Page 54 of The Dungeon Book

Second-Sister’s tail lashed, whipping a spike towards Nithscalpa’s good eye. But the dragon was on his guard. His head darted to the side, and the spike splintered on the rock behind him.

“Foolish,” he said, “but I shall give you time to consider wisdom.”

He soared into the sky, dwindling into a reddish dot above the clouds, then circled back, growing in size and brightness as the flames mounted in his gorge. In a fluster of wings and limbs, Second and Bait hauled First-Sister into the shelter of the cave before fire scorched the mountainside.

Nithscalpa doubled back again. He whipped his own long tail against the cave mouth, collapsing it.

The familiar dark swallowed us once more.

We waited for First-Sister to die.

It was a long vigil, and mostly silent.

Second-Sister prowled back and forth. Her sadness and fury were like two tides, one rising and the other ebbing, then switching. Sometimes, when it seemed as though First-Sister would make it through the night, Second-Sister would hiss and sharpen her claws, and mutter about all the ways they would have revenge. They’d reclaim their temple lair, there’d be a feast of bones, they’d sing old songs of triumph, they would be happy in their cruelty. At these times, it was the lion and scorpion in Second-Sister that came to the fore; I could see it in the play of the muscles beneath her tawny hide, and in the way the spiked tail was never at rest, always twitching, always dreaming of stinging the dragon in his most vulnerable spots like that one last eye.

But when First-Sister whimpered, when she coughed up blood, then it was the fluttering bat in Second-Sister that ruled, and the human with all its doubts and restless sorrows. When those sorrows rose in the manticore, I worried about what Second-Sister might do. The dragon had promised to spare her if she handed over Bait and bowed to him as Master. Would pride and spite outweigh fear and sorrow? Would she blame Bait for the deaths of her two Sisters? How frail is friendship compared to the blood of family, or the hunger of a beast?

For my part, I felt utterly useless and impotent. I’d been many things in my life – I’d sold cure-alls and healing potions as a fake magician, and, during my exile on the borderlands, I’d learned to be a passable battlefield physician, sewing up any number of stab wounds. I’d treated both fractured skulls and the after-effects of Mistress Clove’s cooking. Later, of course, I’d been Master of the Dungeon and, and for a little time I wielded real magic. Even the dregs of sorcery could have healed First-Sister’s wounds and saved her life. I had that power once.

But to wield magic, you need nerve and sinew, tongue and hand. All things I lacked.

All I could do was talk, and there are no good words in those hours before a death. Everything’s just hollow noises and waiting.

And Bait? She cradled First-Sister’s head in her lap, and stroked the manticore’s mane and recited a whispered litany. It was just a list of rooms in the Dungeon, repeated over and over, but it seemed to bring some peace to both manticore and child. They could visit them in their memories even if they were denied them in their waking lives.

The air grew so cold even I could feel it in my bones. It grew so dark it was dark even to my eyes. We were not alone in the cave. Second-Sister growled, but it was a hollow, exhausted rattle – and, anyway, there was nothing she could have done.

We will ease her crossing, whispered the wraiths.

“Bait,” I said. “Move away.”

Bait laid First-Sister’s head down, and stepped away.

And then the wraiths were gone, and it was Only-Sister who bowed her head and wept.

After that, we went down again. The manticore limping, still recovering from her wounds, ragged wing folded against her flank. Gloop, oozing along, occasionally distracted by a patch of moss or a few drops of dried blood on the stones. Bait ahead of us, our guide in the dark, soft-footed as a shadow. And me, clutched in her hand like a bony lantern. We went down, our course determined more by gravity than forethought. We wandered for days through the familiar levels, down through the Trapsmiths’ Arcade, the Chasm Hall, the Witch Caves. Always prowling through the side corridors, avoiding the dragon’s minions when we could – and when we could not, Only-Sister was still fearsome. But she was wounded, and her strength ebbing.

“I shall kill him,” muttered Only-Sister. “I shall sting him and boil his blood. I’ll rend him with my claws. I shall tear out his throat. I’ll—”

She stopped and tilted her head, then began muttering again. “We shall kill him. We shall rend him with our claws. We’ll tear out his throat.”

Bait smiled in the dark, and I was no longer worried about Only-Sister turning on us. But I feared what the two of them might do, and spoke up as the voice of reason.

“We need a plan. A destination. A course of action.”

“Death,” said Only-Sister.

Bait hesitated for a moment, then said, “Down.”

“Speaking from experience of both,” I said, “I don’t think those are good options.”

“Down,” said Bait again. “The ghast’s halls.”

“That would be exceedingly unwise,” I said. “I didn’t tell you the story of the ghast before, on the grounds that you were too young to hear such horrors, but if you are bound on travelling in such reaches, you should hear it.”

We encamped near the Hall of Pillars, and I began the tale of the ghast.

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