by Zac Gorman
The gnolls jumped back as another flaming arrow struck the ground. They squealed and split from their formation, ducking and running for cover as yet more flaming arrows twanged from somewhere on high. The gnolls scattered and ran back the way they’d come. Crunching bones and slurping marrow was great and all, but taking a flaming arrow in the neck was too steep a cost. As fast as the snarling gnolls had arrived, they were gone, shouting curses that faded into the darkness back down the corridor.
“Hello?” said Jono.
A young man emerged from the shadows, lowering his bow.
“Are you okay?” asked the young man, adjusting his glasses.
Jono nodded.
The young man’s outfit was torn and ragged, patched with cave moss and odd scraps of hide.
“Thank you,” said Jono, standing up.
The young man was tall, a bit gangly even, and had the look of a confused puppy dog, which clashed a bit with what he’d just done, bravely chasing off a pack of savage gnolls.
“I’m Gregory,” the young man offered before Jono had the courtesy to ask.
“Jono. I’m the gamekeeper.”
Gregory’s face dropped.
“Oh, no! What happened to Thisby?”
“Don’t worry! It’s just temporary. I’m filling in for her while she’s off competing in the Wretched Scrattle.”
“The what?”
“The Wretched Scrattle,” said Jono, picking up some things he’d dropped when he fell. “Big tournament to determine the new Master of the Black Mountain? The reason there are hundreds, maybe thousands of people gathered outside?”
Gregory stared blankly. The expression seemed well rehearsed.
“I figured that’s why you were here,” Jono continued. “Thought maybe you’d snuck in early to get a jump on the competition. Since you saved my life, I suppose I could let you go without reporting you to my superiors.”
Jono hoped Gregory could read the playful tone of his voice but rightly suspected that picking up on subtle clues wasn’t really Gregory’s forte.
“Oh. Don’t worry. I don’t care about any Wrench and Scratchle. I can’t think of anything I’d like less than to be Master of this place. Some treasure might be nice, though . . . See, I’ve got this girl back home, Becca . . . well, she’s not really my girl, but . . .”
Jono tried to wrinkle his forehead to visually prepare Gregory for the bad news he had coming, but without a forehead, the task proved quite difficult.
“I’m sorry, but all the passages into and out of the Black Mountain are sealed until the end of the tournament. Well, except the blackdoor gate at the foot of the mountain. They’re sealed to prevent cheating, you see. The tournament is sort of like a race from the bottom of the mountain to the top, so if people could just get in anywhere—”
“Darn it!” said Gregory. “Ain’t that just the way!” He slung his bow over his shoulder and sighed. “At this rate, I’ll never get home.”
Jono studied Gregory’s outfit and began to piece something together.
“Um, if you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been down here?” he asked slowly as if he was afraid he might frighten the answer away.
Gregory began counting on his fingers, silently mouthing the numbers as he went. It went on for an uncomfortably long time.
“Forty . . . four? Yep! Forty-four weeks.”
“Forty-four weeks?” screeched Jono.
“Yep. Give or take a day.”
“B-but how? How have you survived this long?”
“The way I see it, the trick is to be afraid of everything. See, most people wanna fight, but not me. I don’t fight, I run. And when I can’t run, I hide. And when I can’t hide, well, that’s when I fight. But even then, it’s really just to buy myself some time before I can run again.”
“I suppose that’s pretty sound logic.”
“Oh! And I have this,” said Gregory, pulling out a tattered, thin notebook that had been tucked into his belt. Jono recognized it at once.
“Thisby made this,” he said.
“Yeah. It was a gift. She’s a good friend,” said Gregory. “It contains a lot of basic stuff that’s helped me stay alive. It’s called Thisby’s Dungeon Survival Guide. I call it TDSG for short. Don’t think I could’ve made it more than a couple weeks without it.”
Jono flipped through the notebook and realized that Thisby had left something similar for him. He handed it back to Gregory, who immediately tucked it away for safekeeping.
