by Zac Gorman
“I’m impressed,” said Bero from back near the entrance. “That spell should’ve held you for hours. You’re far more clever than I assumed.”
Thisby stepped quietly, deeper into the rows of display cases, trying to keep as much distance as possible between herself and his voice.
“First the riddle at the gates and now here you are. You would’ve made a fine wizard. Or a conjurer, I suppose. All those terms! They’re too confusing, aren’t they? Wizard, conjurer, mage, warlock, blah, blah, blah! They’re all different ways to do the same thing! I read spells. Wizards memorize them. Sorcerers internalize them. Warlocks tattoo them on their skin. Isn’t that weird? Most people just say ‘wizard’ because it’s easy to remember.”
He mumbled a spell and the room lit up. It was the same one he’d used earlier, in the lindorm’s chamber.
“You know, people look down on conjurers. That’s why we were forgotten when they were writing the rules of the Wretched Scrattle. It’s the reliance on books, I think. It’s a real shame. In a way, you rely on books, too, don’t you? I’ve seen your little notebooks. Without them, what are you? Without my spell books, what am I? The truth is, I don’t know.”
His steps were getting closer. Thisby ducked into the next row.
“You can still have the job, you know? If you give up now, I’ll let you stay on as gamekeeper. I don’t mind your ambition. I actually respect it.”
Thisby was tempted to respond, to tell him that she’d never work for him, maybe even to ask him why he was doing this. But she knew that was what he wanted. He was trying to goad her into talking, into giving away her position. Besides, what did she care about why he was doing this? Maybe Bero was just loyal to Umberfall. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was that if Thisby didn’t beat him to the top of the castle and become the new Master of the Black Mountain, the dungeon was doomed. Perhaps all of Nth by the time Umberfall was done with it.
She heard his footsteps echoing around the room as he searched the first row of shelves. She crept silently into the last. Unlike Thisby, Bero had never had a goblin teach him the art of moving stealthily. If the tables were turned, she’d have been able to find him easily.
The last row contained items behind glass that hardly seemed like weapons at all. There were about a dozen short, carved wooden sticks brightly painted and engraved with runes. Next to those were seemingly mundane items; a pair of boots, a jeweled crown, a bag of seeds. Near the center of the row were several wooden crates overflowing with items that had not yet been sorted into the displays. It was impossible to tell how long they’d been sitting patiently, waiting to be sorted and hung, but from the thick layer of dust that caked them, Thisby would have guessed it was far longer than she’d been alive.
From two rows over, Bero let out a frustrated snort.
“Fine. If you want to play hide-and-seek, let’s play,” he said, and followed it up with more arcane mumbling.
Thisby peeked out from behind the display case on the end of the row to see him reading another spell from the small book, which still bore the damage from their encounter with the wisps. Not that it mattered now, but the burns in her tunic had healed quite nicely. When Bero was finished, he waved his hands and with a burst of pink light, two wolves—taller at the shoulder than he was—appeared by his side. He whispered something inaudible into their ears, and the wolves began to stalk away, along opposing walls, their hackles raised. They were hunting. And Thisby had nowhere left to run.
“Well,” said Bero, breathing a sigh of relief. “This is where we part ways. I’m going to go win the Wretched Scrattle now. If by some miracle you survive this, please report to my office first thing tomorrow morning. There are a number of changes to be made in the dungeon, and I’d like to get started as soon as possible. Goodbye, Thisby.”
Thisby could hear the low, rumbling growl of the wolves getting louder as they stalked down the ends of the rows. Beyond that she heard the sound of the door—the only way out—closing. The long shadows of the wolves swayed against the back wall of the armory as they stalked toward her down the aisles. Mingus looked helplessly to her. Thisby wished she could offer him some sort of comfort, but how? There was no way out.
