Page 3 of The Dungeon Book

So, he waited.

A golden-red light flared a burning eye in the dark. A second light followed, slow and painful and sticky.

A long, sulphurous yawn.

“You’re far from your perch, old stone. What do you bring me?”

“What remains of the child, as the Master commanded.”

Nithscalpa heaved himself off the gold that was his bed, sending cups and crowns clattering. He slithered to the mouth of the cave, drool smoking on the rocks, and bent his head to gobble the contents of the blanket.

It was empty.

Nithscalpa hissed. He tore the rags from the gargoyle’s hands, tossed them into the air and incinerated them with a flash of flame.

“What remains of the child,” repeated Throte, “when the Master was done with it. He did not specify how much would remain.”

“The kill is mine by right! Recompense for my eye. And you bring me nothing but bloody rags!”

“I have done as I was commanded,” said the gargoyle. “If you still have a complaint, you may take it up with the Master of the Dungeon. But I warn you, I am the guardian of the tower, and while Orphir resides there I am bound to protect him.” And with that, he raised his weathered head. Two obsidian eyes stared unflinching into the dragon’s one.

Nithscalpa was wounded. His fires were low. And there was no good eating in a stone gargoyle.

“I will not forget this insult. Or the one who delivered it.”

Throte brushed the ash from his wings, gave a stiff bow and stomped off down the corridor. With a sulphurous snort, Nithscalpa slithered back to his bed. He coiled up, laying his head on his tail, and twisted about until he found a position comfortable for his swollen and tender eye socket. The entire mountain shook as he tossed and turned.

Mighty beyond compare is the sulk of a dragon.

Slowly, he drifted towards sleep. When dragons sleep, they sleep for a long time, and brood upon their hoard. Sleep would heal his wounds.

He did not notice a single shape bobbing amid the sulphurous fumes and stalactites near the roof of his lair, and neither did Throte.

Many eyes watched the gargoyle’s departure.

I was busy contemplating the new crack in my wall when there came a knock at the door of my tomb. I would have frowned if frowning was an option.

“I can hardly get up to greet you so you might as well come in.”

The door only scraped open a fraction. I caught sight of glittering obsidian and stony snout.

“Mind this,” said Throte. “And say nothing.” He thrust something into my tomb and shut the door again.

The something was a human child, maybe two or three years old. She stood there, swaying on her chubby legs, then sat down heavily. She appeared infuriated by this, as if her legs were disobedient. Her face was – well, my first impression was that her face was fleshy, but that’s what I thought about all humans those days. Let me retroactively correct the observation, and say that her expression was intent, as if her whole being was focused on a point about six inches ahead, and that she would puzzle out all the secrets of that point no matter what. It was pitch dark in my tomb, but still she stared intently, and I almost wondered if she too could see in the dark.

She was bleeding from several small wounds, but they too did not discomfit her. They discomfited me – the smell of human blood attracts trouble in the Dungeon. Fortunately, Throte had closed my door solidly.

Presently, she clambered back to her unsteady feet and toddled around my tomb, feeling her way through the dark with outstretched hands. There was not much to disturb, other than my old bones. She disturbed them. Stubby little fingers went straight into my right eye socket.

“Stop that,” I said.

“No,” she said.

I couldn’t tell if she had not understood me, or if she was disobedient and wilful, or both.

“Stop that, or there will—”

“No.”