by Zac Gorman
“Catface?” she called out when he’d at last traveled beyond the edge of Mingus’s light.
There was a pause, and then two round eyes appeared like moons floating in a starless night from the darkness beyond. He stared at her, unblinking.
“Yes?”
“Be careful,” said Thisby.
Catface laughed.
“There’s nothing in the Black Mountain I fear. Not within it, not below it,” he purred from the dark.
“And outside it?”
The eyes floated in space, considering.
“We’ll see.”
And with that the eyes were gone as quickly as they’d appeared.
Iphigenia slept peacefully in her overlarge, fluffy bed until the exact moment she didn’t. She’d awoken to the sound of somebody clearing their throat to find a haggard old goblin sitting on her footboard, holding two silver daggers, glinting dangerously in the moonlight.
She screamed.
“I’m sorry,” said Grunda, setting down her knitting needles. “I didn’t want to be rude, I just couldn’t wait any longer. I thought you’d never wake up!”
“G-Grunda? W-w-what are you doing here?” Iphigenia asked, waiting for her pulse to return to normal before she dared move. The moment she could, the first thing she did was gather up her sheets around her.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“R-really?”
“No, of course not.”
The goblin stuffed the scarf she’d been knitting—and her needles—into a little leather bag she’d left sitting on the bed.
“Thisby’s in danger. The Black Mountain, too. We need your help.”
“What can I do?”
“You just need to trust me. There are things at play here, powerful things. Things more important than what king or queen you bow down to, no offense. The Overseer your father appointed is upsetting the balance of the Black Mountain. There’s only one way to set it right. It all comes down to the Wretched Scrattle.”
“The what?” Iphigenia wrinkled her nose at the words.
“The Overseer—Marl, as you know her—is planning a tournament in the Black Mountain. I just heard about it this morning from a contact inside the dungeon. The prize is that the first person to reach the top of Grimstone Castle will be named as the new Master of the Black Mountain.”
Iphigenia was stunned. A new untested Master would mean chaos not only within the dungeon but everywhere. The complications of having some Three Fingers townie take over control of one of the most dangerous places in all of Nth was a terrifying prospect for the entire kingdom.
“And the Master is okay with this?” asked Iphigenia.
“Of course not, but he’s too stupid and helpless to do anything about it. The important thing now is that we don’t let the mountain fall into the wrong hands.”
“Whose hands are the right ones then?” asked Iphigenia.
She had a sneaking suspicion the goblin meant herself, but Grunda shook her head, seeing the gears turning in the Princess’s head.
“No. Not me. You think your daddy wouldn’t storm the gates in an instant if a monster was placed in charge of the Black Mountain? Use your head,” she grumbled.
“Then Thisby,” said Iphigenia.
Grunda smiled, showing a row of jagged yellow teeth.
“Now you’re thinking,” said the goblin.
“She’d never do it,” said Iphigenia.
If she knew her friend as well as she thought she did, she was sure there was no way Thisby would ever go along with this plan.
“She’ll do what needs to be done if there’s no other choice. Thisby cares about the dungeon. She cares about the people who live there. Just like she cares about you,” said Grunda.
“But what can I do?” asked Iphigenia again.
“I was just getting to that. It’s really very easy. All you need to do is sign this piece of paper.”
Grunda reached into what Iphigenia hoped was a hidden pocket inside her robes and not her underwear and produced a folded-up square of paper.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Oh,” said Iphigenia.
She had to admit that part of her was a bit disappointed. As a princess, she spent all day signing royal decrees. She didn’t necessarily want to ride a steed into battle, but signing a piece of paper was fairly underwhelming as far as late-night calls to adventure go.
“Okay, let’s see it then,” she said as she lit the candle on her bedside table and began hunting for a pen and inkpot.
Grunda just blinked at her, her eyes adjusting to the light.
“Oh, you can’t sign it here,” said Grunda.
