Chapter Ten #2
When the moment came, he was so overwhelmed with terror at the sight of the onrushing dragon that he couldn’t speak or think.
He felt very much like a sausage staring at a frying pan that was somehow also a devouring maw.
But all his followers saw was their leader, Sir Rudyard, standing still as a marble statue, unyielding in the face of terror until the last possible moment.
Then the dragon was upon them, and they drove their spears into his exposed flank.
Halts splintered and spearpoints bent on unyielding scales, but some got through.
Nithscalpa’s nostrils flooded with the hot stench of his own blood.
The dragon reared back, and something in Sir Rudyard snapped.
He had a good sword, and it bit deep.
Nithscalpa stumbled back. Flame rose in his gullet, but he was turned around, confused, and dared not breathe.
Not when he might catch his own precious treasure hoard in the blast. He fought to get his bearings, but the damnable humans were all around him, stinging and pricking.
He swiped blindly with his claws and tail, and caught only stone.
This corner of the cave was too cramped. A dragon does not squeeze or cower.
A dragon soars.
He shook himself free from the pestilent humans and scuttled up the cliff, claws digging deep into the rock.
He’d climb up the crevasse, then look back in dragonfire.
One good blast would kill most of the wretched apes, and he could let his kobolds and trolls deal with any survivors.
And he would reach the open sky. Aloft, he was unassailable.
He’d swoop down on the human keep and reduce it to cinders.
He’d turn the forests to ash. Lay waste to all the lands.
His fires were up now, wrath burning glorious in his belly, apocalypse brimming in his throat.
He’d burn the world, then come back and devour the human child as a sign of his triumph. The thought lifted him as he climbed.
Something caught in his claw. He blinked and squinted, tried to focus his one remaining eye – curse the human who’d maimed him – on whatever tiny stupid obstacle had interrupted his ascension.
Some sort of goblin mischief – a rope strung across the crevasse, a tripwire on a cliff.
The mortal child had been raised by the goblins.
Oh, he’d pay a visit to the trapsmiths for this, see how all their cleverness would avail them against dragonfire!
He tugged.
The rope came away from the cliff face, with a heavy stone at each end.
The sudden weight threatened to drag the dragon down, and then more ropes tangled him.
The net drew tight. Clickglee and all the goblins had been busy with the tools and supplies stolen from the human expedition.
They’d strung the chasm with a spider web of ropes and chains and snares. A dragon-trap for Nithscalpa!
It wasn’t enough to restrain him. He was too strong to be caught by a single rope, or even a dozen. All the boulders and chains could not bring him down. But it slowed him, and caught him for a moment. He inhaled – fire would free him from this latest indignity.
Before he could exhale, Only-Sister sprang from her hidden perch. She landed squarely on Nithscalpa’s chest, knocking him back. Her tail whipped out, again and again, the stinger finding its mark each time. Poison tightened Nithscalpa’s throat, and he choked on his own fire.
Down he fell, crashing like a red comet, bringing with him a cataclysm of falling stones and manticore. He fell onto the hard bed of his own hoard, and scales shattered on his precious diamonds. Hot gold flew like spray from a breaking wave.
He tried to swipe at Only-Sister, but his claw was tangled in a rope.
She leapt past him, claws digging into the delicate wing joint, tail lashing his face, blinding him.
He shrieked and rolled, and felt something break beneath his bulk.
He thrashed, broken wings and tail and claws flailing, ripping, smashing anything within reach.
Small things burst wetly, the blood-smell in his poor scorched nostrils.
He dragged himself back to his feet, claws scrabbling on slick stone. Some impudent creature hewed at him with a sword. He shifted his footing, and the little thing screamed. Nithscalpa licked the mess from his claw. It was tasty, revivifying, but not the meat he really hungered for.
“Where are you?” he snarled.
What of Bait in all this chaos? She waded through drifts of gold towards the minotaur. All was dark, save for the bursts of dragonfire, then the answering thunder of his roars. She navigated by flashes of red light.
