feel the weight of his small hammer against his side, a constant reminder of where he came from. His father’s trade had given him strength, but the military would teach him how to wield it. And, just maybe, it would give him the chance to craft the legendary weapons he’d always dreamed of.

But as excited as he was, he couldn’t ignore the knot of nerves twisting in his gut. He was confident, sure—but this was big. His mouth twitched into a smirk as he shook off the feeling. No backing down now.

"Headfirst, like always," he muttered under his breath, already imagining the adventure ahead.

Davick Forgewell felt the weight of his future on his shoulders as he made his way toward Alderferth, the town just coming into view. His father, Garret Forgewell, was a highly respected blacksmith—but only within smaller circles, confined to their humble town. For as long as Davick could remember, his father had poured his heart into his craft, creating incredible weapons and armor, yet his name never traveled far beyond their local region.

As the town of Alderferth came into view, Davick’s steps quickened, excitement bubbling in his chest. But just as he passed a couple walking away from the city, their conversation caught his attention.

"I hear they're really prioritizing dungeon divers this time," one of them said, their voice carrying over the road.

The other person shuddered visibly. "No way. Imagine trying to join the military and getting stuck as a dungeon diver. Might as well wait for the next recruitment cycle."

The words stopped Davick in his tracks, a sudden heaviness creeping into his thoughts.

The larger cities were dominated by the more famous blacksmiths, the ones who had military contracts, the ones whose weapons and armor were used by generals and elite warriors. Davick knew that if he joined the military, he could change that. The military had two sides: the Army and the Navy. He had no interest in boats, so the Navy was out. Army blacksmiths were given the first opportunity to craft weapons and equipment for the soldiers, which could then be distributed throughout the entire country. If Davick could get into the Army, his family's name—Forgewell—could become well-known, tied to the strength of the military.

The Dungeoneer Corps, while technically part of the Army, operated almost like a separate entity. Anyone who explored dungeons, whether military or civilian, was called a Dungeon Diver. But those in the military’s specialized branch were known as Dungeoneers. The highest-ranking Dungeoneers were essentially celebrities, conquering dangerous dungeons and bringing back treasure, relics, and fame. If one of those elite Dungeoneers—or even a well-known civilian Dungeon Diver—were to wield a weapon crafted by Forgewell, Davick’s family name could gain recognition across the country.

His father had warned him about the Dungeoneers right before he left for recruitment. Whatever you do, don’t join the dungeon divers, his father had said. They don’t live long, and that’s no place for a blacksmith.

But Davick wasn’t so sure. If he couldn’t make his mark through the Army, then the Dungeoneer Corps might offer him another way to bring his family the recognition they deserved.

Still, Davick was resolute. If the only way into the military meant doing his time as a dungeon diver, then so be it. He wasn’t afraid. He could handle whatever came his way—he was sure of it.

Obviously, it wasn’t his first choice. Dungeon diving was dangerous work, and being a blacksmith was what he was born to do. But if the only option was joining the dungeon divers or not making the military at all, well… he would take the risk.

I’ve got this, Davick thought, steeling himself as he continued toward the town.

He smirked at the thought. The Army or the Dungeoneer Corps—either way, Davick was determined to carve out his family’s legacy.

Davick had plenty of time to spare, but he decided to check out how the recruiting was going in the town square. Sure enough, it was just as those passersby had said—the recruiters were heavily prioritizing Dungeon Divers. Each round allowed for 20 recruits, with seven rounds per day. What really struck him was the ratio: 15 Dungeon Divers to 5 army recruits, every single round.

He cursed under his breath.

For hours, Davick stood glued to the proceedings, watching as round after round passed with the same pattern. The army slots were incredibly competitive, with only the top five recruits—those with the best innate abilities—chosen each time. The rest were pushed into the Dungeon Diver slots if they accepted. Most rounds didn’t even fill all 15 slots for Dungeon Divers, as some recruits chose to wait for another round, another day, or give up altogether.

It was a mixed bag for Davick. On one hand, he knew with his innate abilities that he didn’t stand a chance at one of the coveted army spots. On the other hand, it seemed almost guaranteed that he could get a spot in the Dungeoneers squad, the military’s elite Dungeon Divers.

But now, faced with the reality of it, he felt his confidence waver. The path ahead wasn’t what he’d envisioned, and the enormity of what being a Dungeoneer meant started to sink in. It wasn’t just stories or glory—it was dangerous, and he might not walk away unscathed.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Davick decided he needed to clear his head. The last round of the day was approaching, but he had time. He stepped away from the square, slipping into a nearby tavern for a much-needed ale.