The wolves were closing in. Thisby looked around, desperate for the miracle Bero had mentioned. The closest she could find was noticing that one of the crates full of unsorted items had a loose lid, which perhaps she could hide under. It would only delay the inevitable, but considering what the inevitable was, delaying it wasn’t such a bad choice. Just as the wolves’ muzzles crested beyond the edge of the display case and Thisby caught sight of their slavering jaws, she pulled the lid shut on top of her.
Inside, the crate was filled with wood shavings hiding something big and soft, which Thisby prodded with her foot, but it was too dark to see without Mingus’s light. Outside, she could hear the sniffing of the wolves and the soft pads of their feet as they turned down her row, closing in. Thisby felt her heart pounding in her ears.
The inside of the crate was swelteringly hot and almost entirely devoid of air. Thisby struggled to hold on to the little amount of breath that she could find. She buried herself below the wood shavings so that only her face was exposed and listened as hard as possible.
First there was more sniffing, the beasts practically tasting the air through their long noses. This was followed by the nudging of the crates, including her own. Through the narrow slit between the lid and the crate, Thisby could see their large, leathery noses and catch flashes of the wolves’ bared yellow teeth. Her heart raced. She felt more trapped than she’d ever been. Even when she and Iphigenia had been trapped on a bridge between hungry wyverns, at least then they could’ve jumped. Sure, the fall would’ve smooshed them flat, but it was still nice to have options.
To keep her pulse steady and her breath from getting erratic, Thisby fought to think happy thoughts. She thought about Iphigenia and the time she’d spent at the castle. She thought about Grunda and how nice things had been in the dungeon for that short time between terrible events. She thought about Mingus and even Catface for some reason.
The wolves paused on her crate. For a moment, their sniffing stopped, and then they began to growl furiously. It was the sound that signaled the end was coming. The sound of death. They’d found her. She tried to keep happy thoughts in her mind as the crate tipped over and crashed to the floor.
Thisby found herself suddenly upside down and buried beneath a pile of wood shavings. She tried desperately to make sense of what was happening. It was hard to breathe, and she tasted blood in her mouth. The crate had remained intact, for now. But there was something else confusing her senses. Giant paws scratched at the upturned crate, snapping boards and bouncing her around as she clung to the sides like a turtle hiding in its shell. The growling and scratching was unbearably loud and making it harder to think . . . about what? Something was wrong. There was a sensation that didn’t fit the rest. Her hand!
More boards splintered as Thisby realized that there was a cool breeze on her left hand that didn’t fit the rest of what was happening. Through where the wolves had broken the crate, tiny streams of light shone on its contents: a backpack. It was almost as big as the one she’d lost but far fancier, and it took her a moment to realize that her left arm had gotten inside it. Only it wasn’t. From outside the backpack, her arm somehow wasn’t there, but yet it was. She wiggled the fingers of her left hand and reached out to touch the inside of the backpack, only it wasn’t there. Her hand felt nothing but the cool breeze.
She rolled head over heels again as the wolves batted the crate around. Thisby tried to hold on to the loosened lid, but the jolt as the crate collided with a wall made her lose her grip. Without anyone to hold on to it, the top popped horribly open and sent her tumbling out onto the floor with the backpack still wrapped around her arm up to her shoulder. For the first time, she saw the wolves in their entirety. They were even larger than she’d imagined, their yellow eyes
watching her as she stood up.
The wolves made a move for her, and Thisby did the only thing that made any sense—despite it not making any sense at all. She raised the backpack over her head and let it fall over her, swallowing her completely.
The wolves made a move for her, and Thisby did the only thing that made any sense—despite it not making any sense at all.
Thisby tumbled down a short staircase and into a dimly lit room, where she landed on a very soft and probably considerably expensive rug. It hurt a bit, but when faced with the alternative of being devoured by wolves, the fall didn’t bother her at all. It did confuse her, however.
She was relieved to see that she’d held on to Mingus despite being rolled around by the wolves and was comforted when he began to glow a pale yellow.
“Where are we?” he asked.
