by Zac Gorman
“Oh, no. This is very confusing, isn’t it? But it’s not Marl. It’s Grunda.”
“Grunda? How?”
“Bit of a long story. I don’t feel like telling it right now, to be honest, but I know you, and you need to know how everything works, so let’s just get this over with.”
It definitely sounded like Grunda, despite what Thisby’s eyes were telling her.
“It’s the tea,” said Marl—or perhaps, more accurately, Grunda. “It’s made from mindworms. An old goblin recipe. I’ve had my friends inside the castle feeding it to Marl ever since she arrived. It’s quite delicious, but it has a nasty little side effect . . . it turns whoever drinks it into something of a puppet, if you know how to use it right. Which I do. Using another mindworm, I can communicate directly to Marl over a great distance whenever she drinks the tea. I can make suggestions. Plant ideas. Pull her strings. Just like a puppet.”
Marl paused and looked a bit sad.
“What I have to tell you next might be hard to hear. Please, come,” said Marl as she patted the ground in front of her, indicating that Thisby should sit down.
Thisby exchanged worried looks with Mingus but obeyed anyway, sitting down with her legs folded across from Marl.
“I was the one who gave Marl the idea for the Wretched Scrattle,” she said.
Thisby’s jaw dropped.
“What? Why?” she blurted.
“Sometimes you have to risk the things you love in order to save them. I know that’s hard to understand, but I’ve been around a long time. A long time. I know what’s best.”
Thisby felt betrayed. How could Grunda have done something so careless? Something that had caused the deaths of so many monsters and people alike?
“What are you talking about? That’s crazy!” shouted Thisby.
“Would you just be quiet and listen?” snapped Marl.
Marl took a deep breath and regained her composure. Her face softened.
“The moment that the King appointed an Overseer, it was the beginning of the end, Thisby. In that moment, the dungeon lost its freedom and became a tool of Nth once again. It’s happened before, although you weren’t around. The current Master of the Black Mountain wasn’t going to stand up for us, for the dungeon. He had to be replaced. At least that was something both Marl and I agreed on. First, though, I had to ensure that this little experiment with the Overseer was a complete disaster. Otherwise they’d continue to appoint Overseer after Overseer until the dungeon was nothing more than a tool for Nth. Everything had to get worse before it could get better. There was no other way.”
Thisby wanted to argue, to say that there was always another way, but she’d begun to doubt it herself. It was an awful thought, endangering the lives of the dungeon’s creatures to accomplish her goals, and she felt terrible for even considering that it may have been the right thing to do. She’d learned a long time ago that even if something sounded like a good idea, if it made her feel terrible, it probably wasn’t. It was easy enough to trick her brain into justifying bad behavior, but her gut was too smart for that. Either way, Marl took her silence as acceptance and continued.
“So I pulled the strings. I gave Marl the idea for the Wretched Scrattle, and her greed did the rest. I had her write that note that Jono found, the one telling you where to meet Iphigenia. And I pushed for Iphigenia to come to meet you in Three Fingers. I knew it was the only way you’d agree to enter the tournament. You trust her too much, Thisby.”
Thisby felt her ears get hot.
“Because she’s my friend!” she snapped.
“No, she’s not! That’s what you don’t understand! She’s one of them! Do you think that the King cares about the dungeon? Nobody cares about the dungeon except those of us who live here! It’s why we need to be free of the crown, free of all of it, once and for all. It’s why I needed you to become Master.”
Marl paused and sighed.
“I need you to be Master so we can declare our independence. No more ‘Royal Inspections,’ no more interference from Nth or Umberfall. They’re both our enemies, Thisby. It’s time we start treating them as such.”
“Iphigenia’s different. When she’s Queen—” started Thisby, but Grunda cut her off.
“Nothing ever changes! Don’t you see?” yelled Marl. She grabbed a handful of coins and threw them angrily across the chamber. “She might be your friend now, but when she asks you to bow down, when she asks you to kiss her ring, when she asks you to go down into that dungeon and kill the monsters that’ve grown too big and too dangerous for the kingdom to risk having them escape, what are you going to do then?”
