Thisby Thestoop and the Wretched Scrattle

by Zac Gorman

  “You gonna run me through?” he laughed.

  The man took a step forward.

  “If I have to,” she said.

  A smarter man might have noticed that her voice did not waver. Not once. The one-eyed man was not very smart, however. He took another step forward so the tines of the pitchfork hovered mere inches from his face.

  “You gonna run me through?” he laughed.

  “Oh, yeah? You don’t have the guts to—AAAAH!” he screamed as the pitchfork jabbed into his face, ruining his last good eye.

  Shocked by what she’d done, Iphigenia dropped the pitchfork and tried to squeeze past the man, but even in inconceivable pain, he still had enough sense to wrap a meaty arm around her waist to prevent her from fleeing. She struck out at the wounded man, raining blows on his face and chest, but he was too furious to notice. With one powerful shove, he threw her backward into the hay cart. Her back struck hard against the sideboard, and she crumpled to the muddy earth.

  The man was completely blinded but held his ground, blocking the only way out of the alley. He reached down, drew a long knife from his boot, and began to slash the air wildly, in wide arcs. There was no more concern with trading Iphigenia’s life for money; that plan had gone out the window the moment he’d been blinded. His face was red with blood and fury, and spittle flew from his lips as he screamed in a fit of pure rage. They weren’t even words, just howls of blind anger against a world that had finally punished him for his crimes. Iphigenia held her breath, trying not to give away her position.

  He walked forward, slashing the air as he advanced methodically, until there was nowhere else for her to hide. In another step, he’d reach her. In a moment of desperation, Iphigenia began to crawl on her hands and knees toward the spot where a spoke had been broken off the hay cart’s wheel. She wasn’t sure it would be large enough to squeeze through but it was her only hope since everything else was blocked by bushels of hay. There was no other choice. She’d either fit through or . . . she refused to think about the alternative.

  Iphigenia made herself as narrow as possible and began to squirm through the gap in the wheel. It was a tight fit, and the loose mud around the wheel made it nearly impossible to attain any leverage. Her hands clawed frantically at the wet mud, and her legs kicked feebly in the air behind her. She pulled her shoulders through as the man’s dagger struck the side of the hay cart and he paused, realizing something was wrong. Iphigenia managed to wriggle through up to her waist by pulling on the axle, but her hips had become stuck. She pulled as hard as she could as the man dove for the ground.

  Summoning every last ounce of strength available, Iphigenia gave one last pull on the axle. Her hips finally found the right angle and she was through, scrambling the rest of the way through the wheel, while behind her, the man’s big hands pawed blindly around in the mud. She crawled through the slop beneath the wagon, and only once she was far enough away that she knew he couldn’t reach, she looked back to see his angry, wounded face pressed against the wheel, screaming at her. She didn’t linger. Before he could even stand up, Iphigenia was already clear through to the far side of the cart and on her feet, running as fast as she could, her chest heaving, her dress torn and completely covered in mud. This was how she looked when she rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks.

  There, in the middle of the street, was a very large backpack with a very small girl attached to it.

  “I think I’ll sail across the Nameless Sea,” said the Master. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Heck, maybe I’ll even give it a name while I’m at it.”

  “But it has a name. It’s called the Nameless Sea.”

  The Master quit folding his underwear and looked at his footman ghoul sourly.

  “Do you even stop to think? Or do you just open your mouth and see what falls out?”

  The Master pointed at his chamber door, and the ghoul excused himself. It wasn’t the ghoul’s fault that the Master was in a poor mood, but he knew somebody had to take the brunt of his frustration, and to the Master, any ghoul was as good as the next. All the ghoul knew for certain was that none of this was his fault, so anybody who wasn’t him probably deserved their fair share of the blame.

