Thisby Thestoop and the Wretched Scrattle

by Zac Gorman

  Thisby emerged into a scene that was deafening and frantic. The action of the crowd was so chaotic that she had to duck behind a fallen column to gather her wits and plan her next move. Peeking out, she saw more or less what she’d expected: the army of the dungeon was composed mostly of rock imps and skeletons with a few dire rats here and there. The skeletons were doing the majority of the fighting with their scimitars and shields, while the rock imps pounced on those who attempted to flee from the scene. It took several rock imps to bring down a full-grown man, but they were quick, and most of the adventurers didn’t see them coming until it was too late. Their camouflage was that flawless. The dire rats were mostly just there for show, but a few of them had managed to corner some of the adventurers who’d tried to flee from the imps.

  All in all, for the amount of commotion it was creating, it was a fairly unimpressive battle, and Thisby wanted nothing to do with it. This, she realized, was part of the genius of Marl’s second trap. She knew that most adventurers rushing into the dungeon would be eager for some action, and the Overseer was happy to oblige. There were plenty of young men and women who’d only entered the tournament as an excuse to cross swords with a skeleton, so they could scamper back to Three Fingers to sit at the bar later and brag to their friends about the time they competed in the Wretched Scrattle. If those people wanted action, you might as well give it to them here, while they were still in reach of the exit.

  Thisby skirted around the outside of the basilica, ducking from hiding spot to hiding spot. The fray had kicked up enough dust that it helped to conceal her movements so long as she avoided wandering too close to the fallen torches and lanterns that now littered the ground. More than once a group of rock imps passed within a stone’s throw of her position, but she always froze when they did, careful not to alert them with the slightest movement, as rock imps could sense their prey by feeling its vibrations through the stone. She made her way through the chamber until she’d found a good, secluded spot behind a pile of rubble that used to be a Dünkeldwarven statue, and she stopped and pulled out a notebook, which she read by Mingus’s dull glow.

  The exit she was looking for was an almost undetectable passage in the northwest corner of the chamber. According to her notes, the passage would lead her past the rock golem’s cave, and since Thisby knew the poor rock golem had met its untimely end a few weeks earlier, it seemed like the safest path. She tucked the notebook away and looked at Mingus.

  “How are you doing so far?” she whispered to him.

  “So far, so good,” he chirped.

  Thisby knew it was a lie. His wavering faint light gave away his discomfort at being so close to battle, but it’d be pointless to call him out on it now.

  With the fighting mostly confined to the center of the room, Thisby moved with relative ease around the perimeter. A nervous-looking dire rat stalked a bit close to her, but all it took was her tossing him a raw onion from her backpack—one of the few nonessential food items she’d brought with her, thankfully—and the dire rat happily scampered off after the much easier and tastier meal. It was a rule of the dungeon that Thisby had internalized at a young age; there are two ways to satisfy a hungry monster: it can eat you or it can eat something else. Always present it with another option whenever possible.

  Once inside the narrow passage, she paused and let out a long sigh of relief. The sound of battle grew muffled and distant only a few steps into the wall. As far as she was concerned, the adventurers were the most dangerous part of the Wretched Scrattle, and she was glad to be rid of them for the time being.

  Thisby moved with caution through the passage, keeping an eye out for trip wires and foot plates. If Marl had gained access to the Master’s blackdoor machine, there was no corner of the dungeon she wouldn’t have been able to find and booby-trap. If the Master had kept his machine from her, though, then Thisby was going to have a much easier time making her way to the top of the Black Mountain. The problem was that there was no way to know. Around every corner, a gruesome death could be waiting.

  There was a tapping noise up ahead that made Thisby’s heart leap in her chest.

  “Mingus . . . go dark,” she whispered, and he complied.

  Thisby crept down the passage as silently as she could until she heard voices speaking softly up ahead and stopped to listen.

  “Now what?” said a gruff voice.

  “This way,” said another. This one was soft and lilting. It had an almost musical quality.

  Thisby inched forward to get a look.

  “That sounds like a guess,” sighed a young boy.