Thisby felt tears welling up in her eyes but fought them back.
“I don’t know,” said Thisby. “We’ll figure it out.”
“The dungeon needs to stand on its own two feet. You saw what happened last year when the royals interfered in our business. They almost freed the Eyes in the Dark, Thisby. I’m not letting that happen again. It’s time we end this, once and for all.”
Marl looked at Thisby as if she were trying to read her expression.
“I need you to win the Wretched Scrattle. I’d do it myself, but if a goblin were to take over, the King would march his army in here right away. They’d wipe us out while we were still depleted from the Scrattle. If you take over, they’ll trust you. You can do what I can’t do alone. Together, we’ll free the dungeon. We’ll set things right.”
“But why?” asked Thisby. “Why now?”
Marl reached out and put her hands on Thisby’s shoulders. Thisby thought she could probably count on one hand the number of times Grunda had shown her any sort of physical affection, and it had always been followed by terrible news. Doing so now, with Marl’s face, made it all the harder.
“The Black Mountain grew from the body of the Eyes in the Dark. If the dungeon were to fall into the wrong hands and he escaped, it would likely mean the end of the world. Your ‘friends’ the Larkspurs nearly freed him last year. I can’t take that chance again.”
Thisby shrugged Marl’s hands off her shoulders. “No.”
Marl looked stunned. Tears had begun to stream down Thisby’s cheeks, but she hadn’t noticed when they’d started.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “Iphigenia’s my friend and we can make it work. Together. There’s no reason humans and monsters can’t coexist. We’ll find a way. We’ll figure it out.”
“They’ll ruin everything! If you trust the humans, the outsiders, they’ll destroy this dungeon and free the Eyes in the Dark! Thisby, be reasonable!”
Thisby turned away.
“I have to go,” she said. “Bero can’t win the Wretched Scrattle.”
“And what’ll you do when you win?” demanded Grunda.
“I don’t know,” said Thisby.
“You’re either with me and the monsters, or you’re with them!” demanded Grunda. “It’s time for you to pick! Whose side are you on?”
Thisby’s heart was broken. That was the only term for it. It was the exact opposite feeling of the first time that you held someone’s hand and knew that you were going to be with them forever. It felt as if her heart had put on a pair of cold, wet pants.
“I’m on my own side. I’m going to win the Wretched Scrattle and become Master,” said Thisby. “After that, I’ll do what I think is best.”
“Thisby, be reasonable,” said Marl. “There’s too much at stake.”
“I have to go,” said Thisby, walking away.
“Thisby, stop! Right now!” shouted Marl.
Thisby turned.
Marl had pulled out a small bottle of purple liquid and held it out in front of her threateningly. “Don’t make me do this, Thisby.”
Before Thisby could respond, Marl shook her head as if she was waking up from a dream.
“Thisby?” said Marl. “What’s happening? Is the Wretched Scrattle over? Are you here to kill me? No! Stop!”
Before Marl-Grunda could decide what to do, Thisby sn
atched the bottle from her hand and took off running as fast as she could for the door. The sound of Marl arguing with herself faded into the background as she dashed out into the hall.
It was a pleasant surprise to find she recognized where she was. She was close to the Master’s quarters. She tore up the stairs with her blood thumping in her ears. Mingus was trying to say something from where his lantern was cradled in her arm, but she wasn’t listening. Not to him, not to Grunda, or Marl, or whoever that was. She’d come here to win the Wretched Scrattle, and that was what she was going to do.
At the top of the stairs she found a long hall lined with ornate black sconces atop which danced bright purple flames. The hall ended in a set of double doors, which Thisby knew led into the Master’s chambers and to the end of the Wretched Scrattle.
With a crack and a flash, the doors blew open, shards of smoldering wood flying everywhere. Thisby turned to see Bero huffing and puffing up the stairs behind her, holding a spell book in one hand and throwing lightning bolts with the other.