Iphigenia felt her pulse start to quicken again. And just as she’d finally gotten it settled, too. Only this time it was speeding up in the good way. The way that felt like it was pulling her toward something.
“Oh?” asked Iphigenia.
“The forms are magically protected. Both parties must be present at the signing. A member of the royal family or a duly appointed official has to be one of them. It’s to protect against forgeries. You can never be too safe with the world as it is. You’ll have to sign it in person.”
“And where would that be?” said Iphigenia, unable to contain her smile. Her heart was practically dancing in her chest.
“Take a guess,” said Grunda.
It would be hours before Iphigenia’s pulse would settle back to its normal rhythm.
By the time Thisby finished her ascent up the three hundred and four ladder rungs that led back up to her bedroom, she felt as if her legs might give out. She’d spent the entire day searching for something, anything, that might give some clue about the mystery monster, but had come up empty-handed. An ice wraith had seen something big lurking around the outskirts of its den, but it was probably just a yeti trying to cool off without being seen.
Near Giant’s Crossing—the spot where dozens of thin stone bridges met above a rather significant chasm—Thisby found some strange scratch marks that looked similar to the ones left in the rock golem’s torso, but they were too faint to be certain. They could just as easily have been left there years ago by a pterodactyl who’d stopped by on his way to go fishing in the river. It was the only other lead she’d found all day.
Thisby held out her hand and ran her fingers along the wall as she walked back to her bedroom. She wasn’t entirely sure why she did it, but something about the sensation of the cool stone bumping against her fingertips relaxed her, even if it felt a bit childish. If anyone aside from Mingus had seen her doing it, she would’ve stopped. She was almost thirteen now, which might not seem like much to the outside world, but in dungeon years it meant she was definitely too old for such childish behavior.
Thisby had never had a proper childhood. She wasn’t sure she’d missed anything—how could she be—but there was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she wasn’t exactly an adult, not like the rest of the “adults” she knew. Grunda was an adult. The Master was an adult. Thisby was something else. Not quite a child but not exactly like them, either. Ultimately, all she knew was that she preferred to be treated like an adult, so she presented herself as one. And when little reminders of her true age—for example, running her fingertips along the wall—popped up like gophers through the holes of her confident and capable facade, she was typically waiting there, mallet in hand, ready to smash them right back down to where they belonged. For the moment, she let herself have this one minor indulgence. She needed it.
Catface had been her last hope of a shortcut to finding the monster, and now she was on her own again. Not much went on in the dungeon without Catface knowing, so the fact that he hadn’t even caught wind of this new killer monster was troubling. If the introduction of this creature had been the work of the Overseer, which Thisby was beginning to suspect it was as she had no other leads, then Marl must have smuggled it into the dungeon herself without anybody knowing. Perhaps not even the Master.
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If Grunda were here, she’d know what to do. Thisby was sure of it. She tried to force the thought from her mind. It was, at best, an unhelpful thought, and at worst, it stirred up some resentment that she’d been trying her best to ignore. Her mentor had abandoned her and the entire dungeon in their time of need. She’d sensed danger and simply fled. Just like that. For as long as she’d known her, Thisby had considered Grunda a close friend, a guardian, even at times almost a mother of sorts . . . Thisby shook that thought from her head the moment it appeared. The word mother itself had sat for years like a loaded bear trap in the back of her mind, and she did everything she could to tiptoe around it.
As far as the monster went, maybe there was something obvious she’d been overlooking, a clue in one of her old notebooks, or an entry in one of the few incomplete bestiaries she’d managed to get her hands on over the years. Once back to her room, she figured she might be able to sneak in an hour or two of research before completely collapsing from exhaustion. It was an optimistic estimate.
Trying to track down the monster on top of all her other duties was taking its toll. The good news was that she’d been able to assign her new workforce to do some extra chores while she was off playing monster hunter; the bad news was that far too often their inability to complete these chores demanded her immediate attention, more so than if she’d just done them herself. Every morning there were fires to put out, and quite often that was literal, as ghouls with missing fingers—most of them were missing at least a few digits—were rather prone to dropping torches.
