Page 18 of The Dungeon Book

“That ruined city is the old capital of the Elder Empire—”

“The one that was buried in an earthquake sent as punishment for their sins?”

“The very one.”

“What of it?”

“If I am right, there’s enough magic there to make us both kings in our own right.”

“Get on with it,” said the minotaur.

I shall spare you the sufferings of our posting to the border watch, although we were certainly not spared them. My feet might be long gone, but I still remember the toe-biting cold, the bitter nights spent staring into the dark, watching for foes. Orphir grew ever more obsessed with his plan to desert and set off into the mountains in search of lost magic. I was convinced that this would end in our grisly deaths—

“And you were right,” said the minotaur.

—but I was of the opinion that we should eke what worldly pleasures we could from our posting before we bade a final farewell to all hope. By the end of the third month at the keep on the borderlands, even I – I who have found fascination in crumbling plaster, and infinite delight in my own witticism – could endure no more. We convinced some of the more, ah, capable and conventionally violent guards to join us. Under cover of darkness, we abandoned our posts and set off into the mountains. I thought we would perish.

Instead, we found the Dungeon.

To my eternal chagrin, Orphir was right. There was indeed magic lodged in the arse-crack of the world. Incantations that never worked for Old Pentsable had power here. Drunk on our new-found sorcery – we had nothing else to get drunk on – we explored what we could of the Dungeon. Between the swords of our rapidly diminishing cadre of comrades and our newly strengthened spells, we assembled a fine pile of slaughter-bought loot. I argued that we should take our winnings and return to civilised lands – there was the matter of the commuted death sentence for illegal sorcery, and the second death sentence for desertion, but I hoped all that could be cleared up with some judicious bribery. But Orphir would not let it go.

“The Tower of Yrn Kyos! Power beyond price! We could be lords, Cornelius! Our words would shake the heavens! We could bring back the age of sorcerer-kings!”

We formed a compact, a sworn brotherhood of two, and promised one another that we would for ever share power, wealth and knowledge, and not allow anything to come between us. Thus fortified, we returned to our quest. We and our surviving adventurers found the eastern levels of the Dungeon, and there we found a long stair leading to the tower of the Dungeon Master.

I adjudge you are not familiar with the life and works of Yrn Kyos, so I shall briefly elucidate his tale. Yrn Kyos was among the last of the sorcerer-kings of old, mighty wizards who ruled the lands of men. The present dynasty of kings, by the by, is descended from the leaders of the revolt against their wizardly overlords. Yrn Kyos, it seems, was a man after my own much-missed heart, for when he sensed that his spells were no longer as potent as before and that trouble was brewing, he fled into the wilderness and established a lair atop a dungeon. Anyone seeking out Yrn Kyos with murderous intent would first have to pass through the labyrinth of monsters and traps. With his dwindling sorcery, Yrn Kyos shaped the Dungeon, making his tower the keystone of the whole place. I’m not sure what became of Yrn Kyos in the end –

“I asked about Orphir,” said the minotaur, “and you have brought me on an interminable digression.” His vocabulary had improved as he gained more confidence in the Dungeon Tongue. He rose and held me out over the chasm.

“Wait!” I cried. “I’ll skip to the end.”

At the very summit of the tower was the throne of Yrn Kyos, the very seat of the Dungeon Master. Poor Orphir was briefly delayed, so I got to the throne first and claimed the tower – on behalf of our partnership, of course. I had no intention of betraying the man I thought was my good friend. Why, I appointed him my Grand Vizier, my Senior Adviser, my Deputy Dungeon Master. Together – as equals! – we tried to recover the lost magics of Yrn Kyos. But we had limited success, and I suspect he grew frustrated.

In fact, I knew he became frustrated.

The clue was when he murdered me.

“Where,” growled the minotaur, “is Orphir now!?”

“He’s been gone for years. He left the Dungeon soon after Bait arrived – likely just after he afflicted you with your condition. You must have interrupted him as he was packing to leave. Why, if only you’d waited a short while, you’d have missed him entirely and never been curs—”

The minotaur clamped my jawbone shut with his thumb.

“Orphir,” he growled, “is gone?”

I could neither speak nor non-verbally express agreement.

“I cannot slay him. He is not within reach of my axe.”

I radiated sympathy as best I could, until he released my jawbone.

“Where he’s gone,” I said, “I do not know and cannot guess.”

He stood very still for a long time, the only movement the heaving of his chest, the flaring of his nostrils, the twitching of his eye. I was reminded uncomfortably of how old Master Pentsable would stare at me with cold fury when I blotted my copybook. But Pentsable’s threats had been mostly empty. The minotaur could shatter my skull with ease, and he certainly seemed to be contemplating exactly that. His lips quivered, and a river of bloody drool cascaded down the side of his bestial face.

“You were master of this hell pit?” he snarled at last. “You know its secrets? How to stay alive here?”

“Yes. Some of them. And no but also yes.”