Thisby Thestoop and the Wretched Scrattle

by Zac Gorman

  Grunda shut the box and trudged over toward his desk, inviting herself to sit down in a chair across from him without being properly asked to do so. The Master bristled.

  “You’ve got to do something,” she said.

  The Master sat up in his chair, trying to look big despite only being maybe a foot and a half taller than the minuscule goblin.

  “No,” he said.

  “No?” repeated Grunda.

  “No, I don’t have to do anything.”

  “And why not?”

  The Master grinned. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. A chance to reveal his secret. He’d wanted to just blurt it out the second she’d walked through the door, but he knew that if he could wait for her to bring it up organically in conversation, the moment would be so much sweeter. It was.

  “Guards!” he called. “Send in my guest!”

  Grunda turned in her chair to see the doors swing open. In strode a tall figure, long and dark, like a shadow cast by firelight.

  “Allow me to introduce you to your new boss,” said the Master.

  By the time Thisby reached the gates to Castle Grimstone, the sun had vanished below the Black Mountain, leaving in its wake swaths of blue to green to pink organized in such a way that the sky resembled the underside of a gigantic salmon. It’d taken longer than she’d expected to get ready, so there was no doubt the Master would already be in a bad mood when she arrived.

  She’d only dropped back by her room—just beneath the castle yet still in the mountain—to get changed into something that smelled a bit less like old fish. While she was there, however, she’d caught her reflection in a serving tray that Grunda had left in her room and realized that her hair could use a quick combing. What surprised her most during what was really more of a “hostile detangling” than a proper combing was the moment that—briefly . . . very, very briefly—she’d considered putting a bow in it. It was something she’d done only once, during her visit to Lyra Castelis. Iphigenia had shown her how, and she’d rather liked the way it looked, but for some reason she hadn’t been able to bring herself to wear one again since she’d been back in the dungeon. Down here it just didn’t seem right. It was a bit like putting on an evening gown to go get your teeth pulled. Regardless, bow or not, she wanted to look presentable. She didn’t really think that she was about to be offered a promotion, but she figured it couldn’t hurt to look professional anyhow.

  Mingus and her backpack had stayed behind. There was no need for them on such a short jaunt to the castle. So, for now, she traveled by simple torchlight, feeling weirdly exposed without her regular supplies and her constant companion. The only items that she’d brought with her, aside from the torch, were her scrobble—which she always carried on her in a small belt pocket as per the Master’s demands—and a travel-size notebook designed to fit discreetly in another. This particular notebook was sized more for daily lists than proper recording, and there was no particular reason why she needed it right now, but the thought of going anywhere in the dungeon without something in which to take notes was more than Thisby could handle. If she saw an interesting new mushroom or bug along the way and didn’t have the means to quickly sketch it down or describe it, she’d never forgive herself.

  At the gates, Thisby was surprised to find there were no guards on duty. Even though entry into Castle Grimstone had been officially opened to the residents of the dungeon following the Battle of Darkwell, there were always a couple of ghouls or skeletons on duty to monitor the comings and goings into and out from the castle, of which admittedly there were precious few. Despite the proclamation, only a handful of creatures actually dared to enter the castle, wary after a lifetime of threats about even venturing too close. The few intelligent creatures that had braved a trip inside had largely been disappointed by what they’d found. It was hard to live up to the hype that the Master had surrounded himself with over the years.

  Thisby leaned hard into the gate and felt it move enough for her to know that it wasn’t locked. After a hard shove, she managed to open it just wide enough to squeeze through and for the first time found herself grateful that she wasn’t wearing her backpack.

  It was only Thisby’s third time inside the castle. The first had been when she’d shown up to ask the Master to help her stop the Deep Dwellers’ invasion, and the second had been shortly after the dungeon’s victory. On the second visit, the Master had asked her for a list of demands—anything to stop her from turning her momentary command over the denizens of the dungeon into a full-on uprising—and had been shocked to learn that she had very few. The few demands she did have were simple. At least they’d seemed so at the time.

  There were only three demands that Thisby had come up with off the top of her head, although if she’d had time to prepare, she undoubtedly would’ve come up with more. First, she’d insisted that the gates of Castle Grimstone be kept open to any and all monsters of the dungeon (with the implicit exception of the mindless, eat-first-ask-questions-later types). Second, she’d insisted that Grunda take over Roquat’s job as liaison between the dungeon and the Master, effective immediately. And third, she’d insisted on a vacation. She’d wanted to leave the dungeon for the first time and visit Iphigenia. And even though her third demand had felt selfish, it was the one that Thisby relished most of all.

  Her stay in Oryzia with Iphigenia had been the most wonderful experience of her life, and for months after, the memory of it sustained her, even on her worst days. Thisby probably would’ve made a comparison to leftover birthday cake going stale, but she’d never had a proper birthday, much less a birthday cake. She’d tasted some sweets during her time in the capital but found she was more interested in the salty, fried things—especially potatoes.