“Well, it looks like you’re going to be stuck in here a few more weeks,” said Jono. “But at least you seem to have the hang of it.”
Gregory shrugged.
“I’m getting there,” he said. “But you never know what’s waiting around the next corner, right? Okay, well, it was nice meeting you! I’d better be going!” And with that Gregory waved goodbye and began to stroll down the corridor toward where the gnolls had retreated.
“Wait!” called Jono.
Gregory stopped and turned around.
“I don’t suppose . . . you’d like some company?” asked Jono.
Chapter 10
The Drowned Frog was the worst inn in all of Nth. This was not a matter of opinion but a simple statement of fact, like saying rain was wet or politicians cannot be trusted. It was also a fact that made its proprietor, Duggan McGuff, quite proud indeed.
For seven generations, the Drowned Frog had been handed down through the McGuff family from father to son like some sort of horrible genetic disease. With every passing of the torch, the elder McGuff had gone out of his way to make sure that the inn was in worse shape than when he’d inherited it—a tradition the McGuff family believed would “toughen up” their offspring to face the realities of a harsh and unforgiving world. By the time Duggan McGuff inherited the Drowned Frog from his father, it was essentially just a stinking hole in the ground surrounded by four crumbling walls, and in the past twenty years, he’d done as little as possible to improve it. After all, he had a son to think about.
Over the course of his tenure as proprietor of the Drowned Frog, Duggan McGuff had served almost every kind of customer the small village of Three Fingers had to offer: bandits, thieves, scallywags, scoundrels—he’d even served a rapscallion or two, but never any princesses. At least, not until that night.
“Here ya go, girlie,” he growled as he slammed a pitcher full of yellow liquid in front of the second most powerful person in all of Nth.
Iphigenia studied the liquid sloshing in the filthy glass. It looked like it was supposed to be a beverage of some sort, but it was far too viscous, more like syrup.
“Water’s fine, please,” she said, practically already tasting the drink by smell alone.
“That is water.”
“That can’t be right,” said Iphigenia.
Duggan scratched his many chins and considered offering up the water from the trough out back, where the pigs drank, but he didn’t think the girl in front of him would be interested in that, either. She probably wanted that fancy clear stuff.
“You must be from the city,” he said.
“Yes. That must be it,” said Iphigenia, pushing the glass away as politely as she could manage. She looked around.
All of Three Fingers had been overrun by adventurers on their way to the Wretched Scrattle, and the Drowned Frog was no different. The usual clientele, which consisted of a few town drunks and a goat who’d once wandered in by accident and had since become a permanent fixture of the bar, had been supplemented by countless adventurers and bards from all walks of life. There was even a table of warlocks in the corner comparing spell books. It was for this reason that Iphigenia, despite the fact that on a usual night she might stick out like, well, like a princess in the Drowned Frog, tonight she was barely paid any mind. She was grateful for that. She’d left behind the safety of Lillia and the caravan to follow Grunda’s plan, and now she was out in the world and completely alone . . . for the first time in her life.
&
nbsp; Princesses weren’t people insofar as the court of Nth was concerned. They, like all royals, were a commodity. Plain and simple. And it was in everybody’s best interest to protect that commodity. If something happened to the next in line for the throne, the bloodline would be broken and everybody in power would be out of a job, so to speak. This was why when King Parlo Larkspur accidentally sent his son Ingo to his death in the Black Mountain last year, the court doubled down on its protection of Iphigenia. They barely let her use the bathroom by herself for the first couple of months. It wasn’t until recently that they’d let up, and she suspected that it was very likely that they’d only done so because they were sick of her.
Even Iphigenia had to admit that was fair. Lately, she’d been a chore to be around, and furthermore, they definitely shouldn’t have trusted her. The moment Lillia’s back was turned, she betrayed her father’s trust and ran away, hitching rides with traveling merchants from Garun to Three Fingers and recklessly endangering their entire bloodline. Without Ingo, she was the only one left. The last Larkspur. If she should perish, the fate of Nth itself would be in jeopardy.
