by Zac Gorman
The noise was enough to wake up Mingus. He rolled over once and then got right back to where he’d left off. Those nine hours weren’t going to sleep themselves.
Thisby sat down at her desk, feeling dizzy. Her heart soared at the idea of seeing Iphigenia again, but it sank now just as quickly.
“Even if I believed this letter, there’s no way I can go to Three Fingers. There’s so much to do before the Wretched Scrattle.”
“I can keep an eye on things when you’re gone!” said Jono brightly.
“Getting out won’t be easy,” added Thisby.
She was beginning to wonder if she was looking for excuses not to go. If she allowed herself to get her hopes up about seeing Iphigenia and Grunda again, she’d be crushed if the letter turned out to be a fake.
“Nothing worth doing is ever easy,” said Jono.
Thisby took a deep breath and tried to steady her mind. If the dungeon was really in enough trouble for Grunda to send this note, then she had no choice. Fake or not, she had to go to Three Fingers to check it out. She had to be sure.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right watching the dungeon while I’m away?” she asked.
Jono tilted his head and shrugged.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” he said.
Chapter 9
The carriage rumbled and jolted along the dry dirt road, sending clouds of dust into the air, where they lingered in the breezeless afternoon. The result was a sort of spectral trail in the vehicle’s wake, like a long-exposure photograph where the subject had refused to sit still.
Iphigenia leaned out of the open carriage window and breathed in the changing seasons. Winter was on its way out. Any day now, spring would be here, and there was an unmistakable sense of the world getting ready, of nature preparing for the arrival of an honored guest. Somewhere deep below the soil, the cicadas were tuning up their band, while in the forest the fireflies were practicing their dance moves.
“Would you care to go over it again?”
Iphigenia opened her eyes and snapped back to reality. She leaned back into the cab and became instantly aware of how stuffy it was inside, how absolutely suffocating.
Across from her in the pillow-laden carriage was a woman in neat military garb. Everything about her was fastened and buttoned and pulled tighter than could possibly be comfortable. Seeing her sitting among the piles of frilly pillows and the drippy floral embellishments of the carriage created such a stark contrast that it seemed a bit like a cruel joke at her expense.
“I think I know what I’m doing,” said Iphigenia.
“You think?”
The woman tried to raise an eyebrow, but her face was too tight to allow it. It was more of an eyebrow shrug than anything.
“Yes. I think.” After what she’d gone through to get here, Iphigenia wasn’t about to be bossed around by anybody, general or not.
Her father, the King, had not been easy to convince. The last time she’d left the capital had been for the Royal Inspection last year, and after how that turned out, it was a hard sell to convince him to let her travel more than a hundred yards from the castle, let alone halfway back to the Black Mountain. On the surface, his resistance to the idea was based on his claim that Iphigenia wasn’t “adequately prepared for the theater of war,” but how such small skirmishes between a few farmers had suddenly garnered such a grandiose term was fairly suspect. Besides, everybody in the royal court knew that it was necessary for Iphigenia to learn “the trade,” so to speak, in order to prepare for her inevitable ascension to Queen. Her father wasn’t getting any younger, and he’d barely been taking care of himself since Ingo’s death. There was no way to know when the day would come that Iphigenia would ascend to the throne, and to be ill-prepared for it could spell disaster for all of Nth. They eventually reached a compromise—the one that was currently sitting across from Iphigenia.
The general gave her a sour look. If the girl had been one of her soldiers, she’d have known exactly how to handle such blatant disrespect. But Iphigenia wasn’t a soldier. She was the future Queen of Nth.
“I only want to make certain you are prepared.”
“I appreciate your concern, Lillia. But I am prepared.”
The use of the general’s first name was another deliberate slight, an attempt to get her riled up, but she brushed it off. If there was one thing the general was good at, it was self-control. If there was another, it was exacting revenge. She was also skilled with a saber, a born leader, a decent cook, and pretty good at crocheting, but none of those talents were really pertinent to the current situation.
