by Zac Gorman
Elfriede’s fingertips brushed against Thisby’s sleeve just as she squeezed through into the room, but Elfriede couldn’t hang on. Thisby could hear Elfriede and the others shouting on the other side of the crack, but for now she was free, for as long as the ice would hold.
“Nice work back there,” she said to Mingus.
“Ditto,” he said. “Pfft! Magic lantern!”
“You’re kinda like magic, I guess,” she admitted.
Mingus slid his eyes back into place. He tended to feel self-conscious without them.
“You’re my magic lantern,” she teased.
“How dare you,” he said. “I’m a pewder sér.”
Thisby tapped on his jar playfully. “Yes. You. Are.”
“It looks empty,” said Mingus, looking around.
The room they’d entered looked like an old throne room, only everything was covered in a layer of ice. For that reason, it was shockingly well-preserved compared to the rest of the rooms in the dungeon. The tapestries were intact, untorn, their colors still shining out brightly from beneath a crystalline coating of ice. The forms and figures of the furniture and decorations were warped and distorted by the way that light hit the curves in the ice that surrounded them, but otherwise it all made for a rather idyllic setting.
Thisby cupped her hands over her mouth like a megaphone and shouted, “Hello,” over and over. There was no response.
“Hey, what are you doing?” said Mingus.
“Hello?” bellowed Thisby again.
“Something’s going to hear you!” scolded Mingus.
Thisby turned with an annoyed look. “That’s the entire point of saying hello.”
“I mean something . . . bad,” said Mingus.
“Hello?” repeated Thisby, ignoring his warnings.
There was still no answer.
“Where are they?” Thisby asked, to nobody in particular.
Mingus replied regardless. “Who are you looking for anyway?”
“Ice wraiths.”
“Of course you are,” said Mingus.
Thisby made her way to the back of the chamber. There was a raised platform upon which sat three grand thrones. The one in the middle was larger than the other two, just as the one in the middle had been in the throne room of Nth when Thisby had visited. It was a perfect reminder of the ubiquitous vanity and pettiness of all kings everywhere. Whether they lived in the wealthiest city in the world or buried deep within the Black Mountain, some things were universal.
Thisby was just about to shout hello yet again when she noticed something behind the center throne. She made her way behind it and stared at a large hole in the wall, easily as wide as three of herself laid head to toe.
“What is it?” asked Mingus.
Thisby ran her fingers around the edge of the hole, which had been smoothed over with ice.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But we’re going to find out.”
With some effort, she climbed up into the hole. Inside, the hole became a long tunnel, twisting into darkness up ahead. She passed Mingus’s light around the entrance to the hole and saw deep, angry gouges in the tunnel’s walls, huge claw marks that set off a primordial warning in her brain, a basic evolutionary signal practically begging her to run away. She ignored it.
“Claw marks,” said Thisby. “Like the ones we saw in the rock golem and the catoblepas’s cave. Like the ones we’ve been seeing around here ever since the Wretched Scrattle began.”
“Maybe we should go?”
Thisby could hear the tremor of fear in his voice.
“Something happened here,” she intoned, trying not to betray the same weakness.
Her steps echoed down the tunnel as she walked farther in. An unslakable curiosity was drawing her in, deeper down the tunnel—at least, that was what she hoped it was. She felt powerless to resist. She had to know what was doing this.
Back behind her, she could hear Elfriede and the others still chipping away at the ice wall, but it seemed so far away that it didn’t matter. They’d get through eventually, but it would take a long time. Right now her best option was to keep moving forward.
As she ventured farther on into the tunnel, Thisby noticed the ice melting and spotted a trail of footprints in the wet, muddy earth. Icicles dripped into them. They were strangely familiar. Up ahead she heard the sound of crunching and slurping. A dim light shone around the next bend of the tunnel. She stopped. It was right around the corner.
She had no weapon to draw, no backpack full of tricks to get her out of trouble. It was just her and whatever was lurking around the corner. Mingus was silent, frozen in terror. Thisby took a step forward. Then another. The crunching grew louder.