Thisby stood up and looked around. The room in which she stood resembled a library, with rows and rows of intricately carved wooden shelves and drawers. In her immediate vicinity was a living area with a desk, tables, and chairs, and a small kitchen. Everything was meticulously placed and designed, like the set of an elaborate play, lit by a large stained-glass ceiling through which shone a pleasant, soft light. However, far and away Thisby’s favorite feature of the space so far was its lack of giant wolves.
“It’s somebody’s home,” said Thisby, but that didn’t feel quite right.
“Inside the backpack?” Mingus asked.
Thisby shrugged. “Inside the backpack” was definitely where they were, but she didn’t have to like it. The presence of any magic in her life at this juncture was a bit unwelcome, even if it’d just saved her life and came with the pleasant smell of incense and old books.
She walked up to a round door at the top of the small staircase and opened it a crack, but it was too dark to see out. When she poked her head through, she found herself face-to-face with the curious muzzle of one of the wolves. The wolf stopped what it was doing and lunged at her, but Thisby managed to withdraw in time. A moment later, the wolf’s snapping muzzle was poking into the room, thrashing wildly, filling the entire doorway and sending Thisby tumbling down the short staircase for the second time today.
From her spot on the rug, she could smell the stink of the wolf’s hot breath, but it was firmly stuck in the doorway. As angry as it was, there was no way the wolf could fit its entire head into the room, and after watching it struggle ineffectively for a few minutes, she breathed a sigh of relief. When her mood eventually transitioned into anger, Thisby grabbed a poker from in front of the fireplace and whacked away at the beast’s nose until it withdrew itself with a whimper and she could slam and lock the door.
“I guess we’re stuck here,” she said.
It wasn’t ideal. She was happy to be uneaten, but every moment stuck in the backpack was another moment that brought Bero closer to the finish line. Thisby sat down in one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs around the kitchen table.
“Now what?” she groaned, setting Mingus down on the table. “I guess eventually most spells wear off. The wolves should de-spell at some point, but it might take days. Or longer. We don’t have that kind of time . . . Mingus?”
Thisby looked to her friend, but he was clearly distracted by something else. Something on the ceiling.
“Thisby, look.”
She craned her neck up to look at the stained-glass window. She’d been so distracted before that she hadn’t even noticed what it was: a depiction of two people, a man and woman locked in an embrace. Behind them was a tree, which wrapped around the frame entirely, and upon its branches were inlaid the words, To My Beloved Ulia. With Love, Elphond.
“Elphond the Evil? The first Master of the Black Mountain? Ulia? Where do I know that name from?” Thisby muttered to herself.
“Did Elphond make this place?” asked Mingus. “He made the Escape, so I guess a place like this isn’t a stretch.”
Thisby tried to shake the name “Ulia” from her mind, but it stuck to the sides. She looked at the woman’s face. She was beautiful. Elphond wasn’t so bad himself, actually. Being so used to the current Master of the Black Mountain, Thisby had assumed all Masters were stocky bald men with cruel faces, but apparently, that wasn’t the case.
“Maybe there’s something here we can use,” said Mingus.
Thisby nodded.
Grabbing Mingus, she walked back into the shelves and was relieved to find that they were labeled and alphabetized. Everything was organized outstandingly well. It was as good a job as she could’ve done herself.
“Ant Lion Glands, Anthracite, Antivenom . . . ,” she read aloud as she walked down the long row of drawers. “This is stuff you find around the dungeon. Stuff like I had in my own backpack.”
“Stuff a gamekeeper would have,” Mingus added, finishing her thought for her.
When she made it to the Bs, her eyes lit up.
“Mingus! Look! Blackdoor Beads!”
She pulled out the big flat drawer and there it was. An entire drawer full of blackdoor beads, divided into neat little sections that were each well labeled and bore the names of the locations where they let out. Thisby’s heart was positively soaring now. This was it. This was the stroke of luck she’d so desperately needed.