  Thisby got close enough to peek out from the shadows of the passage. If someone with keen eyes had glanced over, she knew that she likely would’ve been spotted, but at the moment the trio was preoccupied.

  The young boy was dressed in finery and was clearly some kind of noble. Thisby was immediately reminded of Ingo, considering how harshly this handsome and clean young man contrasted with his surroundings. Only where Ingo was dark, this boy was light. While Ingo’s features were sharp, this boy’s were soft. He was somehow both Ingo’s counterpart and opposite simultaneously. The thought troubled Thisby after what had happened last year.

  Across from him stood a rakish man with an eye patch who was scanning the doorway—thankfully not the one in which Thisby was hidden—and next to him was a heavyset, bearded man in some of the most colorful robes Thisby had ever seen. The boy brushed a lock of blond hair out of his face and smiled at the heavyset man.

  “Bero,” he said with an almost mocking politeness, “you’re not getting paid to guess.”

  “I—I know,” stuttered Bero.

  Thisby was far too preoccupied by the glowing red eyes of the creature slinking down the wall behind them.

  Bero was easily a foot taller than the boy and outweighed him by a hundred pounds, but Thisby got the impression that he wasn’t the kind of man who could even comprehend that that was the sort of thing that could be used to one’s advantage.

  “Vas,” rumbled the one-eyed man.

  “What is it?” snapped the boy, who Thisby was quickly beginning to dislike.

  “Trust him. He’s got good”—the one-eyed man paused to consider his wording carefully—“intuition.”

  Vas placed his hands on his hips.

  Bero’s cheeks turned pink at the compliment.

  They continued to talk among themselves, but by that point, Thisby had lost track of their conversation. She was far too preoccupied by the glowing red eyes of the creature slinking down the wall behind them.

  Before she had a chance to consider whether it was really a good idea, Thisby burst forth from the tunnel, waving her arms over her head and shouting like a madwoman. The one-eyed man spun on his heels and drew his longsword, as the larger man ducked and covered. Vas shot Thisby a look that moved imperceptibly between being startled and angry before returning to startled when the beast lunged at the group. It landed inches away from where Vas stood.

  The monster wasn’t one that Thisby had ever seen before in the dungeon. It stood taller than her at the shoulder and resembled something like a bull crossed with a lizard, yet for how clumsy it looked, it moved like a ballet dancer. The one-eyed soldier ran at it, putting his body between Vas and the monster. He slashed it with his longsword but only managed to catch one of the many rigid spines protruding from its back. The beast responded with a tail whip that caught the man square in the chest and sent him flying across the room.

  “Donato!” yelled Bero.

  Vas took off running, but before Thisby even had time to properly curse him for being a coward, she realized he was running toward the monster. The blond boy grabbed a bow, which had been left propped against an unlit brazier, and nocked an arrow. Thisby watched the shot sail wide, and the monster turn its attention toward Bero.

  Bero, for all his size, looked about as tough as a bag of overripe bananas. He threw his hands up in what Thisby could only think of as a “not in the face�
�� pose and turned away from the monster as if that might make it disappear. The monster charged.

  Mingus squealed helplessly in Thisby’s ear as her mind raced. “Do something!”

  “Like what?” snapped Thisby.

  “I don’t know! Something!”

  So she did. Something.

  Thisby dropped her shoulder and ran, slamming her entire body as hard as she could into the side of the beast, T-boning it midstride. It wasn’t much of an impact, and it definitely hurt her more than the monster, but it was enough to ever so slightly alter its course. The beast missed Bero by mere inches and skidded to a halt. The monster looked nonplussed by the maneuver and cocked its head curiously at Thisby, like a confused puppy. Bero slowly withdrew his hands from his face to find himself miraculously undevoured.

  “Why’d you do that?” screamed Mingus.

  “You said, ‘Do something!’”

  “I didn’t mean do that!”

  The monster dug its claws into the hard earth of the cavern floor, ready to charge. There was no way to outrun it now; the monster was too quick and Thisby was too slow.