When she saw it, she couldn’t explain what “it” was. Only that it was somehow wrong. There was a jumble of parts put together incorrectly, like a Deep Dweller. Long tentacles and arms and legs and teeth that seemed to have been hastily assembled onto the body of something that seemed far too human. It had long, dark hair and looked almost like a boy but it was far too large, easily the size of a troll. It huddled in the tunnel, stooped and miserable, holding on to a skeletal figure clad in gray robes that could only be the missing ice wraith. When the creature turned its head, she wasn’t prepared for what she saw.
“Ingo?” she said as if she were dreaming.
When Thisby saw it, she couldn’t explain what “it” was.
The Deep Dweller with Ingo’s face screeched at her, dropped the ice wraith, and took off the opposite way down the tunnel as fast as it could run. The abomination retreated from the light, and Thisby stood there staring after it until it had vanished completely.
After some incomprehensible amount of time, the ice wraith moaned and Thisby snapped back to reality.
“He’s dying,” she muttered.
Thisby stared at the wounded ice wraith, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She couldn’t help it. There was no way to explain what she’d seen. It was as if Ingo had come back from the dead as a Deep Dweller and had been let loose in the dungeon. Or maybe he’d never died at all. They’d never found his body. Still, none of it made any sense. You didn’t just turn into a Deep Dweller. You were either born one or you weren’t. Right?
“What about me? Can I touch him?” Mingus asked. His voice startled Thisby as if she’d forgotten he could speak at all.
“I don’t . . .” She trailed off.
“The flame that never goes out. The light of the stars itself. That’s what Bero said about pewder sérs. I can do this,” said Mingus.
“No,” said Thisby. “Absolutely not. It’s too risky.”
“I saved Iphigenia. I can save him. What makes one life more important than any other?” said Mingus.
Thisby held Mingus up in front of her face and looked him square in his button eyes. He shaped his jelly into a wobbly smile and glowed a comforting gold color. Thisby sighed.
“I’m not your master. It’s your choice,” she said. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said.
Thisby held her breath, opened his jar, and set him down onto the wounded chest of the ice wraith. The moment he touched the heaving chest of the creature, a horrible hissing sound made Thisby wince, but when she opened her eyes, Mingus was glowing. Slowly the ice wraith’s wounds healed shut, and when Mingus was done, Thisby helped him slide back into his jar.
“I’m not sure if you’re brave or just stubborn,” she said lifting her friend’s jar and tightening the lid back on.
Mingus smiled back, a bit worn out from his expenditure of energy. “Can’t I be both?”
“Both it is,” said Thisby.
They watched the wounded ice wraith begin to regain his bearings, the dim blue light returning to his undead eyes. The wraith didn’t sit up as much as he floated upright until he hovered several inches above the ground. The wraith adjusted his crown and looked down at Thisby and Mingus, still a bit disoriented after everything that had happened.
“Yoooooou
saaaaaaaved meeeeee . . . ,” said the ice wraith once his breathing returned to normal. “Hooooow caaannnnn I eveeeerr repaaaaayyyy yooooooou?”
“It’s nothing. Really,” said Mingus.
The ice wraith disagreed. Once they were back in the throne room, the ice wraith insisted on dumping a handful of precious gems into Mingus’s jar, most of which absorbed into his body, where they floated around like marshmallows in jelly. After his debt was repaid, the ice wraith took a seat on the center throne, and Thisby approached him with the appropriate formality.
“We need your help,” said Thisby with a small bow.
“It woooooould beeeee myyyyy honooor, Mssssss. Thesssssstoooop.”
“Is there another way out of here?” asked Thisby.
She noticed that Elfriede and the others had given up on chipping their way through the ice wall. Without the proper tools it would’ve taken too long, and by then they must’ve figured Thisby would be long gone. They may not have been the nicest people in the world, but they weren’t stupid. Thisby could only hope that they wouldn’t harm Bero or Vas. She wished there was more that she could do for them, but since they hadn’t been harmed so far, she couldn’t see why Elfriede would do so now.