“Darkwell, Giant’s Crossing, Long Lost Lake, Castle Grimstone Gates, the Hold, the Blackdoor Machine Room . . .” Thisby trailed off as one of the names caught her attention.
“Jono’s room?” she said, scrunching up her nose.
Then it came back to her. She remembered where she’d heard the name Ulia before. When she’d first met Jono in the castle and told him she was the gamekeeper, he asked if she knew Ulia. Thisby’s mind raced as she put the pieces together. Elphond the Evil and Ulia were in love, and this backpack, the stained glass, this whole place, based on the inscription, must’ve been some kind of gift to her because . . . why?
“Ulia was the first gamekeeper. Elphond must’ve used his magic to make this backpack for her. Much nicer than what the Master got me for my first day on the job.”
“Which was?” asked Mingus.
“Nothing,” she said.
“I think Elphond might’ve liked this Ulia more.”
“I think he might’ve loved her,” said Thisby.
It was either that or he was just the nicest boss to ever have “the Evil” as his official title. If she was right and Elphond and Ulia were romantically involved, was it possible that Jono was . . . their son? Maybe, she supposed, but there was no way to be sure. She’d have to show the backpack to Jono when this was all said and done. Perhaps it might jog his memory and then she’d have her answers. In the meantime, she had work to do.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing a bead from the Blackdoor Machine Room section, since it seemed as if that was the closest one to the top of the castle.
Moments later, Thisby’s head peeked out of the backpack on the floor of the armory. Thankfully, enough time had passed and the wolves had lost interest. There was the sound of snoring from somewhere in the chamber.
Thisby crawled out of the backpack, put it on, and threw the blackdoor bead at the ground. When the gate popped open, the snoring stopped, but before the wolves could make it back to her, she was through the portal and quickly closing in on becoming the new Master of the Black Mountain.
The blackdoor machine was asleep when Thisby stepped into the room. Its arms hung limply at its sides, its screens were dark and empty. Aside from the crackling noise of the blackdoor portal closing behind her, the room was completely silent. Thisby resisted the urge to say, “Hello?” Mingus did not.
“Hello?” he called.
Thisby shushed him, but it was too late. There was a pathetic groan from the other side of the machine, and Thisby realized with a sinking feeling in her gut that they weren’t alone.
“Hello? Who’s there?” called Thisby.
“Oh, so it’s okay when you do it?” grumbled Mingus.
They walked around the blackdoor machin
e on full alert, expecting to find yet another in a string of seemingly endless obstacles; perhaps it was the monster that looked like Ingo, or another giant wolf, or maybe it was Bero waiting to zap them with a lightning bolt, but they were surprised instead to find a crumpled, pathetic figure, curled up like a cat atop a bed of gold coins and beneath a worn blanket. Trays and teacups were littered everywhere, still stained red. Apparently, the ghoul in charge of removing her empty teacups had finally had enough.
“Overseer?” asked Thisby.
“Mmmm,” grunted the pile.
“Are you okay?”
The thing beneath the blanket sat upright. Coins jingled across the floor. Overseer Marl peeked out, her eyes sunken and purple, almost bruised. Her green hair was wet from sweat and flat, her lips and teeth were stained a deep ruby color. She looked sick, or worse.
“Mm, okay. Okay, dear,” she said, and then looked confused. “Wait. Who said that?”
Thisby was almost sure Marl was talking to herself.
“I did but I didn’t,” Marl continued. “I don’t know when my words are mine. Oh, shut up and quit being such a baby. Just drink the tea.”
Thisby understood the command wasn’t meant for her.
“Fine. Fine. If it’ll shut you up,” said Marl, and she crawled on all fours over to a pot of tea that apparently wasn’t completely empty and tipped the whole thing into her mouth, swallowing whatever remained at the bottom in big gulps and letting the remainder spill out the corners of her mouth. When she was done, she sat back and closed her eyes, smiling contentedly. When she opened them again, she was like a different person. Somebody familiar.
“Hello, dear,” said Marl.
“Marl?” asked Thisby.
