I often processed combat information while performing a Rest and Mend. Studying the combat log revealed details of how The Book of Dungeons governed combat mechanics and how I might improve my performance.

  Yula interrupted my thoughts with a heavy slap on my back. “You were only one weezout disease. Yula clears all. Eet ees bad. Lowers stameena every day until dead.”

  I’d nearly forgotten about the Guano Rot debuff. “Yikes. Thanks, Yula. I’m glad we know someone with a high nature rank. You are a good tank, too.”

  Fabulosa looted the caradon carcass. No one wanted the filthy thing for meat, but the boss monster yielded some crafting ingredients, including long wing bones that vaguely reminded me of elephant tusks. I liked the idea of trophies serving as tent poles to remind us of our acumen in battle.

  The corpse rewarded us with a gold coin and a yellow core.

  Fabulosa pulled the crystal from the creature’s maw. “We’ve got our first gold piece. And get a load of this—it has a rare core.”

  I didn’t understand what the mutation trait meant. “What does a boss bonus do?”

  Esol answered. “Every entity in Miros has a core, from mountains to dungeon bosses. Higher cores embody the attributes of its parent entity and give more bonuses. This mutation bonus likely comes from the beast’s stretched wing bones, but it is impossible to predict how it will influence a crafted object.”

  Fabulosa admired the yellow core. “If anyone can enchant newly created objects with cores, I reckon this ought to go to our best crafter.”

  “Zees would make fine bonus for huntress leggings.”

  Fabulosa shrugged and tossed the yellow core to the orc. “It looks like our resident tank and leatherworker gets dibs. You’re on the hook for teaching us how to make better bows. I’ll hold you to it, too.”

  Yula nodded after catching the core.

  Charitybelle shook her fist. “Congrats, Yula.”

  I regarded my companions’ generosity. Yielding the precious yellow core to an NPC didn’t bother me as much as giving it to her without consulting me. They respected me, but it hinted at how they considered me. They weren’t exactly taking me for granted, but I hadn’t been the most assertive person out here.

  But Yula’s bow to Charitybelle made me reconsider my opinion. Their impulse to spread the wealth showed tact, and perhaps I had something to learn. While the core might bestow a magical property, no advantage could be so great as bonding this high-level huntress to our cause. They had been right to be unselfish.

  Besides, Belden’s trade skill trainers had kept us from learning how to create anything significant. The belt buckle cinching my Dark Room rope counted as the only crafted item we’d made.

  While anyone could use cores on newly created objects, one look at Yula’s gear showed she knew how to make quality leather gear. These dwarves probably knew blacksmithing, making our camp a potential source of homemade arms. At some point, I wanted to invest in making better equipment, but that concerned a task for a later day.

  After looting the dead beast, I searched the room and Esol’s cell for secret doors and found nothing. One didn’t need Mineral Communion to know Esol had been miserable in his dismal antechamber. He had a filthy cot, an empty shelf, and tattered rags stacked in a pile. A refuse hole in the floor disappeared into the darkness. Knowing this horrible place had been his life for years made me shudder.

  Esol thanked us and offered to help in any way possible. When he mentioned he used to be an engineer, Charitybelle and he challenged each other’s technical prowess. They didn’t quite brag about what they understood but rather volleyed questions concerning how things worked—nitpicking answers to arrive at a mutually agreed upon pecking order. It struck me as a familiar ritual. I wasn’t a gearhead, but I hung out with them in school. Computer experts did this to establish the identity of the alpha nerd.

  Esol wasn’t strong enough to climb the rope, so Brodie pulled him up. After everyone left the hole, we coiled up our line and left the dungeon.

  Yula finished dressing the dungeon in orc artifacts and marked the orc emperor’s emblem onto the chief goblin’s forehead. She admired her grisly work. “I don’t know eef zees fool green devils, but ees worth try.”

  After we left, she would use a tier 3 spell called Vegetable Mutation to help disguise the cart tracks and make a false trail northeast to the river, where orcs sometimes paddled canoes.

  “Yula will trample ground, drop imperial coins, and plant orc jewelry. After you go, I leave scent.”

  My eyes widened at the mention of leaving scent. “I admire your commitment, but…”

  The orc shrugged. “Ees no problem. I will drink—”

  “There’s no need to go into details. You know what you’re doing.” Having reached my limit to how much I wanted to rank up my survival skill, I excused myself before Yula could explain further.

