by Zac Gorman
...slowly, he began to glow.
Blackdoors had begun to open all around the Darkwell. The Deep Dwellers stopped in their tracks and looked around. All around the edge of the basin, blackdoors were flashing open, bursting with magical energy.
From one of the blackdoors on the center of the hill stepped a small, filthy girl with a pointy nose, clutching a notebook to her chest. She raised her right hand above her head and held it there. The Deep Dwellers looked at her and then at one another. The room was eerily silent. If a snail had sneezed somebody probably would have said “gesundheit.”
With a tremendous battle cry, she thrust her fist forward, and monsters burst through the blackdoors, charging down the hill.
The battle of the Darkwell had begun.
Chapter 27
Werewolves, ice wraiths, gargoyles, kobolds, vampires, ghouls, rock golems, wereplants, hydras, griffins, death bears, dire rats, centaurs, man-snare plants, acidic oozes, gnolls, nightmares, mummies, ogres, trolls, wyverns, and more had all shown up to fight. They spilled from the blackdoors and charged down the hill, a mess of claws and teeth and vines and ooze, rumbling like a runaway train toward the Deep Dwellers below.
Some of them had come willingly, some begrudgingly, some Thisby had even had to trick, but she’d gotten them all here, and that was what mattered. It’d taken every bit of knowledge she’d painstakingly gathered over the years to convince them all, and when this was all said and done, she’d have a lot of promises to fulfill—so many, in fact, that she had to start another notebook just to record them all—but thanks to her, they’d gathered an army, and thanks to the blackdoors, they’d arrived just in time.
Thisby whirled around to see Grunda, accompanied by several other goblins who she didn’t recognize as well as Ralk the kobold, approach her from behind.
“Are you sure you can do this?” asked Thisby, yelling over the din of battle.
“It’s goblin magic. We can do it,” she said.
“We’ll clear the way; you just have to seal the gate. We just need enough magic to hold it for now. We can figure out the rest later,” said Thisby.
“Don’t worry about us, dear! Go! Find the Princess! As long as Ingo is out there, she isn’t safe!”
Thisby nodded and took off down the hill in the wake of the chaos. She ducked through the maelstrom of clashing monsters and weaved her way through toward the Darkwell. Iphigenia had to be down there somewhere.
She passed by a wyvern fighting off two Deep Dwellers at once. It grabbed one of them in its massive claws and took to the sky as the other fled. Just a few days ago that could’ve been her or Iphigenia, she thought with a smirk.
WHOMP!
A massive war hammer barely clipped Thisby’s shoulder, but it was enough to send her flying, tumbling end over end until she spilled into the dirt. She’d let her mind wander for just a second, but that was all it took. Her shoulder ached. It felt like she’d just run full steam into a brick wall. The giant thundered toward her, drawing back his massive hammer, but before he could bring it down, an enormous paw swiped sideways and knocked the giant aside as if he were a ball of yarn.
They spilled from the blackdoors and charged down the hill, a mess of claws and teeth and vines and ooze, rumbling like a runaway train toward the Deep Dwellers below.
Catface pounced on him, and the giant was finished before he even knew what hit him.
“Iphigenia’s hurt,” he said, running back over to her. “You need to get her out of here.”
“Where is she?” yelled Thisby.
“Get on, I’ll take you,” said Catface.
Ingo Larkspur climbed out of the Darkwell behind his army, expecting to see a triumphant victory. He was mildly disappointed. He’d had a speech ready and everything. A whole night’s worth of speech writing and practicing his “power poses” in front of a mirror, all down the drain. He sighed. What a waste.
There was a stinging pain radiating from where his sister had poked him with that needle. His guards had attempted to remove it, but the barb held fast below his skin, so it had been broken off for the time being, leaving a little black rod jutting out of his side. He’d brushed it with his elbow several times while he was climbing and had quite nearly fainted from the pain. He’d have to have it removed when he got back to the castle. Back home. Back to the safety of his own bed. A bed that was sounding better and better by the moment. He felt unnaturally tired for some reason. Sleepy. Sleepy McGeepy, even. What a strange phrase, thought Ingo, to have just popped in there.
