Page 13 of The Dungeon Book

That one I heard. I heard the Squinter’s cry of frustration echoing down the stairwell from distant corridors far above.

Then came Bait, falling down my stair, to land with a splash in the mud beside me.

“Stay very still,” I whispered.

Three things to note: first, her impact had knocked me out of my muddy hollow, so I was now lying face up and could see the stairwell above. Second, I can see in the dark, although “see” is not quite the right word: I don’t have eyes, after all. Third, I can whisper. Few things are spookier than a whispering skull, but, to her credit, Bait did not flinch in the slightest. I do not know if this was courage or concussion.

A kobold came tap-tapping down the stair, and paused on the level above.

I could not blame the kobold. Orphir had thrown me into a midden. The bottom of the stairwell was a morass of foulness, even by the standards of the Dungeon. A fourth thing to note, for which I was grateful: I cannot smell.

He peeked his head over the stairwell, and saw a human skull grinning up at him. I had a great smile when I was alive, really charming. The skinless grimace was less charming, but I gave it my best shot.

“You there!” I said. “It’s your lucky day, lad. I am the wizard Cornelius! I was Master of the Dungeon when I was alive! No doubt you’ve heard of me! Come down and I will reward you beyond your wildest dreams! I grant wishes, work wonders, reveal cosmic secrets. Quick, come down here and pick me up! Don’t delay, act now!”

If something seems too good to be true in a dungeon, it’s generally a trap. Golden idol unguarded on a plinth? Trap. Clearly marked exit? Trap. Beautiful, scantily clad maiden chained to a wall, waiting for some strapping adventurer to rescue her? Trap.

“Izza trap,” hissed the kobold with a sneer. He vanished. Then he came back. “Did a little human come this way?”

“Absolutely! She landed right here in the mud! Come down and dig around and you’ll find her in no time! I think she hit her head and she’s stunned and unconscious and—”

“Izza trap,” repeated the kobold, with the air of a canny consumer who’s seen through the merchant’s patter.

I listened to his claws tap-tap-tapping on the stone until the faintest echo died away.

My reunion with Bait started poorly, but improved as we went along.

“You’re that impudent girl who stuck her fingers in my eye sockets,” I said.

She did not respond because she was unconscious.

I waited a bit until she stirred, then said, “You’re that impudent girl who stuck her fingers in my eye sockets.”

This time she yelped and scrambled away across the mud and filth of my pit. She pressed herself against the far wall, her fingers brushing and probing the stone for some clue as to where she might be. She’d run far from the tunnels she knew, far from the Trapsmiths’ Arcade and Clickglee and anyone she might trust. It was clear that she did not remember me, even though I was the first Denizen to welcome her to the Dungeon. I could hardly blame her. For her, it had been half a lifetime. For me, only a fraction of even my post-mortem existence.

“The Squinter is looking for you. I remember him from when I was alive. Disagreeable creature.”

She said nothing.

“And kobolds! They haven’t come up from the Fifth Level in a long time.”

She said nothing.

“I should reintroduce myself. I was the wizard Cornelius.”

Then she said:

“Help.”

She held me like a lantern. I could describe the Dungeon around her, and guide her back to more familiar terrain, even though she could not see and I was somewhat out of touch. “There’s an archway just ahead on your left-hand side,” I’d say, or “Quiet! There’s another kobold just down the corridor! Hide!”

Our journey was hampered by the sheer number of kobolds that the Squinter had called up out of the depths. All the routes to the Trapsmiths’ Arcade were watched.

The Rules were the work of old Yrn Kyos. Fearing the outside world, but trusting no bodyguard or hireling, he filled his basement with strange and violent beasts, cramming it with teeth and claws and tentacles and poison stingers and eyes in the dark. Any intruder from the surface would be bitten and clawed and stung or otherwise disposed of in short order. Then he faced a conundrum: left to their own wiles, the monsters would turn on one another in an orgy of bloodshed until only one was left to rule over an empty labyrinth. So, he imposed the Rules of the Dungeon on those who dwelt there, and over the centuries the Rules became a self-perpetuating tradition. Now, the Rules state that a monster’s lair is inviolate, assuming they are strong enough to claim it in the first place, but the open corridors are fair game. Killing is permitted there. There are customs of safe passage, rites and bargains and exceptions and – well, the only thing more intimidating than a giant carnivorous troll is a giant carnivorous troll lawyer who gets to eat you on a technicality.

To survive in the Dungeon you need to learn the side passages, the secret ways.

Which is how we ended up crawling through a crack in the rock so narrow that Bait could not bend her knees or elbows, but had to worm her way forward, propelled by fingers and toes and sheer dogged determination. I say we had to crawl; she did all the work, and I gave whispered encouragement which she doggedly ignored.