Thisby opened the door, and the familiar smell of her bedroom wrapped around her like an old blanket. She unshouldered her heavy backpack and placed Mingus into his spot on her desk. He’d fallen asleep on their walk back, and she was careful not to wake him now. She ran her index finger across the shelves containing volumes of her carefully handwritten notebooks and pulled one out seemingly at random. She took the book with her into bed, where she lay down to read.
She flipped open the dusty cover, which had been stained with ink, and turned to a random page. At the top of the page was DAY #3147 in her familiar, sloppy handwriting. There were lists of crossed-off chores, reminders, a drawing of Mingus she’d made while he was sleeping, and an illustration of some fresh herbs she’d gotten from Shabul, who it seemed that she’d only met fairly recently, based on her description of their encounter. The last thing on the page was a note that the spectral goat seemed partial to mint.
She turned the page.
Then another.
DAY #3148 was nearly indistinguishable from DAY #3149, which was, in turn, nearly indistinguishable from DAY #3150 and DAY #3151. Thisby flipped several more pages and yawned so loudly that Mingus turned over in his jar, momentarily glared at her, and then immediately fell back asleep.
Thisby stared at her notebook, not so much reading the words as looking through them, until they all began to morph into a single grayish blur, and she could no longer fight to keep her eyes open.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!
Thisby awoke to the sound of Jono’s bony hand rapping on her door.
“Hunh?” said Thisby, lifting her head and taking a page of her notebook with her. She peeled the page off her cheek and wiped the drool from her mouth.
“I said, ‘Come in!’” Thisby lied.
Her door was flung open before she could even finish speaking, and a harried-looking Jono came tumbling into her bedroom. She knew that it was impossible for something that didn’t breathe to be out of breath, but she swore she could see his chest heaving up and down. Maybe it was just an old habit.
Thisby sat up, wrapping herself in her quilt.
“Th-th-th-th . . . ,” he stammered.
“Thisby, yes. What’s going on?”
“Come! Come with me!” he said, reaching for a free hand that was poking out from beneath her quilt.
Thisby yanked her hand free of his cold, bony one.
“I’m not even dressed yet!” she said.
“Well, hurry!”
She could hear Jono’s impatient foot tapping outside her bedroom door as she scrambled to get dressed, grabbed Mingus and her backpack, and rushed out to meet him in the hall. He stood leaning against the wall opposite her door and actually jumped up when he saw her. He looked practically frantic. It was amazing how many looks Jono could convey without a proper face.
“Thank you for your patience,” said Thisby with a bit of sarcasm that was completely lost on the skeleton boy.
Jono nodded and waved for her to follow.
Thisby chased after Jono as they raced down the hallway outside her bedroom and toward Castle Grimstone. As they ran, Jono’s left ankle bones snapped and clacked loudly, the way they always did. Thisby had nearly been driven crazy by the sound on their first day together down in the dungeon. Over time, though, as the noise became more familiar to her, it began serving as a sort of foretelling of his coming, sort of like the jingling collar of a friendly dog, and in doing so, it transitioned from annoying to endearing. “Here comes Ol’ Snappity Clackers!” she’d jokingly say to Mingus when they heard him approaching from a distance.
Jono snapped and clacked across the bridge and took a sharp right. The left at the junction held the ladder leading down into the dungeon, while the right path ended in the far shorter ladder that led up into the corridor that terminated at the castle gates. There were two ghouls on guard duty today, who recognized Thisby instantly.
“Hiya, kid. Goin’ up to see the excitement?” grunted the bigger one.
“What’s going on, Pox?” Thisby asked.
The large ghoul scratched his beard and grinned.
“You don’t know? Really?”
“It’s the Wretched Scrattle,” wheezed Larson.