  The beast growled. Thisby closed her eyes tight and prepared for the worst when she heard a tremendous crack. Through her eyelids, she saw a flash of purple light, and by the time she opened them, the beast was tumbling sideways, where it stopped only once it collided hard with the wall of the cave. Thisby was still rubbing the spots out of her eyes when a second bolt of lightning exploded from across the room and struck the rocks just inches above the creature’s head. Crumbled stone showered down on it, and with a pathetic whine, the beast was gone as quickly as it had arrived, scrambling back into the shadows from which it had emerged.

  When her eyes finally returned to normal, Thisby looked across the room and saw Bero lowering his spell book, the residual magic still crackling in the air around him, creating trails of blue and purple sparks. The one-eyed man stirred in the corner of the room as Bero tucked his spell book back into his satchel, and slowly but surely everyone’s pulses returned to normal.

  “What was that thing?” Vas asked with an air of forced casualness. His hands were still trembling as he lowered the bow.

  “Hodag,” mumbled Donato as Bero helped him to his feet. “Haven’t seen one o’ them in years. Sorry, it caught me off guard, boss.”

  “Just don’t let it happen again,” said Vas.

  Thisby couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  “Um,” said Thisby without a follow-up thought.

  Vas brushed himself off and stood up straighter.

  “Oh! My manners! Excuse me!” he said, practically bouncing over toward Thisby. Apparently his nerves had settled quite quickly. “Vaswell Gandy of the Flatbottom Gandys, but you may call me Vas. Pleased to make your acquaintance. This is Donato Wince, of course, the best hunter in all of Nth!”

  Donato nodded curtly and took his bow back from Vas.

  “Pleased to meet you, milady,” Donato said with a wink at Thisby. At least she assumed it was a wink. There was an equally good chance it was just a blink. With an eye patch, there’s no discernible difference.

  “And this, our savior, the man of the hour, is Bero Lor. On the off chance the lightning bolts didn’t tip you off, he’s a sorcerer.”

  “Conjurer, actually,” said Bero humbly. “It’s not me, it’s the spell books. I just read them. Technically, magic users aren’t allowed to compete in the Wretched Scrattle.”

  “Just reads them? He writes them! He’s too humble,” said Vas.

  “Wait! Yeah! That’s right! No magic users were allowed to enter the tournament! How’d you get in?” asked Thisby.

  Bero blushed. “Small loophole in the fine print. I don’t technically possess any magic, not myself. The books do, and magical implements and tools are allowed. The catch is that like Mr. Gandy was saying, I also happen to write the books. That makes me a bit more, uh, versatile.”

  “Versatile. Good word for it,” said Donato.

  “My father paid top dollar for that versatility,” said Vas with a grin. The statement was followed by an awkward pause that showed up a bit too late and hung around a bit too long.

  “Soooo . . .” Vas trailed off, looking expectantly at Thisby.

  “Oh, right! I’m Thisby. And this is Mingus.”

  “Thisby? Must be a popular name around here,” mumbled Vas.

  “I guess,” said Thisby.

  Somewhere in the distance a dire cricket chirruped.

  “That’s it? Just Thisby then?” coaxed Vas.

  “Oh. Thisby Thestoop. I’m the, uh, gamekeeper here.”

  Vas, Bero, and Donato looked at Thisby, absolutely dumbstruck. She might as well have told them that she was the future Queen of Nth—who, coincidentally enough, was the other “Thisby” who Vas had met just the other day.

  “Are you sure?” asked Vas.

  “Yes, I’m sure!” said Thisby. His incredulity irritated her. Just because she didn’t think it was worth boasting about didn’t mean she didn’t want to be taken seriously.

  “The gamekeeper of this dungeon?” asked Vas.

  Thisby’s face felt hot.

  “Yes, of course of this dungeon!” she snapped.

  A big, goofy smile spread across Vas’s face.

  “I’m sorry! It’s just . . . this is incredible! I can’t believe our luck!” He beamed.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, hesitant to warm up to him despite his brilliant smile and straight white teeth—or perhaps it was because of them.