“You’re not going to take this from me!” he howled as another bolt ripped past her head and crashed into the back wall of the Master’s now open chamber.
There was nothing left to do but run. Her legs were turning over as fast as they could when Thisby realized that her new backpack not only contained an entire room within it but was also much lighter than her previous one. It was not entirely lightning-proof, however, and when the next bolt struck her backpack, the force sent her sailing forward, sliding down the long marble hall toward the Master’s room.
Thisby clambered to her feet as another bolt narrowly missed her. She was close now. Close enough that she could see the tall, empty chair towering behind the Master’s desk. When she burst across the threshold and into the room, a disembodied voice called for her to sit. It seemed to be emanating from the chair itself. That was it. The last task. All she had to do was make it to his chair and then this would all be over.
She leapt over a pile of smoking rubble as more lightning exploded around her. Nothing was going to stop her now. Her heart was racing, her body was singing, she was positively bursting through her skin. She was going to make it better. She was going to fix everything. She was going be the best Master this dungeon ever had. She was going to make everything okay.
Something pulled at her ankle. Thisby looked down to see a viscous purple goo begin to crawl slowly up her leg.
“No! No! No!” she screamed.
The bottle had broken when she fell. The purple ooze spread rapidly and began to harden, locking her legs completely in place. Thisby looked behind her to see Bero charging red-faced toward her, and more importantly, toward the chair. He was yelling something, but Thisby could no longer hear clearly as the ooze spread up around her head. Right before it covered her eyes, the last thing Thisby could see was Bero sitting down in the Master’s chair.
Chapter 19
Thisby Thestoop wiggled her toes, placing her pinky toe over the toe-which-comes-next-to-the-pinky-toe. There was something on top of them. Something scratchy. A blanket. And not a nice one. She opened her eyes and sat up.
“Thisby?” said a familiar voice.
“Iphi?” she replied, straining to see against the impossibly bright light streaming through the window.
She felt her friend before she saw her. Two warm arms wrapped around her neck, and somebody soft and pleasant-smelling pressed against her cheek.
“What’s going on? Where am I?” she asked.
The world was coming into focus now. She was in a small inn room, mostly barren except for the bed in which she was lying, a small dresser, and a single chair facing the window.
“You’re in Three Fingers,” said Iphigenia, her face becoming more detailed by the moment. Her big eyes and dark hair, falling in loose ringlets that framed her face.
“What happened? How did I—”
“Marl brought you here. Through a blackdoor. It was the strangest thing,” said Iphigenia. “She showed up with you, and you were encased in a sort of purple crust. It took hours to pry it off. I wanted to thank her for her service, but she left before I had a chance.”
“I don’t think that was Marl,” said Thisby. “Not exactly.”
Iphigenia patted Thisby on the shoulder and guided her back to lying down.
“How are you feeling?” asked Iphigenia.
Now that it was all coming back to Thisby, she didn’t know how to answer that question honestly.
“What happened to the dungeon?” she asked.
Iphigenia sighed.
“It’s been claimed in the name of Umberfall. The flags rose this morning.”
Thisby felt an incredible weight on her chest. Her mind raced through every creature who was stuck inside with them, from Catface to the lowliest ooze. Her heart went out to all of them. The thought of how they would be treated at the hands of the Umberfallians made her queasy.
“The Master is likely dead,” added Iphigenia.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Thisby. “He has a knack for surviving.”
“I’m not sure which I’d prefer at this point,” said Iphigenia with a slight smirk.
“Me neither,” said Thisby.
Iphigenia got up off the edge of the bed and went to the window, cracking it open. The fresh breeze was wonderful for Thisby’s lingering headache, and she could even hear a few birds chirping. It was such a relaxing moment that it felt at odds with the terrible news she was receiving.
“What happened in there?” asked Iphigenia.
