“Dude, that is a big, big hole.”

“Girib bivdr biob,” he replied eloquently. He added a little pantomime that involved a lot of sweeping arm and hand movements that only served to puzzle me farther.

“You want me to wash my clothes in it?” I frowned dubiously (still no response from my menu).

“Feeh igexh iug, tfiv xew.”

“Sorry, bud. I’m not understanding a word you’re saying. I wish there was some kind of translator—“

Passive Skill: Universal Translator Awarded!

Handsome Genie at You Service!

What to the what, now? Was someone truly looking out for my ass? Either an administrator had finally noticed my plight or I was getting assistance from an unusually pushy AI. Things were definitely looking up.

“…therefore, I beg you to descend into the Cenote, enter the land of the dead, and find the cause of their restless sleep. Our people cannot perform the ancient funeral rites while our warrior ancestor spirits guard its entry.”

Okay, I think I lost a lot of the backstory but I kinda got the gist.

“So this is some kind of tomb?”

“All cenote are sacred to the people. They are doorways to the Underworld.”

“Which you travel through to, um, leave your dead.”

“Yes. If we do not enter and perform the rites for our recently departed soon, they will not be able to reconnect with the spirits of their loved ones and will be forced to stay in the Betweenlands, calling and crying out…”

The big man was visibly getting more and more upset. This Betweenland sounded like some heavy-duty purgatory scenario.

I patted his back muscles comfortingly.

“What can I do to help?”

And the huge warrior/son-of-a-bitch pushed me into the hole.

——

Falling is an unpleasant experience. I didn’t like it even as a teenager when our PE teachers would compel us to jump off a high wall and onto a large mat for no apparent reason. The feeling of your stomach attempting to escape up your throat, the pins-and-needles in your feet and legs, seeing a flat, hard-looking surface rising up to meet you…

Splash!

…the freezing, utter coldness of an ice bath in a hot, humid climate…

Wait. That was new.

Feeling the crunchy bottom under my boots, I kicked against it, propelling myself upward to the surface where I popped up, gasping and floundering. A natural-born mermaid I was not.

I heard a hoarse grunt-boom and looked up to see Gunga attacking the mayan warrior, his wing feathers fully extended, shoving against him with his protuberant bottom neck and chest and pecking him around the face and throat. (I could now see a practical application for the wide necklace the guy was sporting—although it was possibly not what it was designed for.)

All this shoving and pecking led him perilously close to the edge of the cenote, and, despite my situation, I couldn’t keep from grinning smugly when, with a surprise seizure of his nose and a final thrust, the big warrior toppled in.

Splooosh!

Ain’t payback a bitch.

He came up sputtering, froze momentarily, but quickly recovered, and in a smooth, overhand stroke, powered himself over to a ridge of stone hanging slightly above the water.

I followed in an less showy doggy-paddle, pulling myself over the ridge’s edge with a grunt of effort. I really had to increase my strength—

+1 to Strength Attribute!

Huh. The act of pulling myself up must have put me over the edge of some kind of point threshold. Maybe I should try lifting some weights when I’m not so…busy.

Busy as in mad-as-a-wet-hen.

Getting laboriously to my feet, my custom-leather boots squishing and sloshing, I strode purposefully over to the warrior and poked him in the ches—er…back? In the dim lighting I hadn’t realised that he’d turned and was fiddling with something on the side of the cave. “What—?“

“Saal.”

Instantly, primitive torches flared to life, illuminating the cenote. And this primitive equivalent of voice-activated lighting revealed that we were standing in scenic glory.

The interior of the cenote was shaped like a roughly crafted chalice, slightly bulbous near the bottom and narrowing towards the ceiling vent. What looked like vines hung vertically downwards in light gray strip curtains, veiling the darker stone of its walls. Small birds darted amongst them, picking off tiny insects, and underneath, the light sandy colour of shallow water led into the perfectly clear cerulean blue of—

—skeletons, lots and lots of skeletons.

Sal hunkered down to his knees and bowed his head.

Maybe his pal, Fred, was down there? Or his dad?

I automatically lowered my own head in respect. Poor guy. I sympathised. My own par—

Sal suddenly whipped out a large golden conch shell (where the hell had he been storing that?) and blew an extremely loud, sonorous note.

Instantly a cloud of bats I’d somehow failed to see lit into the air and flew pell-mell around the cenote, filling the air with wings, claws, squeaks, and probably every disease known to man.