This was one of the reasons that Iphigenia did not care for the way that the one-eyed man at the end of the bar was staring at her. She ducked away from the counter, trying to seem nonchalant about it, and began looking for another place to sit in the crowded room. She left behind her drink, which was beginning to attract flies.
“Aye! O’er here!” called a handsome boy. He waved to her with a hand still clutching a decorative silver butter knife and smiled.
The boy looked to be about her age and was far cleaner than any patron at the Drowned Frog had a right to be. At first glance, it seemed as if he was dining alone, but Iphigenia realized that the large man next to him in full plate armor was his bodyguard. The boy and his guard made no eye contact and pretended not to know each other. It was a game Iphigenia knew all too well. This boy was a noble.
“You can dine with me!” the boy said happily.
He motioned for her to sit down, and a second bodyguard who Iphigenia hadn’t even noticed pulled out her chair for her. He’d done a much better job than the first guard with blending into the crowd. Iphigenia sat.
“Here, here. I insist, have some. You look hungry,” he said, pushing a small plate over to her. “Don’t worry, the food’s not from”—he paused and drew a lazy circle in the air with his finger—“here. I brought it from home.”
Iphigenia smiled politely back at him.
“Thank you,” she said.
The bodyguard who’d pulled out her chair handed her silverware, and she thanked him as well. The boy sitting across from her studied her face for what felt like too long, and Iphigenia was suddenly aware of her mistake. She’d been so foolish.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked coyly.
Iphigenia might’ve been able to blend in with the rabble around Three Fingers, but nobles were typically taught to recognize the faces of those who served in the court of Nth. It was a matter of self-preservation and manners. The last thing you wanted to do was mistake a duke for a baron or some other unforgivable error.
“I don’t believe we’ve ever met,” said Iphigenia truthfully.
“Right,” he said.
Iphigenia scanned his face to see if the glimmer of recognition had faded, but it was hard to tell. She supposed that the total absurdity of running into the Crown Princess of Nth in this dingy place acted as a sort of camouflage in its own way. Thankfully, regardless of what he suspected, he seemed to have lost interest in that line of questioning.
The boy pulled the napkin from his collar and handed it to the larger of his two guards, who immediately cleared his plate as well.
“Allow me to introduce myself . . . Vaswell Gandy, of the Flatbottom Gandys. But you can call me Vas.”
“Okay, Vas.”
There was a long pause.
“And you are?”
Iphigenia froze. “Thisby. Thisby, uh, Catface.”
“Thisby . . . Catface?”
“Yes, of the, uh, Crampton Catfaces.”
“The Crampton Catfaces?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say? It’s very annoying!” snapped Iphigenia.
“Oh! It’s just an unusual name! I didn’t mean . . .”
“No! I’m sure you didn’t!” said Iphigenia in a huff.
“I’m sorry . . . Thisby.” He lingered on her name a little more than she would have liked before continuing, “Are you entering the tournament? I’ve assembled a small team if you’d care to join us. Truthfully, I’m just in it for the sport. I’d be happy to cover your twenty-five gold entry fee.”
“For the sport?”
Vas tipped his glass and idly rolled it around on its base, allowing himself to be momentarily hypnotized by the slow, swirling water. Iphigenia couldn’t help but notice the noble boy’s water was the proper color—which is, of course, none—unlike what the man at the bar had attempted to serve her.
“Well, that and to get away from my family, I suppose,” he laughed. “We have a good team, I promise! Even if we don’t make it to the top, with a team that good we’re sure to come out with at least a few hundred gold apiece. It’s sort of a no-lose scenario.”
“Unless we die,” said Iphigenia.
