Chapter Eight #3
Maybe not even Old Throte the gargoyle, who came down from his perch atop the tower.
I sent one of the goblins up to Throte with the scorched remnants of the door guards.
True, adventurers killed those gargoyles, not the dragon, but Old Throte had spent the last eight years sitting atop the Master’s Tower, so I hoped the gossip might not have reached him yet.
And he’d saved Bait before, so there was a good chance he’d speak for her, and his word carried weight. I’d put a lot of my hopes on Throte.
Bait, though, kept looking over at the entrance to the cave, hoping for some other saviour to arrive.
None came.
*
The Squinter levitated above the crowd. “Fellow Denizens – now look to his unquestionable majesty, terror of the world and vanquisher of armies, breaker of shields and bane of cities, flame eternal and unendurable, dragon of the Dungeon – Master Nithscalpa!”
“No master o’ mine!” jeered Clickglee.
“Nor mine!” roared Second-Sister. She flicked her spiked tail at Squinter.
“Only a human can claim the tower!” blustered the bloodbeast. “It’s in the Rules. Tell that whippersnapper of a wyrm to have respect for tradition.”
Throte cleared his throat, spitting out a mouthful of dust. “Peace,” he said. “This is a Levelling. No fighting. No fighting.”
The ghast chortled. It was not a pleasant sound.
“Nithscalpa,” continued Throte, “you called this gathering. You may address it.”
Hot smoke billowed from the eastern entrance, and the ground shook as the dragon dragged his massive bulk through the narrow tunnels. He was too big to enter the cave, but he stuck his eye to the cave mouth and glared at us all.
“The kill is mine,” he purred. “That human. I will eat her.”
“Only if the Levelling agrees that the kill was made in accordance with the Rules,” said Throte, and the dragon’s furious gaze flashed upon the gargoyle.
“You of all people shall not gainsay me, old stone! All this is your fault, is it not? Were you not commanded by the Master to bring me the human child once he was done with her?”
“That is not relevant to this Levelling,” said Throte faintly. He hunched under the withered remnants of his wings, as if embarrassed.
“And it wasn’t me!” shouted Bait. “That was the princess, and I’m not her. I’m not even human.” She spat the last word.
Throte shook his head. “I assure you, child, it was you I carried down from the tower. That matter is not for debate.”
Bait hung her head and listened as older and greater powers argued where she belonged and whether she might live or die.
The ghast leaned forward, adding its hideous stink to the sulphurous dragon-smoke. “Is it so, Throte?” Its voice was horribly soft, like something rotten. “Did the Master give this kill to Nithscalpa?”
“There was no kill,” replied Throte. “The Master employed the dragon to fetch the human child from the surface.”
“Not human,” interjected Bait.
“For this service, Nithscalpa received recompense.”
“Irrelevant!” snarled Nithscalpa. “You were told to bring me the remnants when he was done.”
“I brought some remnants—” began Throte.
“Scraps! Rags! Not my rightful kill!”
“Carrion-eater!” jeered Second-Sister. “Nothing but a fiery crow!” First-Sister silenced Second.
“Is that true, Throte?” asked the ghast. “Did you spare the human child?”
“Yrn Kyos made me,” said the gargoyle slowly, “to defend his tower. Long I guarded it against intruders. Many spears splintered on my scales. These claws took many lives. But all of them . . . all of them chose to cross the threshold. All of them chose to test their luck against the Dungeon. All of them were worthy foes. When I killed, I felt no regret. And on the rare occasions I was defeated—” and here he honoured me with a nod, “afterwards, I could serve loyally, for I knew too that they were worthy of the Master’s throne. ”
He pointed at Bait. “This one came to the Dungeon unformed. Killing her then did not seem right to me. I may have misinterpreted Master Orphir’s intent somewhat; if I did, I shall apologise to him when he returns.
But what is done is done.” The gargoyle leaned back and folded his arms and wings, a double gesture of disinterest. “Her fate, now, is up to this Levelling.”
Obviously, my heart did not sink, nor was there a pit in my stomach to quease. I felt my dismay in the orbital ridges above my eye sockets, as though an anvil had slammed into my brow. Old Throte commanded the most respect in the Dungeon; without his clear support, we were in trouble.
“The thief admits his crime!” crowed Nithscalpa.
“The mortal was mine to devour, and she was stolen from me. But—” he purred with magnanimity, “I shall forgive Throte for his disobedience, and the goblins and any others who sheltered the human in her time here – so long as she is given to me now. She has no standing here.”