  I expected the dwarves to harbor ill will toward Esol, especially after their mistreatment. Dwarves wore their hearts on their sleeves, so I observed how they treated him when we caught up with the carts on our way out of the dungeon. I didn’t see glares, muttering, or head shaking. Brodie seemed to be okay with the goblin joining our ranks. If anything, Esol alone showed reservation. The dwarves regarded him with camaraderie as he counted as a fellow prisoner.

  Indeed, the only complaints came from the overloaded carts, which groaned and squeaked as the torodons pulled them out of the dungeon. I hoped the piercing metallic screams wouldn’t attract monsters on our way to the lake. The torodons were strong but slow.

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  Esol walked beside me with his head down as we trailed the carts.

  I raised my voice to be audible over the noise. “Are you okay?”

  “Witnessing the caradon’s destruction made for bittersweet closure. The beast had been my only companion for years. I am uncertain what to do with my freedom.”

  Charitybelle touched his narrow shoulders. “You should stay with us. You could help us build a trade route. We’re hoping to bridge the east and west continent.”

  The goblin weighed the possibility but said nothing, so I spoke. “You mentioned your brother couldn’t or wouldn’t harm you. Couldn’t he have turned a blind eye and let an assassin kill you?”

  “Before growing old enough to appreciate our birthright, Rezan and I bonded an oath of mutual protection. I dare say we barely understood the gravity of bonded promises.”

  “I’ve never heard of bonding.”

  The goblin stopped and regarded me before renewing his pace. “A bonded word is a worldly law and the foundation of trade, civilization, and peace. Betraying a bonded promise undoes the oath breaker—erasing them from existence. My brother has too much to lose to trifle with such stakes.”

  The news startled me. I’d committed bluffs, fibs, and misdirection. Had I broken a bond somewhere along the line? Was that something players could do—or was it strictly an NPC thing?

  The goblin must have been reading my expression. “You will know when you make a bond. They are not accidental.”

  “Your brother’s inability to harm you doesn’t explain why the goblins went through so much trouble to build that room. Its dimensions perfectly matched that bat-creature. Charitybelle came close to dying in that fight.”

  “Would that it were a goblin structure I’d have tunneled out ages ago. Rezan entrusted my care to others—my cell used deep elf engineering. Their architecture, shall we say, is less malleable than goblin.”

  “It sounds like he’s paranoid about losing his throne.”

  Esol gave me a sideways glance. “Quite so. I now realize the error in giving my real name. Perhaps the prospect of conversing caught me off guard. If news of my whereabouts reached his court, I’m afraid Rezan would cause you quite a stir. He wouldn’t relent in his pursuit until I built him a throne.”

  “A throne? If he’s the goblin king, doesn’t he already have one?”

  “It’s a goblin capitulation ritual. Humans, to their credit, have no equivalent. Building a throne is a way of submitting to another goblin.”

  “We have treaties and, I suppose, fiefdoms.”

  “Offering a throne is a ceremonial act of humiliation. The dominant goblin asserts power by accepting the seat. Rejecting it is a declaration of war.”

  “So if he found you, we’d have to submit to him?”

  “I’m afraid so. If you wish to withdraw your invitation to let me join, I would understand. Responsibility for others makes an uneasy balancing act. The mantle of leadership requires tough decisions.”

  I grunted but voiced no disagreement. This little goblin may have grown up around politics, but I didn’t come from royalty. If we made the right decisions, we could avoid lofty titles. Building a throne and obeying Esol’s brother wasn’t something I wanted to happen, so I reflected on our options. Since NPCs couldn’t see nameplates, we could call him something else. “Would you object to using a nickname?”

  The goblin mulled over the idea before responding. “Not at all. As the architect of my escape, perhaps it’s best you chose the pseudonym. I have no imagination for that sort of thing, and Rezan knows me well enough that he’d recognize anything self-applied.”

  I thought for a bit. “How about Greenie?”

  He cocked an eyebrow, and his face fell. “Oh, dear. There is a cunningness in being so boorish. My brother would never believe me to answer to such. It’s a suitable moniker in that respect.”

  His opinion somewhat hurt my feelings—Greenie seemed like a good name, and he gave me more or less credit than I deserved. “Greenie, it is, then!”

  Yula had overheard our conversation. “Eef Greenie ees big shot, eet make sense why orc emperor would plunder puny iron mine. Eet might convince king orc ees attacker.”

  I called out far enough to reach Fabulosa’s ears. “Hey, everyone. Esol says he prefers us to call him Greenie. He says he’s coming to with us.”

  Fabulosa gave a thumbs-up over her shoulder. “Good to have ya aboard, Greenie.”