The ice wraith gave the best directions to the castle that he could, while Thisby took diligent notes on a scrap of cloth with some makeshift charcoal they’d made from a pointy stick and some ash. It was the first time in too long that she had taken any notes, and doing so brought her a profound sense of relief. It felt good to get back to basics. Writing things down. Organizing information into something useful. There was a power in that. A sense of control she hadn’t felt in too long. It was a welcome sensation with how chaotic everything else had been over the past few weeks.
Thisby knew it was silly to ever consider a dungeon full of monsters “safe,” yet that was close to how she’d felt before the Wretched Scrattle. The dungeon had been her home. It was her safe place . . . even when it wasn’t. But ever since the Wretched Scrattle, the dungeon hadn’t felt very safe at all, and if she was being totally honest, it hadn’t felt much like home, either.
Outside the ice wraith’s den, Thisby was relieved to find that Elfriede and the others hadn’t been waiting. If it really was all about money, perhaps they’d thought that winning the Wretched Scrattle was more valuable than the ten thousand gold reward for Thisby’s capture. Whatever it was, it seemed obvious that they’d decided to go on without her, and she was thankful for that. She didn’t let her mind linger on the thought too long, but she was also relieved that she didn’t find Bero and Vas outside the den, either.
If Thisby stuck to the ice wraith’s path, she should arrive at the gates by evening, and despite her other anxieties, the news practically made her heart sing. The Wretched Scrattle had been taxing, and the knowledge that it would soon be over warmed her as she left the chilly ice wraith’s den behind and continued on her journey. She even allowed her mind to wander.
What was she really going to do when she won the Wretched Scrattle? She didn’t want to be Master, but she supposed she would have to take the position, at least for a while until they figured things out. Would she have to sleep in Castle Grimstone from now on? The thought of leaving her bedroom behind made her feel a kind of homesick queasiness that she hadn’t expected. The only thing that gave her any solace was the hope that she could pass the job off to Grunda quickly. If she insisted, she was sure there was no way Grunda would say no.
It would all be over soon enough. She’d win the tournament, kick out the Overseer, and then there’d be plenty of time to figure out the rest. Plenty of time to get everything back to normal. Back to how it should be. Thisby as gamekeeper. Feeding the trolls and watering the wereplants and scraping the gnoll pits. Everything would be back to normal soon.
The air grew warmer, and somewhere nearby a cave cricket chirruped.
Decades after the Wretched Scrattle, after the history books had all been written, revised, rewritten, thrown away, and written again by someone who’d never lived through the events in the first place, the proprietor of the Rat-Upon-a-Cat inn in the small village of Three Fingers would post a sign on the front of his property that read, “Visit the room where Queen Iphigenia declared war on Umberfall.” It was false advertising. What she actually said was:
“I’d like to stay here and see where this goes.”
Admittedly, that didn’t have the same ring to it.
“Is that a request? Or your official word?” asked General Lillia Lutgard. The General sat across from the Princess, eyeing her like a jeweler searching for imperfections in a gemstone.
“It’s my official word,” said Iphigenia.
“You sound sure.”
“I am.”
Lillia nodded as if to indicate no imperfections had been found.
Iphigenia continued, “If Umberfall has snuck an agent into the Wretched Scrattle, then I believe there’s a good chance of invasion regardless of whether they win or lose. War is inevitable. That means we’ll need an organized defensive front here at the base of the Black Mountain to hold them off. I would rather lead them myself, here, at the front, than from a hundred miles away, safely hidden behind the walls of Lyra Castelis. I’ll require your help, of course, General.”
“Very well,” said Lillia. “I’ll send word to the castle at once.” She paused. “Although it’s you who’ll have to deal with your father, not me.”
There was something winking and conspiratorial about how the General said that last part that made Iphigenia fight back a smile. She nodded, stood up, and dismissed Lillia.