“Grunda planted the seeds for the Wretched Scrattle,” said Thisby. “Marl was just a pawn. A greedy pawn who put a bounty on my head, but a pawn nonetheless. Grunda was trying to make me the next Master. Unfortunately, some Umberfallians snuck in and screwed it all up.”
Iphigenia could hear the hurt in Thisby’s voice.
“Are you . . . okay?” she asked.
Thisby nodded. She hesitated, wondering if she should mention the rest of what Grunda had said. About the dungeon’s independence and warning her not to trust Iphigenia and Nth. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud.
“I’m as good as I can be . . .” She let her voice trail off as she remembered something she’d forgotten to ask about. She felt like a terrible person. “Wait! Where’s Mingus?!”
Iphigenia laughed in a comforting way.
“He’s fine! He’s fine! Sam has him over at the shop. Last I saw him, he was looking at some new lanterns he might like to try out.”
Thisby’s racing heart slowed.
“Oh. Good,” she said.
They both grew silent and listened to the birds singing outside the window. Thisby didn’t know enough about birds to know what kind they were. In the dungeon, she could tell the difference between the cooing of a cockatrice and a basan without hesitation, but here she was out of her element. She sat up in bed again and watched Iphigenia, staring out the window like a proper queen overlooking her kingdom.
“What now?” asked Thisby.
Iphigenia didn’t take her eyes off the horizon.
“There will be a war. There’s no other way my father can respond. Umberfall has invaded the Black Mountain, and in doing so they’ve invaded Nth.”
Thisby’s stomach twisted. As much as she hated to admit it, Grunda’s words had crept back into her head at hearing Iphigenia refer to the Black Mountain as part of Nth. It was an ugly thought, and she swallowed it back down.
“Thisby, you need to be prepared for what’s coming. Umberfall has no mercy. They’ll turn the monsters of the dungeon into weapons. They’ll unleash them on towns. Whatever comes next, it’s going to be bad.”
“And what do we do?” asked Thisby.
“We?” said Iphigenia, turning away from the window at last. “We’ll stop them, of course. Together.”
Thisby climbed out of bed. Her legs were a bit wobblier than expected, but she managed to hobble over to the window, where she supported herself on th
e back of the chair.
“Thisby, I . . .” Iphigenia paused before continuing. “I want you to know that I made a promise. Before I left the castle to find you. I swore that I’d protect the dungeon, no matter what. And I don’t go back on my promises.”
“I know,” said Thisby.
“Not just the dungeon,” added Iphigenia. “But you as well.”
Thisby smiled. “I thought I was the one who saved you from monsters.”
“True. But we’re not in the world of monsters anymore.”
Thisby watched outside the window as life went on as usual in Three Fingers. Farmers herded pigs, men rolled barrels, a mother scolded a child. Iphigenia was right. They certainly weren’t in the dungeon anymore.
“It’s going to be hard to get used to life outside the dungeon,” said Thisby.
Iphigenia smiled and nudged her in the ribs with her elbow.
“Too much fresh air and sunshine?” she asked.
“Exactly,” said Thisby.
It was hard to say how much longer they stood there before either of them spoke again.
Big green waves churned and crashed into the shore, tossing about tall ships like they were toys in a bathtub. The man who stood watching the show from the docks with his cloak pulled up over his head thought this was a particularly cruel irony, since he hadn’t been able to take a bath in weeks.
The wind ripped at the sails and his cloak, and when he could take it no more, he turned away from the docks and stumbled into the nearest bar, which was alive with both music and the yells of people trying to be heard over that music. The interior was composed of the parts of crashed ships, which was perhaps a bit of gallows humor for the sailors who drank there every night. The man fought his way forward to the bar, purchased a drink, and then fought his way back toward the emptiest corner of the room—whose emptiness turned out to be due to a rather horrible smell—and took a seat.
It’d been a rough couple of weeks, but he was here now. Here at the end of the world. The Nameless Sea. He’d tried out the joke about giving it a name on a pretty young woman at a different bar last night, and it hadn’t gone well. She’d probably just heard that one before, he’d told himself.
