Page 61 of The Dungeon Book

“Good fortune to you, sister,” said the nixies. They helped her stand, retrieved her damp belongings from the water. Then they slipped back into the stream.

“Wait!”

“What is it, sister?”

“I’ve left Gloop in a badger sett down by the riverbank. Will you check on him?”

The nixies laughed. “Assuredly!”

“And—” Bait swallowed. “I’ll be coming back this way after. With surface folk. I need you to promise to let them pass safely.”

The nixies stared at her, watery eyes suddenly hard and cold as ice. Bait stood her ground.

“For you,” they said, “we’ll do this thing.”

She made one necessary detour. First-Sister’s body had begun to rot, but was otherwise untouched by scavengers. Closing her eyes, summoning up a memory of Nala’s lessons, Bait drew her knife. After, she wrapped her precious bundle in heavy cloth, and was careful not to let it touch her skin.

Down she went, through the wraith-haunted temples of the Fifth. She had to run now, abandoning stealth for haste. Gossip and rumour spreads as quickly in the Dungeon as anywhere else. Gravestone-silence unbroken for countless centuries? Not if you speak the Dungeon Tongue! The shadows like fishwives in the market. News that Bait had returned would soon reach the dragon’s ears; news that she’d opened a side door was a clap of thunder echoing through the halls. Speed mattered now.

But when she felt an unnatural chill in the air, she slowed.

Stopped.

Bowed.

Gambled.

“There are people coming.” Bait pointed down towards the long-sealed side door. “Living people.”

A ripple ran through the wraiths, like a breath of wind catching a ragged curtain. We hunger.

“You mustn’t take them. You have to let them pass.”

We hunger.

“You didn’t eat me.”

You are of the Dungeon.

“I wasn’t always, was I? And neither were you. Those people coming, they’re your kinfolk. The descendants of your kin. Many, many generations removed, but still your kin.”

Speaking as Bait’s history tutor, I might quibble with this assessment. I would put in a footnote, had I a foot. But I don’t, so I won’t, and neither did the wraiths.

We will not take the living this night.

“Thank you,” said Bait, and ran on.

The door was heavy with centuries, but Bait had grown strong.

“My,” said Sir Rudyard.

Both word and speaker were inadequate to the glories his upraised torch revealed. Beyond the door was a temple of ophite and obsidian and marble, the faces of forgotten gods glaring down at him. Dark archways swallowed the torchlight, hinting at unknown labyrinths beyond. Gold gleamed in the dark recesses; gemstone eyes glittered behind green veils of moss and cobweb.

“My word,” he said, drawing together some tattered bits of authority. “It’s all, very . . . very . . .” He had no more idea how to finish the sentence than he had of how to navigate the labyrinth beyond. He coughed. “Very well. Let us proceed.”

Neb nudged Offa, and Offa took a faulting step towards the middle archway. Sir Rudyard handed him the torch. “Onwards!”

*