Page 4 of The Dungeon Book

“I am the archmage Cornelius and I—”

“No.”

She was correct there, I must admit. I was the archmage.

“You—”

“No.”

Conversation continued in this fashion until Throte returned.

“A human child.”

“The dragon stole it and brought it to Master Orphir,” said Throte, “and then Master Orphir told me to bring it to the dragon.”

“There seems to be an unnecessary step in there between kidnapping and supper.”

Carven brow cannot furrow, but I could tell he was deep in thought. Throte was so old that for him to think a new thought required effort. “Orphir did something to the child first. He took blood from her.”

“There are countless arcane rituals that might use an innocent’s blood, none of them pleasant. But why did you bring the child here, instead of doing as commanded?” The child had, at this point, curled up to rest her head against Throte’s clawed foot.

“I do not know,” he admitted after a long time. “I am bound to serve the Master of the tower, whoever that might be. That command was graven into my heart when I was carved, and never have I disobeyed it until now. I am guardian of the tower. I have defended it against many intruders. But . . .” he curled his massive hands into fists. “They were all worthy foes. Each took their life and gambled it fairly. This human is . . . unworked stone. An infant. This . . . this is unfair.”

“I meant here, to my tomb, instead of anywhere else in the Dungeon.”

“You were human,” said the gargoyle slowly.

“What has that to do with anything?”

“You know how to . . .” he waved a stony claw at the child. “How to human.”

“Many begged to differ. Some differed with swords, if you recall.”

Throte nodded. “Where else can I take it?”

“Well, if you’re not giving it to the dragon, and you’re not going to let some wandering monster have it, I suppose you could bring it back to human lands.”

“I cannot stray so far from the tower.”

“Well, I can hardly take it. You’re sure you want to keep it alive?”

The gargoyle rumbled a growl, which surprised me.

“All right. Then . . . then bring it to the goblins. They might not eat it. Not immediately, anyway.”

Throte considered that proposal for what felt like a long time, then said, “I shall bring it to the trapsmiths.” He scooped the sleeping child up in his claws. “Then I must return to the tower.”

I considered that proposal for a much shorter period. “You can’t just drop a human child in front of the goblins and walk away! You’ll need . . .” I gritted my teeth, which was one of the few gestures still available to me. “Take me along. I’ll explain it to them.”

With me in one hand, and the sleeping child in the other, Throte hurried to the Trapsmiths’ Arcade. Every pebble of him wanted to return to the wizard’s tower atop the Dungeon. A gargoyle deprived of its perch is like a man who needs to relieve himself. He shuffles, he fidgets, he moves with haste.

The Trapsmiths’ Arcade . . . Imagine, if you will, a great vertical shaft like a well in the Dungeon’s depths. It’s hard to tell how deep it goes, even if you’re a Denizen who can see in the dark. A crossroads of the underworld – a dozen corridors and three levels meet here. Bridges – some of ancient stone, some of rickety timber or rope or yellowed bone – span the well to connect these subterranean roads. Stairs spiral along the walls, made slippery and treacherous by the snail-trail rivulets of water that trickle down the walls, tasting of mountain rock and soil and spilled blood. Damp air breeds eerie fog. There’s a little light here, shed by goblin torches that flicker greenly. A good spot for both lurking and looming.

Now, imagine that a tribe of industrious mice gnawed the walls of the well and the surrounding corridors for centuries, excavating dozens of little tunnels and hiding holes. The Dungeon Denizens – the monsters doing all the lurking and looming – are for the most part too big to enter these side tunnels. Certainly, a gargoyle like Throte would have struggled to fit his head into a goblin tunnel, let alone the rest of his body. My head’s smaller and I had already left my body behind – I am one of the few Denizens to have been inside the goblin warren, and I knew it to be warm and snug. Such things don’t matter to a skull, but they do to the living. I could think of few places in the whole Dungeon better suited to a human child than the Trapsmiths’ Arcade.

Apart from, of course, the trapsmiths.

Everyone in the Dungeon knows the goblins. They sprout from the scrapings of church bells and old door hinges, from rotting meat and fetid mushrooms. They have sharp teeth and clever hands, and a knack for making and fixing things, especially things that are also sharp and clever. Concealed spikes, hidden needles, secret doors, triggers for pit traps. Every Denizen wants a goblin trap or three to guard their lair.