All around him, Deep Dwellers scattered and fled under the onslaught of the dungeon’s monsters, who’d apparently caught them with their proverbial pants down. It turned out the Deep Dwellers weren’t exactly the well-trained soldiers Ingo had hoped they were. They were more like monkeys with sharpened sticks. Sure, they were big, horrifying monkeys, and their sticks were quite sharp, but at the end of the day that wasn’t enough to win any wars. A simple surprise attack was enough to derail their entire “strategy”—what little of it there was to begin with.
Ingo wondered how the Eyes in the Dark ever thought this was a war the Deep Dwellers could win. Another thought immediately pinged into his brain with an answer he felt as if he’d known all along. The Eyes in the Dark didn’t think they could win. Maybe he didn’t care. Then why? Why go through all this trouble?
Even in the haze that had begun to form around his mind, Ingo knew the answer. Ingo was bad at many things, but reading people wasn’t one of them. Strange then, how he’d never managed to see it all clearly until now. The Eyes in the Dark didn’t care about the liberation of the Deep Dwellers. Of course he didn’t. He only wanted the gate opened for himself. He didn’t care who died in the process. Not the Deep Dwellers, not the monsters, not Roquat, not Iphigenia, not Ingo.
It was ambition Ingo understood. Admired, even.
His guards circled around him, forming a defensive perimeter around their fearless leader as he surveyed the scene. Ingo yawned. They were fighting a losing battle. The good guys—or were they the bad guys? Ingo wasn’t sure and honestly didn’t care—either way, he was pretty sure they’d lost.
Ingo shrugged. At least, he thought he did. In truth, he didn’t have the energy to properly raise his shoulders, and merely imagined himself shrugging. Close enough.
Nearby, he saw some goblins attempting to seal the Darkwell with magic. Spell books were lying open at their feet. It was pretty obvious what they were doing, but none of the Deep Dwellers seemed to be paying much attention. They really, really weren’t any good at war.
Ingo wondered if he should stop the goblins, but his sister was probably right. It didn’t really make any sense to let Deep Dwellers run around free in his kingdom. He’d gotten what he wanted out of the deal anyway. Iphigenia was dead and he’d soon inherit the throne. It was kind of a win-win. And furthermore, so what if he broke his deal? Once he was back home, he’d be safe from the Eyes in the Dark.
Anyway, there was no shame in backing out now. Get out while the getting was good, he figured. It was exhausting work and he deserved a break.
Ingo turned to his guards. His eyes were half closed and his head had begun to droop.
“Okay, well, see you later, I guess,” he said dreamily.
And with that, Ingo simply turned and walked away, dragging his feet clumsily and leaving behind a rather confused-looking group of guards who were moments ago ready to protect their leader with their lives, if it came to that. If there’d been a proper order to the Deep Dwellers’ military, somebody—perhaps a general or other high-ranking officer—would’ve surely stopped their leader from loping off by himself in the middle of the battle, but as it were, nobody said a thing or even followed after him. They simply watched him go for a few moments before they turned back to the fighting.
Ingo walked for almost an hour before the thought even crossed his mind that he might be lost. In truth, not much was crossing his mind at this point, aside from a strong desire
to sleep and a lingering curiosity as to why it felt like he was walking through a warm bath. Days ago, before Roquat’s untimely demise at Ingo’s order, the Dünkeldwarf had explained to him how to find his way to the castle from the Darkwell, but he hadn’t written anything down, and if Ingo was being perfectly honest—which he almost never was—he hadn’t even really paid attention. At the time, it’d seemed fairly straightforward. Now, though, it felt as if something were clouding his mind. He looked disapprovingly at an oblong rock for a minute or two before surrendering and sitting down on it to think. It was as uncomfortable as he’d expected, and yet somehow still seemed as if it would be a nice enough place to fall asleep.
