Page 92 of The Dungeon Book

“Uncommonly brave.”

“We’ll sing songs about it.”

Scrape went the knife.

Neb suddenly felt very, very far from home.

“Best get on with it, lad.”

“You’re not the first the Chancellor sent, you know. Your bones will have company.”

“Well, we’ll have to defile your corpse a bit. Make it look like the rebels did it. But we’ll do that after. You won’t feel a thing.”

Scrape went the knife. It was very sharp now.

Neb ran. He cast aside his cloak. The wind caught it, and whipped it away. One of his pursuers tried to catch it, and he ran on. He cast aside his bag of coin, and the gold went dancing over the rocks. One turned aside to gather it, and Neb ran on. Only two left. He slashed at his pursuers with his sword, and they knocked it from his hands. One struck at him, but his helm took the blow, and then they were wrestling, rolling down the stony slope, bouncing off rocks, bruised and bleeding, and his enemy on top of him, pinning him.

Neb’s foe did not speak at all, not a cry of triumph or grunt of pain. He only held up that sharp and shiny knife.

The sun came out from behind a cloud, then, bathing the whole valley in golden light, driving back the chill mist. It was suddenly a lovely morning. And out of the retreating mist came the rebel barons.

“Oh,” said the would-be killer, and that was the last thing he said before an arrow caught him.

The rebels surrounded Neb.

“Who are you?” they demanded.

“Neb,” he said.

So Neb became a rebel. And though he no longer had the mantle of dragon-slayer, he soon learned that a great name can be a burden. He could just be Neb again, and Neb proved resourceful and courageous beyond his years. He rose through the ranks, he won the acclaim of his fellows – and when the king’s forces retreated from the capital to the remotest corner of the borderlands, Neb’s knowledge of that obscure region won him a promotion to captain of scouts.

The rebel assessment was that the war was approaching a stalemate. Since their near-defeat in Westerlund, they had allied with the Northerners. Many of the king’s stalwart supporters decided that it was terribly urgent they bring the harvest in, or wash their tapestries, or discovered a lifelong commitment to pacifism. With decisive courage, they stood back and let the rebels and the king’s loyalists fight.

For now, the rebels had the advantage, but they feared another unlikely disaster. They’d lost their ships to an unseasonable storm, several generals had been hit by lightning out of cloudless skies, and Baron Sukumvit had retired from the fray, either because he’d turned to glass or believed he’d turned to glass, which amounted to much the same thing. In the rebel camp, they whispered of the malign powers of the Chancellor, and worried that if he pulled another rabbit out of his hat – and given the size and grandeur of the Chancellor’s hat, with all its golden embroidery and rubies, it might be a demonic rabbit of fear and flame – the tide might turn again.

Now, if one was to make a list of the most impregnable fortresses in the kingdom, Dunshelm castle would be somewhere towards the bottom. It was not made to endure a long siege. For the Chancellor to retreat there seemed a mistake. It was decided, therefore, to press the war to a decisive conclusion by launching an assault on the castle, and a swift host was duly dispatched from Eskerlund.

The only one in the host who had misgivings was Neb. He’d been with the rebels who’d stormed the abandoned Royal Antiquarian Institute, and he’d seen the studies and maps, the entrails of the Dungeon and the entrails of Denizens laid out for study. He guessed why Orphir had chosen to make a stand at the border keep.

So, as the rebel army drew near, he took a fast horse and rode ahead. Eyes flashing, sword ready, every bit the dashing young hero. His cloak probably billowed as he charged down the road from Lastease. In a forest glade near the edge of town, he tethered his horse to a convenient tree and set off on foot towards the castle. His intent was to sneak into Dunshelm and . . . well, there his plan became somewhat vague. Rescue Bait, perhaps, if she was being held with the other Denizens in the yard. Steal vital intelligence. Open the gates to allow his rebel allies in. Put a sword to the throat of King Arus and demand a surrender. Slay the Chancellor. Something non-specific but exceedingly heroic.

By chance, I happened to spot him lurking with intent on the hillside below the keep.

It was dusk, and I wanted some fresh air after a heavy meal. I recognised him from his sojourn in the Dungeon, even though we’d both grown not a few inches since then.

“Hello, young Neb,” I said.

He jumped. His hand darted to his sword. “Who are you?”

“A friend of Bait’s. Cornelius. Perhaps she’s mentioned me?”

“She said you were her tutor?”

This was typical of Bait – to her mind, the most notable thing about me was not that I was a talking skull.

“Exactly.”

“Where is Bait?”