After the General left, Iphigenia summoned Oren, the soldier who’d informed them of Umberfall’s plans. He’d been tasked with sending scouts into the Black Mountain to head off Vaswell Gandy before he could make it to the top of the mountain, as well as opening a line of communication with Overseer Marl if possible, to warn her about what was happening. This was assuming she wasn’t involved. The idea that Marl had been compromised during her time in Umberfall while working as a spy for Nth nagged at Iphigenia. Mostly because if that was true, then there was nothing left for her to do. There would be a war, and the Black Mountain would be stuck in the middle—Thisby would be stuck in the middle.
This was the last bit of information she’d asked Oren to gather from the Black Mountain, as a personal favor. She needed to find out if Thisby was okay. And as much as Iphigenia refused to admit it, that was the first question on her mind when Oren entered her room. Not if he’d figured out whether Marl was working for Umberfall to bring down the Black Mountain, not if he’d heard whether Vaswell Gandy had succeeded in his mission, but if Thisby was okay.
Oren bowed quickly and Iphigenia nodded in return.
“What have you heard?” she asked, dispensing with formalities.
“Nothing yet. Our scouts haven’t returned from the mountain. It could be days before they return.”
Iphigenia’s heart sank. It was still early. She knew that. But she’d hoped for something. Even if it was just a rumor.
“There’s something else,” said Oren. He seemed nervous but then again, he often seemed that way. Especially around the Princess.
“Go on,” she coaxed.
Oren stepped aside from the doorway, and in hobbled a tiny, knobby old goblin.
“Hello, dear.”
“Grunda!”
The goblin smiled.
“Hah! Good to know that the Princess of Nth remembers my name,” she said with a playful snort.
Grunda invited herself in, and Iphigenia waved her over toward a vacant chair. Thankfully, Iphigenia had managed to secure a second chair from the proprietor of the Rat-Upon-a-Cat. It was quite the luxury.
“How have you been?” asked the Princess, but the goblin waved her off.
“Never mind the small talk . . . let’s get down to it!” said Grunda as she grunted and settled into her seat. Old goblins, like old people, do a lot of grunting when they sit.
&nbs
p; “Yes, let’s,” said Iphigenia with a smile.
Grunda’s demeanor was a welcome change from the way Iphigenia noticed the soldiers had been treating her. Even Lillia was guilty of being overly formal at times. Iphigenia often found herself missing the way Thisby spoke to her. As if she were a regular person. It was refreshing to hear the goblin do the same.
Grunda turned in her seat to face Oren, who was standing by the door, looking bewildered. “You can call off your scouts, if you want. I can tell you exactly what’s going on in the Black Mountain.”
“Please do,” said Iphigenia.
Grunda turned back to the Princess, who in turn nodded for Oren to close the door.
“First of all, Thisby’s all right. She’s doin’ her best and it’s hard. But she’s all right.”
Iphigenia felt her eyes get a little watery with relief. That Grunda had known it was her first concern, that she hadn’t had to ask or put on airs, was almost as much of a relief as the words themselves. Iphigenia nodded appreciatively.
“Second, you’re right that there’s a spy from Umberfall making a mess of things. Only I’m not so sure you’ve got the right guy.”
Oren made a face. “I beg your pardon?”
Grunda turned to look at the soldier and then back to Iphigenia. “Why are the pretty ones always so slow?”
“Excuse me!” said Oren, turning red, but Iphigenia waved him to be quiet.
“Go on,” said Iphigenia.
“That kid, Vaswell Gandy, I’m not sure he’s your spy. His father has dealings with Umberfall, but I’m not so sure about the kid.”
“And how would you know?” demanded Oren, speaking out of turn.
Iphigenia shot him a dirty look, but he was right. It was a fair question.
“I’ve got eyes and ears on the inside,” said Grunda.
“There’s a barrier preventing magical beings from entering the dungeon during the Wretched Scrattle, correct? How can you get inside?” asked Iphigenia.