He sat there for some time, mindlessly rubbing his side where the barb was buried beneath his skin and fighting off the urge to sleep, before the sound of approaching footsteps got his attention.
“Hello?” said Ingo. “I think— I think— I’m lost. Can you . . . um . . . help?”
A gangly young man, at least a handful of years older than Ingo, rounded the corner. He looked fairly lost himself and studied Ingo with some fascination.
“I need to find the way out of here. I need to go home,” said Ingo.
Gregory studied him. The boy he was looking at was dressed nicely, perhaps too nicely for the dungeon. He was handsome, but tired. And there was something familiar about his face that Gregory couldn’t quite place. The recollection was likely due to the fact that in Gregory’s pockets, he had several copper coins with the Prince’s face printed on them, but who looks that closely at coins anyhow?
After considering him for what felt like an appropriate amount of time, Gregory chimed in, “I’m actually trying to find a battle, myself. I was supposed to meet some people there. Ultimate stand against evil and whatnot. But I’m ’fraid I took a wrong turn somewhere.”
Ingo shut his eyes for a moment and had to shake himself back awake.
“Yes, yes. Well, do you think you could point me toward the way out of here?” asked Ingo.
Gregory scratched his head. It didn’t itch, but he really wanted to indicate that he was seriously pondering Ingo’s question, and this seemed like the best way. He momentarily considered doing that thing where you rest your chin between your thumb and forefinger, but it felt like it might be overkill.
“I think you want to head straight from here. When you get to a little pond up ahead, turn left. Then, uh, another left at the fork. That should just about get you there.”
Ingo nodded again and almost fell asleep. His head tipped forward and then rocked back. He woke with a start and got to his feet. Gregory watched him and considered offering help, but realized it was probably best if he hurried on to the battle. There was a chance it would determine the fate of the world, and he’d be pretty embarrassed if he missed that. So he watched the boy who he didn’t know was a Prince shuffle off alone, and then hurried on himself in the opposite direction.
Ingo pulled himself along for some time, dragging his feet and bracing himself against the wall when he needed to, until finally, near the fork, he had to stop and rest. Another left at the fork, the gangly man had said. He was so close. He had almost drifted off again when he heard a noise that sounded like wet sandpaper on stone. It startled him awake.
“Hello? W-who’s there?” Ingo mumbled weakly.
There was a faint glow coming from just around the bend, as if somebody was holding a lantern.
There was no answer.
Ingo mustered all his strength and stood up. Since the invasion had begun, his nerves had been a little frayed. Before the invasion, the monsters in the dungeon wanted to kill him for food. Now, he suspected, correctly, most of the monsters in the dungeon wanted to kill him for vengeance . . . well, and for food still, probably. Although with every passing minute his concern diminished. If Ingo had had his wits about him, he likely would’ve headed in the opposite direction of any noise down in the dungeon. As it were, he peeked around the corner.
He stared blankly at what he saw. It was no vicious monster out for revenge—or even food, for that matter. Just a faintly glowing goat, levitating several inches off the ground and contentedly licking the moss off some rocks with its eyes closed. Ingo laughed.
“Jus’ a sssstupid goat,” he slurred.
Ingo slumped to the ground on all fours. The stone beneath him felt like soft, warm bread as the remaining manticore poison in the barb finally won out. His limbs felt as if they were full of wet sand, and sleep crept in through the cracks in his resolve to stay awake.
The licking stopped. There was a momentary silence followed by the rhythmic clack of goat hooves on stone growing louder and louder from where Ingo lay, fighting to keep his eyes open. The hooves stopped. He could smell the hot, pungent breath of the animal. With all his remaining strength, Ingo picked his head up from the ground and craned his neck to look at the goat standing over him. They were practically face-to-face.
“Stupid goat,” Ingo whispered.
The goat looked down at him and slowly began to unhinge its jaw, revealing several sets of long, serrated fangs. Its eyes became glowing bloodred pools with several pupils each, and its body doubled in size, legs extending from it like a spider as it grew.