  Never before in the history of the dungeon had a Master of the Black Mountain abandoned their post. Once they’d taken their seat behind the Master’s desk, they weren’t allowed to set foot outside the castle—not even for a day trip down to Three Fingers or a quick visit to Schlumpy’s Dairy for a vanilla hayseed milk shake.3 After accepting the position, the next time that a Master typically left the castle was when their cold, dead body was inevitably flung down the slopes by their successor. Still, the current Master thought he was due a vacation and figured he probably wouldn’t enjoy it very much if he were dead.

  The arrival of Overseer Marl had been nice enough at first—there’d been less work than before, plus he’d gotten to tell that annoying old goblin to take a hike—but since the planning for the Wretched Scrattle had started, the Master couldn’t help but feel as if he were living on borrowed time. Marl had assured him time and again that the Wretched Scrattle was foolproof. Even if an adventurer somehow made it all the way through the dungeon, there was no way they could pass the final test. He knew that from day one, and he wanted desperately to believe her. In the logical part of his brain, he was absolutely certain there was no way that he was going to be replaced as Master at the end of the Wretched Scrattle. It was impossible. They’d made sure of that . . . or so Marl said, at least. But he’d also read enough history books to know that these things somehow always had a way of ending with a dead dark wizard being thrown out of a tower by a heroic knight. Always. So now seemed like as good a time as any to take a well-deserved vacation.

  It would take several months, at least, for the Supplicants to find him. In the meantime, he’d either be replaced, in which case he’d never return, or the Wretched Scrattle would’ve failed to produce a winner, in which case Marl would probably be doing his job anyway. Either way his days were numbered.

  “Going somewhere?” squeaked a horribly familiar voice.

  The Master turned to find a familiar face sitting atop the largest of his many trunks that were scattered throughout the chamber.

  “Grunda.”

  “Master.”

  “Didn’t I fire you?”

  Grunda crossed her arms tightly and grinned.

  “Technically, I quit.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am going somewhere. I’m taking a little vacation.”

  “A vacation? It kinda seems like you’re fleeing for your life,” said Grunda.

  “I don’t see why they have to be mutually exclusive!” he snapped.

  The Master turned his back on the goblin and returned to his folding, suddenly embarrassed to be holding his underwear in front of her. Goblin or not, she was still a lady.

  “If you want an apology, you won’t get one,” he muttered.

  “I don’t want an apology.”

  “Then what do you want?” whined the Master, wadding up his underwear and stuffing it angrily into the trunk.

  “Now that’s a good question,” said Grunda.

  She snapped her fingers and suddenly appeared on the bed directly in front of the Master. For years, the Master had prided himself on instilling fear in all the denizens of the dungeon, but apparently she hadn’t been paying attention. It was like staring failure in the face.

  “I’m going to save the dungeon and I want your help.”

  The Master laughed. It was the fake kind of laugh that not even the person pretending to laugh enjoyed the sound of.

  “I’m serious,” said Grunda.

  “I know,” he said. “That’s what makes it funny.”

  The Master sighed and his shoulders fell. He seemed relieved to be finished with the part of the conversation where he had to put on airs.

  “Save the dungeon?” he laughed. “Save it from what? The Wretched Scrattle? It’s too late for that.�
�

  “Thanks to you,” said Grunda.

  “If you think my opinion matters more than a flea fart in a hurricane when it comes to the whims of the royal family, you’re kidding yourself,” the Master sneered. “Maybe the King will do a better job listening to whoever takes my job when I’m dead.”

  “Now you’re getting it,” said Grunda.

  “Is that so?” he asked, snatching back a blackdoor bead that Grunda had picked out of his luggage. He returned it to the large assortment of them that was lining the bottom of his suitcase.

  “Somebody is going to win the Wretched Scrattle,” said Grunda.

  “Is that so?” said the Master suspiciously. “I do hope you realize that it can’t be you, right? You read the rules, I take it? No magic users allowed. Period. That includes wizards, mages, warlocks, witches, sorcerers, summoners, necromancers, geomancers, clerics, shamans, as well as creatures of the elemental, spectral, or otherwise innate supernatural origins? I’m afraid that means you’re disqualified.”

