Page 35 of The Dungeon Book

“Your nose is an icicle, child. Come warm yourself.”

There was no light in the little cottage except the glowing embers of the fire, which made it all the more welcome to Bait.

“Ah, it’s been an age and an age since anyone came to hear my stories,” said Atten. “A coin’ll buy you a tale.”

Bait had only one coin. She weighed it in her hand. “All I have is silver.”

Atten frowned.

“What is your name, child?”

After a pause, she answered: “Ealdufrida.”

“Have you nothing smaller, Ealdufrida?”

“I only have the one coin.”

“And you wish to spend it on this?”

“I want to know about Sir Peledon.”

“A silver’ll buy you all I know of him.”

It took the squire the rest of the afternoon and a goodly portion of the evening to tell the story of Sir Peledon in his fashion. His fashion was initially enthusiastic – his eagerness to demonstrate some of Sir Peledon’s more impressive sword fights was unimpeded by his blindness – and largely concerned with jousting tournament rankings from thirty years ago.

I shall summarise thusly:

Sir Peledon’s tale? Glorious.

Reputation? Spotless.

Courage? Unassailable.

Notable deeds: Too many to mention even in summary. He and Prince Arus won the Battle of the Pines and brought peace to the north, he rescued Aldebeth from the Knight Gules, he slew the Rat Bishop in the sewers under Crowhaven. Most of the tales Atten told were from the early days of Sir Peledon’s long career, and it was clear he’d told them many times before. They were new to Bait, even if they confused her. They were upside down from her perspective: why praise Sir Peledon smashing his way into the lair of some poor Rat Bishop and murdering him without cause? Why did the story describe the Labyrinth of Endless Night as a bad place? It sounded quite nice.

But she held her tongue.

As twilight gathered, Atten’s repertoire of rehearsed stories ran dry, he grew tired and he wandered into rambling reminiscences, which made even less sense to Bait. She found it hard to concentrate.

Then one tale caught her attention.

*

“Sir Peledon was married?” interrupted Bait.

“For twelve years he put aside axe and armour,” murmured Atten, “and lived in bliss in his castle at Lake Mistmere. But then word came that a dragon of the ancient world had arisen to trouble the kingdom, that Queen Aldebeth was dead and her infant daughter stolen. So Peledon bade farewell to his wife and his own daughter and set out to rescue the princess. He called me from retirement, too. I thought our day was gone. One last quest, he said. He knew that there were no heroes of his like in this world any more, and that if he could not find the stolen child, she would surely perish.

“The trail brought us here, to the accursed Underhalls! Sir Peledon told me to wait, said he would go into the Dungeon alone. I was to wait. I waited. I waited. And no word came. No word ever came.”

Atten fell silent. His chin drooped to his chest.

Bait could not tell if he was weeping.

“He’s alive, you know. Sir Peledon. I’ve seen him.”

“Ah, child, if he were alive, he would have returned. Only death could stay that man keeping his word.”

“He can’t. He got turned into a minotaur. And he’s probably forgotten his own name by now. But he’s alive.”