It was the most horrible thing Ingo had ever seen, and he watched it all with unblinking eyes, unable to move, unable to scream, as the goat—or whatever it truly was—descended upon him.
In his final moments, Ingo didn’t feel regret for what he’d done, only sleepy. So sleepy that he didn’t even feel frightened as the spectral goat began to devour him whole, and all things considered, it was probably a better ending than he deserved.
Catface bounded across the battlefield to where he’d left Iphigenia. Thisby slid from his shoulders.
“Thank you . . . Catface,” she said.
“You’re welcome . . . Little Mouse.”
He bowed quickly and charged back into the fray.
Thisby ran over to Iphigenia. She was lying on her back and barely conscious. She was so far from the Iphigenia Thisby had met when she’d first entered the dungeon. Her beautiful dress was torn and dirty, her hair had fallen out of its neat braids, and her eyes were puffy and red.
Thisby touched her shoulder and tried to gently rouse her.
“Thisby?” Iphigenia said wearily.
“Iphigenia! What happened?”
Thisby saw the blood on her dress, but there was no wound, only a rip in the fabric and a bright pink scar. There was also a mild glowing where the wound had been.
“What—what happened?” muttered Thisby.
“Mingus . . . he . . .”
Thisby looked over to see Mingus’s empty jar, and tears began to stream down her cheeks. She wiped at them with dirty fingers, leaving smudges across her face. She had no idea what had happened, but between Iphigenia’s tone and the empty jar . . . it couldn’t be good. She’d never even had a chance to tell him that it was okay, a chance to forgive him.
Iphigenia’s eyes began to well with tears. Then her nose began to well with snot. Even her mouth began to well with something . . .
Iphigenia rolled over and began retching. A ball of glowing slime oozed out of her nose and mouth and fell with a wet splat onto the floor beside her. Thisby stared at the blob of quivering goo, unsure what she’d just seen. Iphigenia hacked something up and spit, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her dress.
“Mingus?” said Thisby, staring at the slime.
Mingus gurgled something weakly in response. “Can I please go back in my jar now?” he asked.
“He saved my life,” said Iphigenia.
Thisby’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as it all began to click together. The scar, the blood on the dress, Mingus being sneezed out of her friend’s face . . .
“SLIME HEALING MAGIC IS REAL?” screamed Thisby.
Chapter 28
Thisby watched anxiously from a distance as the monsters dispersed back home to their own special corners of the dungeon, le
aving the Darkwell behind. It was the part of her plan that had made her the most nervous; even if they were successful, would the temporary truce last long enough for the monsters to make it back to their lairs, or would the basilisk get into a staring contest with the cockatrice, or the fire bats melt the ice wraiths?
In the end, it’d worked out about as well as she could have hoped. The monsters, so exhausted from their confrontation with the Deep Dwellers, had for the most part loped back to their respective homes calmly and in an orderly fashion. It was a temporary unity. Thisby knew that better than anyone. Yet still, there was something hopeful about looking out over the edge of the Darkwell and seeing that whole menagerie of monsters working together toward a common goal. It was only a shame that it had to be drenched in so much violence.
Leaderless and disorganized, it hadn’t taken long for most of the Deep Dwellers to be driven back down through the Darkwell. Some even went willingly. Following the battle, Catface had quickly begun hunting down any remaining Deep Dwellers who’d fled or hid out during the fighting, but there was no way to find all of them—not even with Catface’s amazing sense of smell. Too many had escaped out into the dungeon, or perhaps even out of the Black Mountain itself, where they’d found the freedom they’d so desperately craved. Thisby couldn’t blame them.
As Grunda and the other goblins placed their temporary magic seal over the Darkwell, Thisby even found herself wondering if they were doing the right thing. Not all the Deep Dwellers were bad. They were just angry and scared. She figured she would be, too, if she’d spent her whole life trapped on the wrong side of that gate, so close to the Eyes in the Dark. But that was the whole problem. If she opened it, he might get out as well.