Larson was much smaller than Pox, bald, and his skin was far rottener. He also had a rather large horn jutting out of his forehead, which was not a common feature among ghouls. He was quite proud of it.
“The what?” asked Mingus.
“It’s what I was trying to show you!” shouted Jono.
“Why is he shouting?” asked Larson, pointing his thumb toward the skeleton.
Jono paced back and forth impatiently.
“What’s the Wretched Scrattle?” asked Thisby.
“Wow! I can’t believe they didn’t tell you,” said Pox. “People are coming from all over Nth. I mean from everywhere. North. South. East . . .”
“West! Yes, we get the picture,” said Jono.
“Can we get through?” asked Thisby. “We don’t have any passage tokens. There’s a shortage of them right now, and I just used my last one to get into the castle library a few days ago. I’m sorry. I hate to ask you to do this, but can you help me out?”
Pox stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“I’m sorry, Thisby. Master would . . . you know.”
She didn’t know but she had some idea. At least, she had an idea of what Pox thought might happen. It was why she hated asking in the first place. For the monsters who worked closest to the castle, the fear of retribution for disobeying orders was scarred too deeply in their minds to ever really fade away completely. Even though Roquat was dead, his legacy of fear lived on. How much of it had been the Master and how much of it had been Roquat? It didn’t matter. Most monsters in the dungeon weren’t about to go out of their way to find out. When you’ve spent your whole life being afraid of something, it’s not as easy as just flipping a switch to turn it off.
“I understand,” said Thisby.
As she went to turn away, Pox coughed, and she turned around.
“I don’t know about you,” Pox barked to Larson. “But I think we could use a quick break!”
Pox gave an exaggerated wink to Larson, who seemed a bit confused.
“What? We just took our break!”
Pox winked harder.
“But maybe we should take another! Why don’t we just go over there for a minute?”
Pox wasn’t a
very good actor, and Larson was an even worse audience, yet despite his performance going completely over Larson’s head, the smaller ghoul was intrigued enough by the idea of another break that after a moment or two of consideration, he shrugged and followed the bigger ghoul down the hall. He might not have understood what was happening, but he wasn’t about to pass up a chance to sit down. As Pox passed Thisby and the others, he gave a little nod.
“Thanks,” said Thisby under her breath.
Once the ghouls were out of sight enough to ensure that she wouldn’t get them into trouble on the off chance somebody was actually watching—you could never be too careful in the dungeon—Thisby pushed open the heavy oak doors to Castle Grimstone and the three of them ducked inside.
Chapter 8
The castle was dark and quiet, only not in a nice way. Even people who like things dark and quiet would probably suggest, if they’d walked into Castle Grimstone at this moment, maybe lighting a candle and playing some music.
Given what Pox and Larson had said about the commotion, Thisby was surprised to find the castle so empty and undisturbed. She listened for the sound of footsteps, but all she could hear was the faint buzzing of flies struggling to flap their wings in the thick, dusty air.
They walked together briskly through the black halls of the castle, Jono leading the way. As they moved closer to the courtyard, the buzzing of the flies grew louder until she could hear the sound for what it really was, not flies at all, but voices, which were steadily growing louder. When they finally emerged out into the fresh air of the breezeway, Thisby realized why the castle had been so quiet. Everybody in Castle Grimstone was here.
The breezeway was packed full of ghouls and skeletons who worked in the castle. Thisby scanned the crowd for signs of the Master or Overseer Marl but couldn’t find them. It seemed unlikely that they’d be down here milling about with the common folk, but it didn’t hurt to look. She and Jono squeezed through the crowd. Jono flung “excuse me’s” and “pardon me’s” every which way, while Thisby tried not to bump anybody with her backpack, until they managed to reach the front end of the courtyard, which had an overhang where you could look clear down to the bottom of the Black Mountain. Here the crowd was thickest—and with good reason . . . the real show was happening down below.