“Very well,” said the general, and she left it at that.
Hours passed in silence. Evening fell. The sky went from pale blue to orange to purple to lavender, and just as it was about to settle into a nice proper veil of black, the carriage crested a hill and Iphigenia got her first look at Garun, a small town just a day’s ride west from the Seam.2
Iphigenia had crossed the Seam farther to the north on her last trip back from the Black Mountain with Thisby, at the brilliant cosmopolitan city of Lode, famous for its fantastic stone-and-steel bridge, intricately paved streets, and fashionable stores. Lode was home to the greatest engineering minds in all the known world, a legacy that began with the construction of the stone-and-steel behemoth, the Bowing Bridge, almost two hundred years ago and continued today with the production of the latest technological marvels that were crafted in service of the King of Nth. Garun, on the other hand, was known for its suet—a sort of hard fat found around kidneys of beef or sheep. It wasn’t even particularly good suet, they just had a lot of it.
General Lillia Lutgard wasn’t about to take the risk of moving the Princess through a city as public as Lode for the sake of a few creature comforts. They were a small convoy, only three carriages in all, and traveling with a company of just seventeen soldiers, including herself. The unit she’d arranged included some of the best soldiers in all of Nth, but even seventeen of the best soldiers could still fall at the hands of a hundred of the worst. It wasn’t a risk the general intended to take.
Their mission was simple: negotiate a peace treaty between some small militias who’d been feuding over land just west of the Seam. It was really just a minor dispute between two noble houses, but after a few skirmishes had broken out, merchants had grown anxious about traveling through the territory, so it was brought to the attention of King Larkspur. As far as Lillia was concerned, local law enforcement should have handled it. Why the King had decided to send the Princess herself and one of his top generals was beyond her understanding. Still, it was never her style to ask questions. That wasn’t how she’d become a top-ranking general in one of the largest standing armies in the world. But she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of resentment for being placed on what was beginning to feel an awful lot like a babysitting mission for a bratty teenager who openly loathed her. She supposed that being a general wasn’t all fun and wars.
They checked into their room. It was in a meager inn that they’d commandeered in its entirety for the sake of safety. The chubby, kindhearted mistress of the inn scrambled around like a madwoman, desperate to impress the royal family with her humble accommodations, while the soldiers laughed and drank and dined on everything her flustered husband could throw together on such short notice.
When at last Lillia had managed to calm her troops and send them staggering off to bed, she finished her meal alone and then headed up to her room. The mistress’s husband was already snoring loudly on the bar, passed out from pure exhaustion and whatever drinks the soldiers had insisted he share with them “for the health of the crown,” so she tried not to wake him as she slid an extra couple of gold coins beneath his arm. When she reached her room, she drew the key from her pocket and opened the door as quietly as she could, being careful not to wake the sleeping Princess. In a certain way, she was successful. The Princess definitely didn’t wake up. The Princess definitely didn’t wake up, however, becaus
e the Princess definitely wasn’t there.
Thisby had been crouching for so long that both her knees ached. She first stretched one, then the other, out in front of her, grumbling as she did. There was no way to stand up straight or do both at once without banging her head on the rocks.
From a tiny, Thisby-size nook in the cave wall, she watched a procession of wagons enter the Black Mountain as they did every night. There was the familiar crackle of the blackdoor portal opening, followed by the sudden whoosh of fresh air being sucked into the cavern from outside. The guards would enter first, poking and prodding back the unruly adventurers who’d crowded near the portal in an attempt to get a look inside, and then came the wagons, rolling in slowly in a neat line. Thisby had been watching deliveries like these for days now, taking notes on when they arrived, how many guards were escorting them, and what sort of cargo they were carrying. From her notes, she knew the number of carts arriving daily was quickly diminishing, which made sense since the Wretched Scrattle would begin only a week from tomorrow.