  Thisby placed her torch into an empty nearby sconce and continued down the corridor. The floor, the walls, the tapestries, everything inside Castle Grimstone was some shade of black. The most popular theory as to why this was the case was that it would trick the eyes of potential intruders and thus allow hidden warriors who were also shrouded in black to get the drop on them, but it was just as likely that the man who ordered the castle’s construction, Elphond the Evil, simply liked the color—or lack thereof.

  The furniture and decorations that adorned the castle were a mishmash of styles that spanned hundreds, if not thousands of years. There was a contemporary chair next to a Gothic end table next to a bejeweled throne paired with a primitive clay footstool. These items had been donated by the various Masters of the Black Mountain who’d occupied the castle at some point in history, and because of this, there was no consistent style to speak of, with the exception of possibly “excessive.”

  If the Masters of the Black Mountain had one thing in common—aside from a proclivity for murder—it was hoarding, and the halls of Castle Grimstone displayed the accumulated trash of generations. There were suits of armor collected from brave adventurers who’d fallen victim to the dungeon, mysterious artifacts, various monster parts, treasures scavenged from tombs, ancient relics, and even some “dragon bones,” which were just as likely to be whale bones sold by a duplicitous merchant. For some, the castle was undoubtedly a treasure trove of untold wonders, but as far as Thisby was concerned, it was a garbage dump of useless bric-a-brac.

  It didn’t take Thisby long to realize that she had no idea where she was going. It was only once, on her second visit to the castle, that she’d actually come in through the door like a proper guest, and that time she’d been escorted to the Master’s chamber. To make matters worse, she’d been so distracted by the castle itself that she hadn’t paid any attention to her path. Now that she was on her own, it seemed as if she could wander through the twisted halls of the castle forever and never find a way out. Maybe she’d end up living out the rest of her days among the curios and ephemera until she was just another piece in the collection herself.

  She’d been standing at a fork in the hallway for some time, arms akimbo and forehead wrinkled in deep co
ntemplation, when she was startled by a small voice behind her.

  “Are you lost?”

  Thisby turned to see a skeleton wearing a simple leather jerkin. The skeleton was about her size, maybe an inch or two taller, and had the voice of a young boy. It took Thisby several moments to put this puzzle together, and when she did, it made her heart heavy.

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “Oh, okay,” said the skeleton. There was a note of sadness in his soft voice.

  “Actually, I don’t know why I said that,” Thisby recovered quickly. “I really am lost. Maybe you can help me out. If you don’t mind.”

  She smiled at the skeleton and although she couldn’t tell, because he didn’t have lips, it felt as if he was smiling back.

  “I need to get to the Master’s chamber.”

  “Oh, then you must be important!”

  “Not really,” admitted Thisby.

  “Well, more important than me, at least! Come on, I’ll show you! I’d hate to keep a guest of the Master waiting!”

  And with that they were off, the skeleton boy keeping a few paces ahead as they went. Thisby couldn’t help but notice that his ankle made a sort of snapping sound with every step. Perhaps it’d been broken at some point.

  “My name’s Jono,” he said politely. “You?”

  “Thisby Thestoop,” said Thisby.

  “Wow! Two names! Fancy!” said Jono.

  Thisby couldn’t tell if this was a joke.

  “You just have the one then?” she asked carefully.

  Jono considered it for a surprisingly long time.

  “Huh! I guess so! I’ve never thought about it,” he admitted cheerfully. “So, what do you do, Thisby?” His mood had quickly improved.

  Thisby looked into a room teeming with stuffed monster heads mounted on plaques and felt her stomach turn. Looming in the center of the room was a creature reared up on its hind legs that looked like a cross between an owl and a bear. Its beak was open to reveal a row of sharp fangs, and its hands were raised up threateningly, claws ready to swipe. She thought it was unlikely that the poor thing had actually died that way. More likely than not, it’d been taking a drink from a lake when it was snuck up on by some lousy hedge wizard and zapped with a paralysis spell. That was just the way it was with wizards. Thisby was reminded of a line she’d heard Grunda use more than once, “A true knight keeps his sword in his scabbard, a true thief keeps his dagger in his sleeve, and a true wizard keeps his knife in your back.”

  “I’m the, uh, gamekeeper here, in the dungeon,” Thisby said, finally managing to avert her gaze from the horrible room.

  “No way!” Jono yelled so excitedly that it snapped Thisby from her daze. “Do you know Ulia?”

  “Sorry, I don’t think so—”

  Jono stopped, frozen in his tracks. It was almost as if he was a clockwork toy whose key had stopped turning. Being a skeleton, when he stood still, he neither blinked nor breathed, and for a moment, it seemed to Thisby as if he was just another piece of lifeless junk that had been gathering dust in the castle for thousands of years. Maybe she’d only imagined that he was alive to begin with . . .

  “Sorry!” he blurted, coming back to life with a jolt. “I don’t know what I was saying . . . I just, I just . . . my memory isn’t exactly there. Not since . . . since . . .”

  He was beginning to fade again.

  “Never mind,” said Thisby. “It’s not important.”

  “Right,” he said.

  Thisby smiled at the skeleton and although she couldn’t tell, because he didn’t have lips, it felt as if he was smiling back.