The bartender, a stout man with a thick mustache and salt-and-pepper hair, glanced over at Davick with a raised brow. "What’ll it be?" he asked.

Davick sighed, holding up two fingers. "Two ales," he muttered, his other hand holding his head in a tired slump.

The bartender glanced at the door, then back at Davick. "Expecting company?"

Davick shook his head and looked up at him. "Nope. Two ales for me."

The bartender gave a small, understanding nod. "Coming right up. Rough day?"

"Yeah, sort of." Davick leaned back, his mind still racing with thoughts about recruitment. He began telling the bartender about the whole process, how the army slots were scarce and almost everyone was being funneled into the Dungeon Divers.

The bartender’s expression darkened as he filled the mugs. "Yeah, I’ve heard all about that. Shame, really. No one wants to sign their life away with the Dungeon Divers. Might as well be a death sentence."

Davick’s lips tightened. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was ready to take the plunge into the Dungeoneers if it came to that.

Suddenly, a jovial voice from behind interrupted them. "That’s just a misunderstanding, barkeep. Joining the Dungeoneers is an honor."

The bartender’s eyes widened, and he quickly gave a small, apologetic bow. "Apologies, I misspoke."

Davick turned around to see who the voice belonged to, and there was no mistaking it—the man was one of the recruiters. He was tall, with a confident stance and a neatly pressed military uniform adorned with various insignia, including a crest marking him as a recruiter. His sharp, angular face was clean-shaven, giving him an even sharper appearance, and his eyes gleamed with an air of authority mixed with amusement. Davick recognized him immediately. He’d seen this man earlier at the town square, overseeing the recruits and directing them through the selection process.

"You’re—" Davick began, narrowing his eyes.

The man took a seat beside him, giving a friendly nod. "Sergeant Nornd, at your service," he said, extending a hand.

Davick shook it firmly. "Davick Forgewell. Pleased to meet you, Sergeant."

Davick’s mind raced—he had the ear of a recruiter now. Maybe he could use this opportunity to persuade his way into one of the coveted army slots. But before he could voice his thoughts, Sergeant Nornd spoke first.

"I couldn’t help but overhear your little conversation," Nornd said, a grin spreading across his face. "Davick, you want a way into one of those army slots, don’t you?"

Davick blinked, surprised. "Yes, that’s right."

Nornd leaned back, his grin widening. "Well, here’s the thing. We’re actually having a hard time filling all the slots for the Dungeon Divers—thanks to gossip like what our friend the barkeep here was just spreading." He shot a playful glance at the bartender, who looked mildly embarrassed as he polished a glass in silence.

Davick raised an eyebrow. "What are you getting at?"

Sergeant Nornd’s grin grew sly. "I’m talking about a simple bet. You see, we’ve had to get a little creative to fill the Dungeoneer ranks. So, here’s the deal: if you win, you get your spot in the army. But if you lose..." He leaned in, his voice lowering slightly. "You join the Dungeoneers."

Davick stared at him, his pulse quickening. A gamble.

Nornd leaned in with a sly grin. "It’s simple, really. Outside, I’ve got a black stallion with quite the attitude. Take him for a lap around the stable out back without falling off, then hitch him back to the post out front, and the slot is yours."

Davick’s eyes lit up, slamming his palm on the table in excitement. "That’s it? You don’t want to see my skills or anything?"

Nornd smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching. "That’s it. And if I win, you come with me straight to the recruitment area. But remember, I did say the horse has an attitude."

Davick raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but still, this seems too easy—what’s the catch?"

Nornd held up a finger. "Ah, ah, ah. I said it was simple. I never said it was easy. That’s what makes it a gamble. So, do you accept?" Nornd stuck out his hand.

Standing up, Davick grasped it firmly and shook aggressively. "I accept. Let’s do this."

The two men stepped outside, followed by a few curious onlookers who had overheard the conversation and were eager to watch the challenge. Nornd unhitched the horse, a sleek black stallion with wild eyes, and began walking it to the back of the tavern, where a few stables sat. The area was surrounded by a circular dirt track, though it had been churned into thick muck from the constant stampede of hooves, creating an uneven and muddy terrain—far from ideal for a smooth ride.

Nornd handed the reins over to Davick. "Remember, just one lap. And it goes without saying—if you can’t even get on him, that’s a loss too. Ready?"