Vas let his water glass drop back to the table with a bang that drew the attention of the two bodyguards flanking the boy. They were trying their best to appear inconspicuous and sober, which was a tricky combination considering how large they were and how much they’d had to drink. For all their size, Iphigenia didn’t think they looked much like skilled warriors. She’d seen the best soldiers in all of Nth firsthand, and she’d learned to pick up on the little details: the way they carried themselves, the sharpness of their gaze. These two looked like your average local toughs. Good in a scrap, enough to keep you safe in a seedy inn, but not exactly elite.
“Oh, don’t worry! It’s not them!” Vas laughed, discerning her gaze. “My real team gets here tomorrow. Trust me, they’re very good. My father hired them special for the occasion. He wants to make sure I don’t get myself killed. After all, if I died, who’d tend to the mines?”
Iphigenia supposed that he’d dropped that last bit to impress her. It was a challenge, to say the least, to impress the future Queen of Nth with boasts of your fabulous wealth. She was nine years old before she’d learned that not all toilets were made of solid gold. There was something else he’d said, however, that had piqued her interest.
“And what if you win?” she asked.
“If I win?” He laughed.
“Right. What happens if you win?”
Vas took a bite of a roll so he could quite literally chew over the question.
“If I was in charge of the Black Mountain? Honestly? I’m not sure. My father has suggested blasting a hole straight through it and building a proper gateway to Umberfall. I suppose that’s an option.”
Iphigenia tried to hide her shock and disgust. Some of it must have come through anyway, and Vas scrambled to apologize.
“Don’t get me wrong! I hate Umberfall! But my father says there’s money to be made in trade between us and them, and I happen to agree. I mean, I don’t trust an Umberfallian as far as I can throw him, but money is . . . hey, where are you going?”
“Thank you for the food, but I must be going. I’m supposed to meet a friend,” Iphigenia said, standing up.
“So soon?”
Vas shot to his feet as well, so quickly that it startled his guards, who drunkenly sprang from their seats and drew their swords. There was some commotion as people inched away from them, misreading the situation. Vas grew red in the face.
“Sit down!” he barked at his guards.
“I’m sorry, I really need to go,” said Iphigenia.
“A-are you sure you won’t join me in the Scrattle?”
“I really must be going!”
“Thisby! Wait!”
Vas tried to fol
low Iphigenia but she was too quick, weaving through the crowd and pushing her way out into the darkened streets of Three Fingers. The cool night air on her face was a relief after the warm, thick stench of the Drowned Frog. She moved briskly away from the inn, not daring to look back in case Vas had followed her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t doing a great job of looking forward, either, and when she came around a corner, she ran face-first into something large and solid and stinking of sweat that sent her toppling backward.
Iphigenia looked up from her seat in the mud to see the toothless grin of the one-eyed man from the bar.
“In a hurry . . . Princess?” he chuckled.
Iphigenia tried to scramble away on all fours, but the man grabbed her ankle and yanked her back down to the ground. She spun and tried to claw at his one good eye, but he caught her by the wrist and dragged her to her feet.
“Yer a long way from the castle, darlin’! I’m guessin’ they’s a pretty reward fer yer return! Or mebbe . . . mebbe yer worth more ta Umberfall,” he growled.
Iphigenia spit in his good eye, and his grip went slack just long enough for her to escape. She could hear him stomping and cursing behind her as she wove through the buildings and narrow alleys of downtown Three Fingers. It’d been raining only a few hours earlier, and the mud in the alleys was so thick that it yanked one of her boots clean off her foot. There was no time to stop so she ran on without it, ignoring the pain of the loose stones that suddenly seemed to be everywhere, jabbing at the sole of her foot with every step.
When she rounded the next corner, she found her path completely blocked by a hay cart. Behind her, the footsteps of the man were slapping closer in the wet mud, and she could hear his labored breathing. There was no way out.
The one-eyed man rounded the corner and paused. Then he laughed. It was a horrible, throaty kind of laugh. The kind that had never once known any real joy, only the celebratory mockery of other’s misfortunes. The mud-soaked Princess had a grabbed a nearby pitchfork and aimed it directly at his face.
