Page 79 of The Dungeon Book

“Your Master’s dead,” shouted back Orphir.

“We think,” I added. “He hasn’t been seen in centuries.”

Orphir glared at me, then continued. “His throne is vacant. But the Rules he laid down demand that the Dungeon have a Master.”

“And we volunteer!” I shouted. “We’ll do it! We’ll take on the burden of ruling this Dungeon.”

Throte cocked his head. “I am bound to the service of the Master, and his last command to me was to guard the tower. No Denizen may enter here, on pain of death. No stranger, either. Only the worthy may enter. Consider that before you cross the threshold.” With that, he withdrew.

“A very rude word,” said the sellsword. “How do we fight a damn talking statue? The bastard won’t bleed if we stab him.”

“Weren’t you listening?” I said. “Clearly, it’s a test of courage. If you don’t think you’re worthy, they eat you – but if you are worthy, you can claim the throne. And I say to you, my good fellow, that we have proved our worth by getting to this threshold. The tower’s but a formality!”

He wavered.

“We have no other choice but to go on,” said Orphir. “Something, the door.”

Something, I should clarify, was not the man’s actual name. It was along the lines of Kurt, or Khul, or Kurk. Something rough and sharp, appropriate for one of our loyal hired brutes.

Something opened the door.

Something else was waiting. A thing of knives and shadow, just inside the threshold.

Arterial blood, by the by, sparkles like rubies even in wan autumnal sunlight.

We tried anyway. Floor by floor, horror by horror. Seven of us stepped over Something’s corpse. Orphir and I hiked up our wizard’s robes to avoid trailing our skirts through the gore. We slew the thing of knives and shadow, but worse awaited us as we climbed. I think there were five of us left by the third floor, and only two by the time we made it to the topmost level.

Yrn Kyos was long gone – we found a suspicious patch of mould in a bedchamber on the fifth floor – and his throne lay empty. The Master’s chair was carved of black stone and covered with intricate carvings that might have been a map of the whole Dungeon. It was glorious, and imposing, and enchanted – and rather narrow. Only one of us could sit there.

And between us and the throne was Throte. The gargoyle squatted on the windowsill, daring us to cross the gulf between the top of the stairs and the Master’s throne. It was only a few feet, but the gargoyle’s arms were long, his claws sharp, and the last of our hired swordsmen was bleeding out on the floor below.

“Only the worthy may pass,” intoned Throte, “and I fear I must say that you are not. If you would be so kind as to step forward, I shall eviscerate you as neatly as possible. If you force me to chase you down the stairs, I shall be displeased. In my experience, it’s hard to get the blood out of all the little corners on the steps.”

We ducked back down the stairs to confer.

“We could try a spell,” suggested Orphir. “There’s power enough here, I feel?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed, “and if that gargoyle were so charitable as to give us a few years to practise channeling that sorcery, I’m sure we could do something impressive with it. I don’t see how it avails us now. I was counting on having a few meatshields left at this point, but the dolts keep dying.”

“A spell we can work now, then,” said Orphir. “One of the classic incantations – if they’re going to work anywhere, it’s here.”

“The Charm of Forlorn Encystment?”

“Only works if the target’s standing on solid earth,” said Orphir. “The Irresistible Kindling of Pyroclastic Evocation?”

“If you believe the histories, that spell produces enough of a blast to level the whole tower. Now, I admit, the last time you tried that it didn’t produce enough of a spark to light a candle – but I’d still prefer something less risky to life and limb.”

The dying sellsword gurgled something. Orphir frowned at the interruption.

“Timon’s Sovereign Macabre Resurrection?”

“Requires an intact corpse. His arm’s hanging on by a thread.” Orphir snapped his fingers. “What if we both try the Azure Chains!”

I racked my brains to recall Pentsable’s lecture. Given such a riveting topic as the theory and practice of reality-violating sorcerous secrets inherited from a vanished empire, it must have taken real talent on Pentsable’s part to make his lessons so dull. “I think I remember it.” It was one of the few spells that we’d managed to eke out in the lowlands, even if the bonds we’d conjured there could barely restrain a determined duckling. But Orphir was right – there was power here. We could both taste it.

“The Azure Chains, then,” I agreed. “You’re a better sorcerer than I – you draw the first node, and I’ll follow after.”

Orphir went first.