  There was something about apparent perfection that made it hard to trust somebody. Nobody’s perfect. Thisby knew that. So when she saw something that seemed that way on the surface, it was easy for her to imagine all the lies that so-called perfection must be concealing.

  Vas laughed. “I mean you can help us! Be our guide! We’ll pay you, of course! Handsomely! Anything you want! Name your price! What better advantage is there than having the Black Mountain’s own gamekeeper along?”

  “I-I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you.”

  Vas’s face fell. “What? Why?”

  “First of all, I’m a little at a loss myself. Overseer Marl has changed so much. That beast that just attacked us . . . I’ve never see it before in my life.”

  “Don’t worry about that! You can tell us what you do know! Show us the shortcuts! Give us some tips! We’ll handle the rest. Donato has an extensive knowledge of beasts from all over Nth. I’m sure he’d be happy to share some of that with you, too, if you were interested.”

  “I would love to hear it,” Thisby admitted. “But there’s another problem.”

  “Which is?”

  Thisby paused. She didn’t think Vas and the others seemed the type, but there were plenty of high-level adventurers who’d eagerly slit your throat if you were foolish enough to out yourself as their competition. She dismissed the thought as paranoid. They might be strangers, but so far, they’d shown her nothing but kindness. That the idea had even crossed her mind was enough to remind her there was more than one way to get lost down in the dungeon.

  “I’m actually competing in the Wretched Scrattle,” she said.

  Vas went silent, pursed his lips, and put his hands on his hips. After a moment, he freed his right hand so it could rub his chin thoughtfully. He made a motion like he was stroking a beard, but his face was as clean as Thisby’s. Technically speaking, it was much cleaner. Vas sighed, tapped his foot, and furrowed his brow. He was making a real show of how deeply he was contemplating this unforeseen turn of events.

  “And you plan to win and become Master?” asked Vas.

  Thisby nodded. She couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. It still didn’t feel right to think of herself as going after the job. Part of her was still hoping for a way out.

  “Not a problem,” he said at last.

  “What do you mean?” asked Thisby. She was genuinely curious.

  “I mean, I don’t care if you want to be Master. I’m jus
t here for the sport of it. Maybe grab a little treasure along the way, sure, but it’s fine if you want to be the new Master. When we win—and we will win, with you on our side—we’ll win as a team. And in the end, if you decide that you’d like to be the Master of the Black Mountain, you can go right ahead. I don’t really want all that responsibility, anyway. Besides, you already work here, so it’ll be a much easier transition for you, right? Done and done. I’m glad that’s settled.”

  Bero made stunned noises, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. He obviously had something he desperately wanted to say, but wherever the words were lodged, they weren’t coming up anytime soon. Donato just laughed.

  “Why would I trust you to just hand the position over to me?” asked Thisby.

  “Fair question, but I have one for you. If it wasn’t for Bero’s well-timed lightning bolt, do you think you would’ve made it out of this room? It seems like maybe sticking together could be beneficial for all of us.”

  Thisby paused. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to tell the arrogant noble boy that he had no idea what he was talking about, that she knew the dungeon better than anyone and that she’d be just fine on her own, better even. But she couldn’t. He had a point. She did know the dungeon better than anyone . . . at least, she used to. But that dungeon was gone now. The new one would be full of surprises, and without some help, what really were her odds of winning?

  “I’ll take you as far as Castle Grimstone,” Thisby announced. “Once we’re there, we can part ways at the gates and then it’s everyone for themselves.”

  Vas removed his right glove and extended a well-manicured hand. Thisby shook it. It would be cliché to say that his hand was as soft as a baby’s bottom, and worse than that, it would also be untrue, because it was far softer. Compared to Vas’s hand, a baby’s bottom was like a troll’s neck stubble.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said, looking around. “Now, which way to the castle?”

  The arms of the blackdoor machine danced around the room, loading and unloading scrying spheres—crystal balls showing different locations inside the dungeon—at a record pace. On the walkway below, the Master stood with his hands folded neatly behind his back, bathed in the cold glow of the machine’s viewing screens as they changed rapidly, flicking between events in the dungeon.