One latched onto my hair as I ducked for cover, maybe sensing a safe landing spot, and I screeched like a total girly-girl until Sal helped me disentangle it.

When all had resettled except the pounding of my heart and the occasional worried squeak from one of the cave’s residents, my indignation had been rekindled.

I stomped the two steps necessary to reach the warrior and yanked the shell out of his hand before smacking him hard on the shoulder. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Do you want to wake the dead?”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Geez, this shell thing is heavy. I had to hastily add my other hand to prevent it from falling on my foot.

I could swear I saw a small grin sneak across his face, but it might have been a shadow reflecting off the water.

“Yes,” he said.

“Eh?”

“To enter the spirit realm, you must first be able to find the spirit realm. You must rouse the soul guides to aid you.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet a ghost. I’d been kinda hoping the whole land of the dead thing was just a metaphor for tomb. I’d even had an image in my head of King Tut and his big-ass sarcophagus, with me standing over it as a slightly less glamorous version of Lara Croft. The mayans did have a reputation for throwing away gold…

I looked around surreptitiously, but saw only a faint gleam under the water next to one of the skeletons. Not exactly a pile of treasure. And the whole ghost-thing smacked too much of phantom vengeance mythology to interest me. Desecration of the dead and all that. Besides, I was pretty sure Sal wouldn’t like it.

“So, just where are these soul guides of yours?” I looked about for spectral visitors and found none. “Maybe you should have another toot on your horn.” I tried to hand it back to Sal, but the conch shell, along with my hands, passed straight through his.

Eep!

Expecting it be taken by the mayan, I overbalanced under the weight and passed right through him on my way to the rock floor. The golden shell hit first, with me following immediately after.

It was another of the many occasions where I was grateful for the minimising of pain levels. That would have given me a nasty bruise. But I was far more concerned that my beautiful sacred conch had no such protection. Gold wasn’t exactly the most durable element. Upon examination however, I deemed it to be good as new, not even a dent to chronicle my clumsiness.

I wished the same could be said of its owner.

Sal stood absolutely still, expressionless and…translucent. And nothing I said or did—not even my scientific poky method—could make him solid or communicative. I suspected he had run out of set script to follow and was waiting for some cue that would set him in motion again.

A cue that I was afraid might not occur.

The completion of Amrut’s Dungeon.

——

So I was alone again, this time without even the assistance of Gunga. He was still there, craning his neck through the hole high above and making a worried rattling noise occasionally, but it was clear this was not a challenge he could participate in. Large flightless birds can probably swim, but I was pretty sure underwater exploration was off the table.

I still hadn’t seen any sign of Sal’s spirit guides, though, and I was getting worried that the clock had probably started when he degenerated into his current vegetative state.

Five hours to do whatever the hell needed to be done. Something about convincing some warrior bouncers to let their rellies into a metaphoric St. Pete’s bar?

But first I needed to find the dungeon entrance. And the conch shell seemed to be my best bet for summoning room service.

Looking it over, I decided it couldn’t be too hard to play. I was a bard after all. After a bit of fumbling I found the mouthpiece and…didn’t manage to lift it up to my face. The damn thing was too heavy. Instead, I laid it and myself on the floor and shifted into position—a little awkward, but serviceable.

Then I blew, hard and authoritatively.

It sounded a spittle-fueled raspberry. I tried again. And again. And again. No matter what technique I used nothing remotely musical would come out of the horn.

At one point two swallows that had been hovering close by ventured down from the cave walls to laugh their asses off, heads tilting and feet bouncing.

This encouraged me to try harder. Sal had proven that it could be done. The horn wasn’t blocked or faulty. I just had to hold my mouth just…so.

Red-faced and puffing, I finally managed a small surprised toot that sounded in no way like its owner’s resounding blast. Yet was enough to make me sense victory.

Even the birds seemed impressed. They alternated flying to one end of the cenote and back again, chirping in celebration.

Ability: Basic Conch Shell Mastery Achieved!

Well, sorta. We have to give you that one!

Reward: 50 XP!

But even with the system awarded ability I couldn’t make much more than my original toot and I was soon exhausted.

No ghosts appeared. The only movement came from the birds, who continued to flitter about from side to side.

I lay on my back and beat my fists lightly in the dirt in frustration. There had to be a solution. These sort of challenges always had an element of puzzle-solving. I just had to think it through.

Unless it was a glitch. It would be just my luck to get stuck in a game within a game. That old bastard Murphy would howl with laughter.