  “That’s why I had to speak with you now. Once the Wretched Scrattle starts, I won’t be allowed back inside. But it doesn’t matter anyway. I didn’t mean me.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  The Master gave up on his laundry and walked over to his personal bar, made from a hollowed-out giant’s skull. He poured himself a glass of chartreuse liquid, added in three perfectly round spheres of ice, and slumped down into a large leather chair.

  “This may come as somewhat of a shock to you, but I’ve never been much of a wizard,” he said.

  Grunda bit her tongue so hard it began to bleed.

  “But what I lack in innate magical ability, I’ve always made up for in other ways. I’ve always been cleverer than the next wizard, or more devious, or more ambitious. I mastered the blackdoor machine. I did that by myself. I’m the only person who has been able to wield its power since it was first created by Elphond the Evil, the original Master of the Black Mountain and the greatest wizard who ever lived. Despite my magical deficiencies, I’ve destroyed wizards who were a hundred times more powerful than me. Do you want to know how?”

  The Master took a long, slow drink of the chartreuse liquid and then set the glass down. When he did, several small sparks erupted from it.

  “It’s because I don’t play their game. Most wizards want to play a game of wizard versus wizard, flinging silly spells at each other, but not me. Why play a game that I know I’m going to lose? I don’t play the wizard, I play the person. I destroy my enemies by understanding them better than they understand themselves. I know what they’re going to do next, and I anticipate their moves. Mostly, I just wait for them to make a mistake, and then I capitalize on it. This strategy served me well until it didn’t—on the day I took over as Master of the Black Mountain. To be quite frank, it was the stupidest move I ever made.”

  The Master finished whatever liquid was in his glass.

  “Being the Master is a losing game. It’s rigged. Do you know why? It’s because it’s not our game. It belongs to the Eyes in the Dark. The longer I’m alive, the more I think we’re all just playing his game, even beyond the Black Mountain, even past the Witchkünder Mountains, even across the Nameless Sea. There’s nowhere you can go where he can’t whisper in your ear, where he doesn’t watch you as you sleep. The Eyes in the Dark that Watch the World.

  “I love the dungeon,” he continued. “I’ve given everything I had to maintain the balance while being pulled in a thousand ways at once, and through it all I’ve kept it running. I’ve given my blood and sweat and tears to this place, and what has it given me in return? The chance to slink away in the night with my tail between my legs or face my inevitable demise. Some choice.”

  The Master walked back to his bed, shut the trunk he’d been packing with an emphatic klatch!, and looked at Grunda. For a moment, he thought that maybe he’d moved her to tears with his dramatic speech, but then he recalled that her dinner-plate eyes were always watery. He’d done his best yarn spinning in ages, and she didn’t look the least bit moved by his performance. On cue, the goblin yawned.

  “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?” she asked casually.

  The Master sighed.

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll bite. Let’s say you’re telling the truth. If it’s not you, then who do you want to win the Wretched Scrattle?”

  Grunda paused. It was her chance to really amp up the drama.

  “Thisby Thestoop.”

  The Master blinked.

  “Who?”

  Chapter 11

  Thisby turned in time to see the girl in the muddy dress running for her full-steam but not in time to brace herself for impact. The two of them went toppling to the ground, Thisby landing on her backpack like a turtle.

  “THISBY! THISBY! It’s you!” her assailant screeched like a barn owl. She had Thisby by the shoulders and was shaking her rather violently. Her face was so mud-covered that it took Thisby longer than she’d like to admit to process what was happening. But when it hit, it hit all at once. It was as if their friendship had been locked inside a glass case in a museum—she could look in on it when she wanted, but she could never touch it, never be on the other side of the glass. The recognition of Iphigenia’s face had been like a hammer, and once the glass had been shattered it was all suddenly real again. The little things like sneaking out barefoot to eat cake late at night in one of the castle’s many kitchens; the big things like fending off wyverns or tumbling over waterfalls. There was so much crammed inside that one glass case that Thisby wondered how she’d managed to fit it all in.

  Thisby’s brain was so preoccupied with memories that her mouth forgot how to work.