  Outside, the weather broke with a pleasant afternoon sun as if to cheer our journey south.

  Charitybelle turned to the goblin as we exited the mine. “I’m so glad you’re staying with us. That’s an easy nickname to remember.”

  As we shook off the chill of being underground, we caught up with the carts and the rest of the dwarves. They’d stopped walking and huddled together.

  Fabulosa straightened and stretched when she exited the mine. Her smile faltered when she picked up on the change in mood among the dwarves. “What’s wrong, y’all?”

  I did the same as I scanned everyone’s faces. It felt so good not to hunch over, and I couldn’t understand what upset the dwarves on their first day of freedom on a sunny afternoon.

  I followed everyone’s gaze to the row of dwarven bodies. We’d passed them on the way in and forgotten about them.

  The dwarves took pickaxes and shovels from the carts and began digging graves.

  I raised my hand. “Wait.”

  Brodie and his people gave me questioning glances.

  “If we give them graves, the goblins will know that the orcs didn’t do this. It’ll look like you guys overpowered the guards and freed yourselves.”

  Everyone except Greenie glared at me, but I held my ground.

  I looked at Charitybelle, who didn’t look happy either. “If they believed it’s an uprising and not an orc attack, they’ll know something is up. If they look for other trails, they’re sure to find us. All we have is a defenseless plot of land nobody wants—and with a lake to our back, we won’t be able to retreat.”

  The hostility from their stares pained me, but the soundness of my logic still stood. No one moved or uttered anything for the longest time. The dwarves gripped their shovels too tightly for my comfort, and I sensed a crumbling of our alliance.

  Brodie held up a hand and spoke with forced self-control. “I cannae walk away from ‘em, turn my back on ‘em! Leave ‘em to rot like rubbish! I um grateful, for all ye’ve done for me people, but I canna turn my back on ‘em.”

  The break in his voice stabbed my heart. After everything they endured, I couldn’t ask them for this, but I had to. We couldn’t take them with us. Equipment and supplies filled the carts, and every free hand rolled a barrel or carried a sack. The decomposed bodies wouldn’t remain intact even if we lifted them into the Dark Room.

  We couldn’t afford to lead the goblin nation to our campsite south. The uncomfortable standoff felt strong enough to drive a wedge between us. I sympathized with their plight, but getting knocked out of the contest over a ritual didn’t sit with me.

  I searched my surroundings for an answer. As if to taunt me, Iremont loomed in the northern sky. Its reddish hue contrasted with the Bluepeaks surrounding it. It offered no solutions to our dilemma.

  Yula addressed the dwarf by his full name. “Mountain Chief Brodie Anvilhead, would pyre bring honor to fallen comrades? Ees fitting salute, no?”

  Tears welled up in Brodie’s eyes. He nodded and covered his hands with his face. “Aye.”

  His fellows affirmed their support with nods and sniffles.

  I nodded to Yula for quick thinking, and she returned the gesture. The orc huntress departed east, down the hillside, creating a phantom trail for the goblins to follow.

  Everyone else headed into the forest to gather wood and kindling. A dwarf named Gunny directed the pyre’s construction with subdued instructions. We accumulated more fuel than needed, but the mine’s position above the tree line risked no danger of spreading flames. We used the rest of the daylight to gather and stack the wood before committing bodies to flame.

  The dwarves held a ceremony in their native tongue, filling the night with speeches, reflections, memories, and sometimes soft laughter. Many tried not to cry. Some succeeded. Although the pyre flames climbed, the mountainside faced the southeast, away from the goblins in the Bluepeaks.

  Next to the pyre, we stacked surplus wood for a second fire to cook an entire bag of owlbear and archaeodon meat. We cooked enough to have leftovers for breakfast, so everyone ate their fill.

  The fire’s heat drove us back, and we slept against one another in its glow. Charitybelle and I wrapped our arms around Fabulosa, who sniffled softly. It had been two weeks since RIP, PinkFox, and ArtGirl left the game. They were alive and well in Southern California—but they had also been our companions for a year, and we missed them.

  As we fell asleep, it seemed unreal to be inside a game of such depth. Returning to a world filled with sports websites, fast food, and text messaging seemed implausible. When I first heard about The Book of Dungeons, I imagined a more gladiatorial experience. This didn’t feel like a game—it felt like a borrowed identity and another life.

  Building a settlement made for a weird way to play a battle royale, but it seemed as valid as ranking up crafting skills, hunting players, or grinding through monsters. We played the game our way, even if it meant being out in the weeds—idiomatically, strategically, and physically.