One of the birds landed on the top of my boot and cheeped, its tiny throat moving dramatically. His buddy was still flying from the ridge to the other side of the water and back again. Monotonously. Hypnotically. Baack and forth.

Actually, the movement itself seemed odd. Rehearsed. As if its programming had been set in a permanent loop.

Satisfied it had my attention, bird one lifted off my foot and joined its twin on the same flight path, alternating directions midway to keep from running into each other.

I looked a little more closely at the wall that they seemed to be so fond of.

Aha! Just above the water line an area behind the white vines seemed darker than the surrounding rock.

I eased off the overhang, cringing as I slid into the chilly water, and wondered how long it would take before hypothermia set in.

Passive Skill: Cold Immunity Unlocked!

There. Now Get Moving!

My guardian angel was at work again.

The water felt noticeably warmer after the notification. Not comfortably so, but enough that my core temperature didn’t feel at risk. I still wasn’t happy about the skeletons, though. Skeletons have a nasty habit in gaming lore of coming to life when you least expect it. I had no desire to put my feet anywhere near grabby hands that could drag me under and cause me to join their number.

The birds chirped encouragingly, flying through the darker patch of wall, and back out again.

I had found my soul guides. It seemed a little too Snow White to me, but it could’ve been worse. The bats, for example, would have been a lot less savoury. Or even moths and any of the other bugs that were no doubt moving around on the walls.

The thought of that small-but far-from-dead army gave me the incentive to make my way through the water, moving as quickly as my dog-paddling ability allowed me—while still watching out for any suspicious movement beneath me.

Ability: Basic Swimming Unlocked!

Suddenly, my movements became smoother and my body floated upward to lie parallel to the water in classic freestyle position. I was able to reach the gap quickly, and started treading water as I cautiously pushed aside the white vines concealing the entrance to a side tunnel.

No zombies appeared; no ghosts; no cackling necromancers.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. At least if a bad guy showed up I would be spared the anticipation of horrific potential deaths.

The tunnel was too dark to make out any details, so I used my newest Ability to swim to the nearest torch in the central cavern. I then slowly made my way back, holding it as high above the water as I could. I just hoped that it lasted long enough to explore the tunnel.

At least whatever was causing it to cast light wasn’t flammable—as I discovered when trying to set alight the fat moths hot on my trail. One flapped past my ear and battered against my temple. I jerked and almost dropped the torch. God, I hate moths.

Pushing aside the vines again, I eased the torch into the cavity and found what I expected to find—a human-sized tunnel. It extended past the range of my light, up to which point it continued in pretty much a straight line. A rise, then abrupt dip in the entry created a miniature waterfall, and continued slightly lower than the water level of the cenote’s main cavern. This meant the current was noticeably faster, but shallower. It should be easy enough to walk through.

I eased myself over the rise and slid down the waterfall, crouching a little to avoid a rough chunk of rock that reached down from the ceiling. As I passed beneath, I noticed many-legged movement but ignored it, pressing forward. At least my experiences in the Australian outback had somewhat desensitised me to their smaller cousins.

I continued to follow the tunnel for twenty uneventful minutes, before I reached a fork, the water rushing into two separate branches; one wide and routing most of the water, and the other a narrow crevice that allowed only a trickle to pass through.

Above each of these, set into cavities that had been roughly carved into the rock, were two skulls.

I jolted, at first thinking I’d found another burial site, but upon closer examination realised that the skulls were man-made. And that they were both identical except for their composition. One was carved from quartz crystal (now why was that familiar?), and the other a black obsidian. The crystal skull was sitting above the smaller tunnel, the obsidian over the larger.

This was a dilemma. My gamer instincts urged me towards the crystal skull, but my self-preserving lizard-brain pointed me towards the larger, less constrictive fork.

I reached over my back and retrieved my lyre—which thankfully had proved immune to water-damage—and used the top edge to chip at the ceiling of the smaller tunnel, hoping I would be able to get a clearer idea of whether it got larger farther in.

A tarantula scuttled across my hand.

Ick. I flicked it off sharply, but after my adventure with Bigmotherfuckerus I was unimpressed.

As if my non-response was a trigger, a white centipede the width of my thumb also trundled its way through the gap, feelers twitching as it felt its way across the rock.

Double ick. But it made my decision easy.

Resituating my lyre into its accustomed position, I used the torch to gently redirect the bug to a side wall, then shoved the torch through the smaller opening and wiggled myself into position behind it.