Behind her, kobolds and trolls swarmed out of tunnels, rallying under the banner of the false master.
Other Denizens joined them; some out of fear of the dragon, others because the Rule still held.
So guard against any intruders! Keep a watch on the Entrance Hall/For the safe keeping of the Dungeon is the common task of us all.
This was a slaughter Bait had unleashed, and for that she would not be easily forgiven – but that is another part of the story.
For now, she walked through the dark. And Neb followed after.
*
The dragon’s claws had left scars upon scars beneath the minotaur’s matted hair.
Old burns, too. One of his horns was chipped.
The manacles that held him were too tight – or his still-warping flesh had outgrown his bonds.
But worst of all was the way he slumped against the wall, like something hollow and broken.
His eyes were glassy and unseeing. Was there anything left in him at all?
“It’s me,” she pleaded. “Bait.”
He did not respond.
She reached out, and the minotaur flinched from the touch of her hand. But even that spasm of movement cheered her. She drew closer still, and he snorted. She hoped he might remember her scent.
“It’s me,” she said again. She reached for one of his manacles – Clickglee had taught her to pick locks before she could walk – and he snatched his arm away.
“You didn’t have to stay,” she said. “You finished your quest years and years ago. The princess is safe. I’m not her. None of it matters now. But we have to get out of here! Let me help you!”
He snarled at her. Something flickered in the depths of those tormented eyes, between fear and fury.
“Leave him!” shouted Neb. The dragon was moving again, shaking free of the ropes and chains of their snare. Figures moved in the smoke beyond, but she could not tell if they were human or Denizen, foe or friend.
A third time she reached for the minotaur’s manacles, and a third time he flinched away. “NO,” he rumbled.
The dragon charged.
Far above, in the Trapsmiths’ Arcade, I heard his roar.
I felt the Dungeon shake around me. I could do nothing but bear witness, nothing but carry an account of his monstrous wrath out of that devastation.
Shambling he came, every inch of him a wound, his hot blood a red river, tongues of flame hissing from gaping holes in his flanks, but still he charged forward.
Neb ran to meet the monster, snatching a spear from the treasure hoard as he ran.
At the last moment he dropped to one knee and raised the weapon, bracing one end against the dungeon floor as the other skewered the dragon.
Nithscalpa howled as the spear sank into his breast, but even that was not enough to slay the monster.
Monsters and masters do not die easily. Neb tugged at the spear, but it was buried so deep in Nithscalpa that he could not budge it.
The awful head rose.
The awful light of that one remaining eye fell upon him.
The bloodied lips rolled back from awful teeth.
“Please,” whispered Bait, “he’s going to kill Neb! He’s going to kill us all!” She grabbed one of his horns and twisted his head around so she could see his face. “You have to fight him.”
Again, something flickered in the depths of the minotaur.
Bait drew herself up. She closed her eyes.
She thought of how Nala spoke, about the way the surface folk spoke, cloaking everything in double meanings and indirections.
She thought of the old squire, and how he’d stayed loyal to his knight all those years.
She thought of how much Sir Peledon had sacrificed to go in search of the stolen princess, only to end up here, mad and broken and lost in the maze of his own mind. She would justify that sacrifice.
For him, she would try to be someone other than Bait.
She opened her eyes. “I am the Princess Aldebara. You are my champion, Sir Peledon. Fight for me.”
Slow the words, sinking through rank matted hair, through callused hide, through iron-hard skull until they reached the spell-wracked brain.
Slow, very slow, comprehension unfolded in his mind, like a bright thread through a dark labyrinth.
Half-remembered purpose filled him, as if heroism was instinct.
He lifted his manacled hands, proffering her the lock that bound him.
Goblin-quick her fingers.
For a moment, Sir Peledon fought his way back. He rose, casting off his chains, casting off the weight of the dark years, and Bait’s spirit soared to see him renewed.
“My princess,” he said in the surface tongue.
Then he snorted, and looked down at her in bewilderment, and I think I know the source of his confusion.