Other than the slight variance in the amount of supplies the wagons were hauling in, it was the exact same routine she’d observed the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that. Only Thisby knew tonight was different. Tonight was the night she’d be leaving with them.
She wasn’t stupid. She still suspected that the letter was some sort of trick, but none of the obvious leads had gone anywhere. Even though there was no reason to suspect that the Eyes in the Dark was involved, she knew that she could never be too sure, so she’d double-checked with Catface to make sure that nothing had passed through the Darkwell since they last spoke. Thankfully, that was a dead end. Thisby’s more likely suspicion was that the letter could be some plot by Marl to get rid of her, but the timing didn’t make any sense. If Marl wanted Thisby out of the picture, she’d most likely wait until the Wretched Scrattle was over and the after-the-games cleanup had been completed. Thisby’s authority might’ve been diminished under Marl’s rule as Overseer, but the gamekeeper would be a necessary tool in restoring order to the dungeon once the dust settled. Even someone as hardheaded as Marl had to know that. Getting rid of Thisby now would’ve made little sense. Not being able to come up with another reasonable explanation, Thisby started to entertain the possibility that Grunda might have sent the letter after all. Or maybe that was just what Thisby wanted to believe. Even a clever fish will take the bait if it’s hungry enough.
Thisby felt sick at the thought of abandoning the dungeon when it needed her the most, but she knew that she had no choice. Not really. The well-being of the dungeon was heading in the wrong direction. She could feel it with every ounce of her being. If there was a chance to change its course, to save the only home she’d ever known, she had to take it.
Truth was, the dungeon had changed more in the last month than it had over the course of Thisby’s entire life up to that point. In preparation for the Wretched Scrattle, monsters had been moved around the dungeon, new ones were introduced, new tunnels were dug, old passages were closed, there were more traps than she cared for—traps had never been Thisby’s favorite feature of the dungeon, as they tended to injure the monsters more frequently than they punished careless adventurers—and the atmosphere had, in general, shifted away from the unity that followed in the wake of the Battle of Darkwell last year. The brief period of harmony had been replaced by a sort of seething anger, even among the monsters who normally had no quarrel with each other. In almost no time at all, the dungeon had shifted from feeling like the home Thisby wished it could be to feeling like the prison that everyone in the outside world already saw it as, and day by day the inmates were growing increasingly restless.
As the wagons were unloaded, Thisby began her descent down the cliff toward the wagons. Mingus swayed in his jar, looking nervous but staying absolutely silent. The wagon guards were new to the dungeon, hired on by Marl. They’d have no problem attacking Thisby, gamekeeper or not, if they caught her sneaking around. They had their orders. Thankfully, they also had their hands full at the moment. While they were unloading the wagons, an enormous birdcage full of howling disembodied heads had tipped over and broken open. The heads flew around the chamber, screaming obscenities and belching acid. The guards ran for cover, and Thisby used the distraction to slip beneath the canvas cover of a nearby wagon and lie down, as still as a corpse. After an hour or so, the last head was stuffed back into the cage, and with a jolt, the wagons began to move.
The wagons left the Black Mountain the way they came, back through a crackling blackdoor and out into the night. Even from her hiding spot buried beneath a cover of thick canvas, upon leaving the mountain it felt as if she’d emerged from somewhere deep underwater. The noise and motion of the world around her burst into being. Her old life vanished in an instant. A distant memory. The comfort of her home was ripped away and replaced by the cacophony of the crowded campsite.
Thisby risked a peek out from under the canvas as the wagon bounced its way down the long, dusty road through the camps. She’d seen them from above, but it was another thing entirely to be down there adrift in the sea of people. The endless rows of campfires and tents, of people young and old laughing, talking, eating. It was the most people she’d ever seen in one space, and she was suddenly aware that for all the time she’d spent around monsters, she’d spent precious little around actual human beings.
