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dislike—as a way to even the score and appease the barbarian’s temperament, “barring any better ideas, we will follow Goldain’s suggestion and bear to the left.”
    Seeing the chuckle stifled in Duncan’s throat by the word dwarf , it was now Goldain’s turn to smile and enjoy his proxy victory.
    Not far down the tunnel, it again branched off to the right while the main tunnel continued straight. Thatcher, slightly ahead of the others, decided to disregard Qarahni wisdom for the moment and check the right-hand branch.
    He discovered a large dining room. Huge wooden tables lined up down the center of the chamber, capable of feeding several dozen men. The fine woodwork on the chairs and tables showed this was no Hobgoblin made furniture, but the filth and the stench from piled garbage and unidentifiable smells filling the place showed left no doubt the former inhabitants were long gone. This was a gobbler mess hall now.
    At the far end of the dining room, a closed door stood breaching the wall. Gobblers did not place doors in their tunnels, so this also must have belonged to the former owners. Thatcher returned to the main hallway to let the group catch up before deciding what to do about the door.
    “Right is wrong,” said Goldain, contributing his thoughts. “We go exploring that way, no telling what we might open up. I say stick to the main hall.”
    “If the dining room was Durgak designed,” Duncan replied, “and based on the non-gobbler furniture that would seem to be the case, then the door off the back would typically lead to the kitchen and pantry.”
    It was a reasonable assumption. Thatcher, emboldened by Duncan’s suggestion, volunteered to check it out. The rest of the party waited just inside the dining room in case the young thief uncovered something more than a mere kitchen.
    Thatcher quickly confirmed Duncan’s supposition. A filthy kitchen with a well and a fire pit lay just beyond the door. Inside, another door lead to a pantry filled with foodstuffs only fit for consumption by gobblers and their ilk. No other exits lay beyond, so Thatcher returned to the group, his head still reeling under the noxious olfactory bombardment from the pantry.
    “I don’t think I shall eat again for a week. These Hobgoblins are the most disgusting beings I have ever encountered.”
    “Well, lad,” replied Duncan, “you obviously haven’t met their less-advanced cousins, the Orcs. If you ever have the displeasure of exploring an Orc-wallow, you will regard this place as a fond, fair memory.”
    Thatcher’s meager breakfast began to rise up in protest at that thought, upon which he wisely ceased to dwell.
    “You see, kid,” Goldain grinned, “left is right, and right is wrong.”
    Thatcher wasn’t entirely sure Goldain was serious in his statement but hoped Duncan would forego any further attempts at ridicule. Thatcher liked the northerner, and his simplicity and straightforwardness was refreshing. Thatcher’s gut told him there was more to the Qarahni than the simple sword-slinger he seemed to be. Whether the Durgak did not hear Goldain’s comment or for once Duncan chose restraint, the comment went unanswered, and the team returned to the main hallway.
    Soon the passage took a right turn, and according to Duncan’s reckoning, they were now heading south. Thatcher was not sure how anyone got their bearings underground. He preferred city streets to these convoluted caverns, Durgak-carved or otherwise.
    Not more than a hundred feet onward, they came to another door on their left. The door was slightly ajar and opened easily, revealing a small, disheveled guardroom of sorts. A pair of metal cots in serious disrepair and covered in soiled and smelly bedding revealed that gobblers had regularly used this room. For now, it was fortunately empty.
    Another hundred feet or so brought a turn westward. Thatcher stopped short. The long, thin, almost invisible slits in the right-hand wall, one about knee height