He hissed out a long plume of foul smoke. Most of the goblins squeaked and fell back. First-Sister restrained Second with a paw. Bait blinked through the acrid fumes, staring back defiantly at Nithscalpa. Afterwards, she told me she’d got used to smoke and bad smells in Clove’s kitchen.
Through the smoke I saw the green eyes of the ghast, weighing and watching.
“Human enough, perhaps,” he mused.
“Not human,” insisted Bait.
“The Rules do not protect her,” said the dragon. “Give her to me.”
I should have spoken up then. I flapped my jaw, but I did not have the courage.
Clickglee did.
“We had a Levelling.” He shambled to his feet.
With practised disinterest, he stuck one immensely long finger up his nose, which was cavernous enough to swallow the digit and a goodly portion of his hand.
He dug around inside as he spoke. “Already talked about this, back when you was having a nice nap for yourself. Everyone said she could stay. I’d have thought Balor would have told you that.
” He flicked a boulder of snot at the Squinter.
The Squinter bobbed and dodged. “The minotaur spoke for her!” he squeaked. “He made them take her in!”
“I know no minotaur,” said Throte, querulously.
“Sir Peledon,” muttered Bait, but only I was close enough to hear her.
“ ’e’s new,” said Clickglee. “Newish. Big lad. Lovely and violent.”
“The minotaur is known to me,” said the ghast with a scowl.
Bait had followed Sir Peledon’s trail down to the lowest levels of the Dungeon.
The ghast lived down there; it was likely they’d crossed paths.
Darker scars mottled the eerie luminescence of the ghast’s greenish hide – had some of them been left by horn or axe? I couldn’t tell.
The dragon’s gaze flickered around the cave. “Let him step forth, then,” he roared, “if he would speak! Let him challenge my word now!”
Bait looked over her shoulder at the cave mouth. It remained empty.
“Well then,” continued Nithscalpa, with silky confidence, “what was decided can be undecided. What was stolen can be restored.” He lifted his head and addressed the whole Levelling.
“Hark, Denizens of the Dungeon! It is I who speak, Nithscalpa the dragon! I who am fire and death! Nithscalpa, breaker of mountains, grandest of perils! This minotaur dares not speak against me, and that is wisdom, for it is folly to defy the dragon. Behold! I am grown strong! My talons sharper than any troll’s tooth!
My scales are harder than the stone of any gargoyle!
My tail lashes with the force of an earthquake!
My wings outrace the wind! My shadow is colder than the touch of any wraith!
And my breath, my breath . . . ah, let the manticores tell of the ruin I bring to my foes! ”
Second-Sister yowled and lunged forward, but First-Sister held her back. Breaking the truce of the Levelling was against the Rules.
Nithscalpa let the thunderous echoes of “foes” fade away, then changed back to his cloying purr.
“I did not speak at the last Levelling, but hear me now: none of you need fear my wrath – so long as you call me Master, and give me one thing, this little thing I desire. A human that has no place down here.”
Bait sprang to her feet. “This is my home! I came back because my place is here! He says humans have no place in the Dungeon. That’s not true, and he knows it!
” She lifted me up and brandished me to make her point.
“Cornelius was Master, and he was human! And Yrn Kyos! And Orphir!” She pointed at the dragon.
“He talks about how big and strong he is, but he can’t claim the tower!
He doesn’t get to break the Rules! He’s no Master of the Dungeon! ”
One of the kobolds, overcome with fury at Bait’s defiance of the dragon, flung a spear at her. It was a poor throw, and a poor ending for the kobold. The ghast reached out a long arm, and the touch of the ghast is death. The kobold dissolved into bubbling slime.
So, in a manner of speaking, did the Levelling. Squabbling, shouting, snarling, and above it all the bloodbeast’s cry of “Order! Order! Don’t forget the Master’s Rules!”
Bait’s lair in the Entrance Hall was gone.
We retreated to the manticores’ temple on the Fifth.
First-Sister and I pawed through the ashes of the Levelling, arguing over the aftermath.
Bait sat in a corner, brooding like a gargoyle, feeding scraps to Gloop, which by then had regrown big enough to crawl onto her lap like a gelatinous kitten.
“None of them want to risk confronting Nithscalpa,” I said, “but none of them want to acknowledge him as Master, either. So, they hope the grounds for the confrontation will go away.”