  Jono dropped Thisby off outside the large set of double doors that led into the Master’s chambers atop the tallest tower in Castle Grimstone. Thisby had nearly gotten winded walking up the steps, and for as good shape as she was in, that was saying something.

  “Here you are, milady!” said Jono.

  Thisby laughed at that. She wasn’t used to being addressed so formally. She did a playful curtsy toward him like she’d seen the ladies do in Lyra Castelis.

  “Farewell, good sir!”

  Jono gave her an awkward, stiff bow and began to trot off.

  “Wait!” she called after him. “If you’re ever in the dungeon, feel free to stop by for a visit!”

  Jono bobbed his head again and politely took his leave.

  Thisby couldn’t help but smile. The skeleton boy had left her in good spirits. That didn’t last long.

  The door cracked open, and from inside she heard a scream.

  Chapter 4

  “What do you mean, my new boss?” screamed Grunda.

  Thisby had opened the door to find the diminutive goblin standing atop an overturned chair and waving a finger in the face of a rather impassive-looking Master. Safely hidden behind his desk, he was joined by a tall, shadowy figure in a floor-length cloak and wide-brimmed hat who stood so still that Thisby almost mistook them for a coatrack.

  “I meant exactly what I said. From now on, instead of reporting to me, you’ll report directly to our new Overseer. As appointed by the King himself . . .”

  “Aw, forget the King!” shouted Grunda. “You think just because you have some bit of parchment you can march in here and start making demands? Since when does the Black Mountain bend to every royal fartin’ whim of His Highness? As far as I’m concerned, the Black Mountain is its own sovereign land! Always has been, always will be!”

  “And as far as I’m concerned,” spoke the shadow, “the Black Mountain falls within the borders of Nth. Correct?”

  The shadow removed her hat to reveal a handsome, though long, face framed by green hair. There was no tenor of anger in her voice, only calm reason. The fuming goblin across the desk from her looked childish in comparison despite being at least several lifetimes older.

  Thisby edged into the room a bit farther, and everyone craned their necks toward her. If Thisby hadn’t been an orphan, she would’ve recognized this moment as being strikingly similar to walking into a room where your parents have been arguing and didn’t hear your approach until it was too late. You could hear a pin drop. Assuming, of course, it was a very large pin and that it landed on the marble floor and not the rugs.

  The tension was broken by the mysterious stranger, who casually waved a welcoming, delicately fingered hand in Thisby’s direction.

  “Thisby, correct? Please come in. Sit down.”

  The tension was broken by the mysterious stranger.

  Thisby crossed the room and righted Grunda’s chair once she stepped down off it. The goblin’s nose was bright red, and Thisby could see the fury in her eyes. Grunda had worked her whole life to have some sort of authority in the dungeon, to have some means by which she could start to improve things, only to have it taken away from her like it was nothing.

  “What’s going on?” Thisby asked the Master, trying to conceal her rising frustration as well.

  Grunda braced herself against the chair, shaking with anger.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on—” Grunda began, but the stranger cut her off.

  “What’s going on is an unfortunate side effect of a necessary change in the day-to-day operation of the dungeon. Please. Sit.” The stranger again motioned toward the chairs and Thisby sat down. After a moment or two, Grunda reluctantly did the same.

  “Let me start over. My name is Marl. I have been appointed by King Parlo Larkspur to oversee the operation of this dungeon and ensure that everything is safe and well maintained. Frankly, I think you’ve already done a splendid job, Thisby Thestoop! I daresay you’ve made my life quite a bit easier!”

  Marl said that last bit with an eager smile that Thisby didn’t return.

  “Pfft! ‘Splendid job,’ my stinking foot!” grumbled the Master, but nobody paid him much attention.

  “I haven’t come here to fire people or to tell anyone how to do their job. I’m only here to serve my King and my country and to do the best that I can with the task I’ve been a
ssigned. The unfortunate side effect of my appointment is that now you will report to me instead of the Master himself. I will in turn report to both the Master and the King himself. It’s very simple, really . . . Thisby reports to Grunda, Grunda reports to me, I report to the Master as well as ensure that the dungeon is operating in accordance with the wishes of His Majesty the—”

  “Everything was working just fine without any help from you or His Majesty!” snapped Grunda.

  “Was it?” asked Marl as if expecting a genuine response, although she didn’t wait for one before continuing. “I’m afraid that’s not exactly true. For one, as far as what the Master has told me, the number of adventurers visiting the dungeon has severely dropped since last year’s debacle. Just how long do you think the dungeon can support itself if that pattern continues, hmm? How long can you keep this place functioning once the gold stops flowing? How long until these beasts of yours run out of food, and when they do, how long would it take for them to turn on each other? Worse yet, how long would it take until they’d break free of the mountain and look to our towns for their next meal?”

  Thisby looked to Grunda helplessly, hoping for some clarification, but the goblin was too distracted, too blinded by her white-hot rage to even notice anyone else was in the room.

  “We take care of our own, thank you very much!” shouted Grunda.

  “Adventurers bring in money. The gold and supplies we get from their remains are what keep this dungeon operational. Whether you like it or not, without adventurers this dungeon would cease to function and become a liability,” said Marl.