  “Iphigenia?” said Mingus.

  “Mingus! Thisby!” yelled Iphigenia, completely unafraid of making a scene.

  Thankfully, the people of Three Fingers weren’t the kind to stop and stare. Stopping and staring led to knowledge, and as far as the villagers were concerned, knowledge led to nothing but trouble.

  The girls stood up at last, Iphigenia helping Thisby up from the mud.

  “H-how? How’d you . . . ,” Thisby began, motioning at Iphigenia’s dress.

  “I was attacked. I got away. I pitchforked a guy in the face. It’s all a blur. It’s not important. But we should get inside before somebody else realizes who I am.”

  Mingus looked the Princess up and down and screwed up his face a little.

  “Do you really think that’s a problem?” he asked.

  Iphigenia shot him a dirty look. Which, given the amount of mud on her face, seemed appropriate.

  “We were supposed to meet at the Drowning Toad.”

  “The Drowned Frog,” Iphigenia corrected.

  “Should we go there?” asked Thisby.

  “Not unless you like to eat your water with a knife and fork,” said Iphigenia.

  Instead they wandered through the city streets until they eventually settled on an establishment with the least disturbing sign they’d come across. It was a painting of a rather cheery-looking rat—seemingly snockered out of his gourd on whatever it was in the jug he was holding—riding a ferocious brindle tomcat as if it were a horse. The name of the inn was written above it in big red letters, The Rat-Upon-a-Cat, but, as they noticed on a chalkboard near the entrance, the proprietor had apparently been considering a name change in recent weeks, and The Ratastrophe seemed to be at the top of the list. It was likely that he was only trying to keep up with the times. Puns had recently arrived in Three Fingers, and although most people still considered them to be a passing fad, any leg up you could get in the overcrowded market that was the grimy, downtrodden, hole-in-the-wall inn game was well worth the effort.

  The Rat-Upon-a-Cat was by no means fancy, but compared to the Drowned Frog, it was almost regal. The girls took a seat at the table farthest away from the inn’s solitary patron, an old woman half-asleep at the bar, and looked at each other as if they weren’t sure whether this was all some sort o
f strange dream.

  It’d been months since Thisby’s visit to Lyra Castelis. Iphigenia looked roughly the same—aside from the mud, of course—but in their time apart, Thisby had grown a few inches and couldn’t help but wonder if it was obvious. She felt weirdly self-conscious about it, as if growing taller was some sort of slight to her former self, the one that Iphigenia had known and befriended. Last month, she’d actually had to add some fabric to the hem of her tunic, and if she grew any more, she was worried she wouldn’t be able to fit through the narrow passages of the Floating River.

  “So,” said Thisby.

  “So,” said Iphigenia.

  They both went silent.

  “You’re an absolute mess,” said Thisby at last.

  Iphigenia burst into laughter.

  “You’re an absolute mess,” said Thisby at last.

  Iphigenia burst into laughter.

  For the next few hours, the girls sat and chatted about everything and nothing in particular while the proprietor brought them tea and bread and an old quill and inkpot, which Iphigenia had specifically requested, much to Thisby’s confusion. Thisby told Iphigenia all about what Marl had been doing to the dungeon, and Iphigenia told Thisby about what was happening in the castle, the looming threat of war between Nth and Umberfall, and how she’d managed to sneak away to Three Fingers. Eventually, the old woman at the end of the bar woke up enough to stumble out the door, and the proprietor politely let the girls know that he’d made up a room for them whenever they were ready. And finally, they found themselves alone in the main room with the dying embers of the fire.

  “What happened to Grunda?” asked Thisby.

  The question had been chewing at her guts for some time, but she was too afraid to risk ruining a nice evening to ask.

  “I don’t know,” said Iphigenia. “The last time I saw her, she was at the foot of my bed, telling me that I needed to come here to Three Fingers to find you. You haven’t seen her?”

  Thisby just sort of shook her head and stared at her empty teacup, saying nothing. Iphigenia didn’t ask for further explanation.