Last year, her visit to Lyra Castelis was the first time she’d spent a significant amount of time around people, but everyone in the castle seemed so alien to her, with all their makeup and perfume and strange manners. Down in the camps, however, the people were dirty and loud and wild. They were laughing and wrestling and bragging about their adventures. There was something enthralling about it, a certain wild energy that had been lacking from the noblemen and ladies in the capital. They reminded her a bit more of the monsters in the dungeon, only somehow she felt they were far more threatening. Thisby tried her best to regulate her breathing.
“HEY! What do you think you’re doing?”
A guard’s hand shot out mere inches from Thisby’s face and yanked away a young boy who’d wandered too close to the wagon, presumably trying to get a peek underneath the canvas. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise when he caught sight of Thisby below the canvas, but he had no time to speak before the guard dragged him away by his shirt collar. The guard tossed the boy down into the grass as his father came over to check on him. Thisby slowly inched back from the gap between the canvas and sideboard and held her breath in the gloom.
“Hold,” she heard the guard bellow.
The wagon stopped with a jerk. Thisby had to brace herself against an empty barrel to keep from rolling forward. Outside, she could hear the guard muttering to himself. He paced up and down the side of the wagon, just inches away. He was close enough that Thisby could smell his body odor and hear his nasally breathing. Her heart thudded in her chest as he rapped his fist against the side of the wagon. Then silence.
“Stupid kid,” the guard muttered before shouting, “CARRY ON!”
The wagon jolted back to life, and Thisby finally exhaled.
She didn’t dare peek out from beneath the canvas for the rest of the journey. It was only her second time outside the Black Mountain, and though she longed to see the stars, the swaying grass, and the rolling foothills, there was something more important waiting for her down the road.
Snappity-clack! Snappity-clack! Snappity-clack!
Jono’s ankle bones popped and snapped as he sped through the darkened corridor.
The skeleton boy liked to run whenever possible. It was one of his greatest joys in life. He loved the feeling of the breeze on his bare bones as he darted through the dungeon passages, the sensation of his boots slapping the floor, the sense of freedom and exhilaration that it gave him . . . of course, it helped that he never felt tired, which, in his estimation, was the second best thing about being a skeleton. This first, of course, was the ability to ma
ke bone-related puns like, “I have a bone to pick with you,” or, “See you to-marrow,” but the opportunity to use them came up far less often than Jono would have liked.
Right now, however, the temporary gamekeeper wasn’t particularly enjoying this run. It was hard to enjoy the running when he was running for his life.
Jono rounded the corner. Behind him, the gnolls barked and scrabbled at the marble floor of the corridor, running as hard as they could but struggling to find purchase on the slick surface. Thankfully, the tread of his boots—one of the few articles of clothing Jono would never head into the dungeon without—held fast against the wet floor. The end of the passage was only a hundred yards ahead of him now, his only way out. If he could make it to that door before the gnolls caught up, he’d be home free—gnolls didn’t venture beyond that tunnel, not even in pursuit of a boy made entirely of the doglike creatures’ favorite treat—bones.
It’d all started when Jono made the mistake of directly looking eye to eye at the gnolls—which, frankly, he thought was a bit of a stretch, because technically speaking, he didn’t even have eyes—and now he was paying for his error. It was one of many mistakes he’d made over the last few days, but it was the one he was currently regretting the most.
Jono looked back and saw the four gnolls turn the corner. They were gaining on him. It was only about fifty yards to the end of the passage now. If he could only . . .
Whump!
He never saw the rock. There was just a sudden feeling of his toe striking something hard, followed by the sensation of falling, and then he was lying flat on his stomach. The gnolls were closing in.
Jono sighed. How disappointing.
He wasn’t particularly worried about death. He’d been there and done that. He was mostly just upset about letting Thisby down. It was only his second day filling in for her as gamekeeper, and he’d already failed. She’d trusted him, and this was how he was going to repay her? By dying? At least he was going to see Ulia again. Wait, who? The name had come back to him for just an instant and then it was gone again, vanished in a flash of orange light that came streaking from the heavens.