Davick took a deep breath, nodded, and put one foot in the stirrup. With a swift motion, he swung his other leg over, settling into the saddle. "Ready."

Without warning, Nornd slapped the stallion on the rear. "Go!"

The horse shot forward like an arrow, thundering down the track. Davick gripped the reins tightly, his heart racing. Halfway around the lap, the stallion suddenly stopped, kicking up mud as it skidded to a halt. With a defiant snort, the horse bucked, thrashing in place as if just realizing it had an unwanted passenger. Davick clung to the reins with every ounce of strength, determined not to let go.

The stallion neighed, almost mockingly, before settling into a mischievous trot. Just as Davick’s grip loosened, the horse swung its massive head back, catching a strap of Davick’s pack in its teeth. In one swift motion, it yanked Davick clean off the saddle, sending him crashing into the mud.

Laughter erupted from the crowd as Davick tumbled to the ground, now being dragged along the track, completely covered in muck. Desperately trying to free himself from his pack, he finally unhooked it and scrambled to his feet, his clothes soaked and heavy with filth. Furious, he bolted after the horse, who trotted back toward Nornd, the pack strap still dangling from its mouth like a trophy.

By the time Davick reached them, the horse was standing proudly in front of Nornd, happily displaying its prize. Davick lunged forward, grabbing at the pack and trying to wrench it free, but the horse tugged back, sending Davick tumbling into the mud again.

Nornd, clearly enjoying the spectacle, chuckled and clapped his hands twice. "Alright, enough fun. Stand down." The horse obediently released the pack, trotting off smugly.

Still seated in the muck, Davick glared up at Nornd, wiping mud from his face. "Alright, fine," he grumbled. "You won, and I’ll hold up my end. But at least let me take a minute to change. I’ve got fresh clothes in my pack."

Nornd chuckled, shaking his head. "There’s no point in dirtying up another set of clothes, Davick. You’re already a walking mud pile. Why ruin more gear?"

"I just need a few moments to wash off the mud," Davick pleaded, glancing down at his filth-covered body. "I’ll be good as new."

Nornd’s grin widened even more. "There‘s no bath here, kid. You’re out of luck."

Davick perked up, pointing back toward the front of the tavern. "There’s a water trough out front. I can at least rinse off there, or maybe I’ll find something close by!"

Nornd let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, no, no, no. There’s no way I’m letting you use my horses' trough. You’re trying to get him sick?"

Davick bit back a retort, thinking to himself, It’s that demon horse’s fault I’m like this in the first place! But he held his tongue and tried again, determined. "Fine, then I’ll find something close—just give me a few minutes."

Nornd crossed his arms, still grinning. "And you think I’m just gonna let you wander off to find a bath and give you a chance to escape? We had a deal you’d come straight away."

Davick wanted to protest more, to argue for a bath or at least clean clothes, but he had agreed to it and he was a man of his word. Resigned to his fate, he sighed and got to his feet, mud clinging to him like a second skin. "Fine," he muttered, shoulders slumping. "Let’s just get this over with."

Nornd clapped him on the back, laughing. "Now you’re getting it! Come on, mud and all."

Defeated, Davick hung his head and muttered, "Stupid fucking horse," as he trailed behind Nornd, parting the crowd as they returned to the town square.

When they arrived, Davick stood at the end of the line of recruits, completely caked in mud, but oddly calm. It wasn’t how he pictured it, but he was on his way to joining the military. Nornd walked over to the other recruiters, exchanging a few words with them before pointing back at Davick. He could feel their eyes on him—and not just the recruiters, but the entire crowd.

At least with all this mud on his face, no one could tell how embarrassed he was. Davick watched the Sergeant walk away, leading that evil, smug horse back toward the tavern. He sighed, mentally counting down the remaining minutes until they closed the round of recruits.

Minutes later, the recruiter at the podium yelled, "Time!" Just as the words left his mouth, some weirdo bolted into the recruitment area at the last possible second, wearing nothing but his underpants as the barricades were put up behind him.

Davick tried not to stare, but it was impossible to ignore. The scrawny guy had managed to make quite an entrance, drawing the attention of everyone around. He immediately felt better about his own situation—sure, he was covered in mud, but at least he wasn’t exposing himself to the entire town.

Then, to his horror, he accidentally locked eyes with the half-naked man. In that instant, Davick knew one thing for sure.

I need to stay away from that guy.