Thirst and hunger assaulted me, but I pushed them aside. I couldn’t miss this opportunity. The sun was rising.
As was something else. I couldn’t quite place it; something dark and chaotic swirling at the back of my mind. It too, would have to wait.
I traced the wound on my arm. It had scabbed over already, the skin felt tight, but not inflamed. That was good. I was about to cut it again.
Candlelight
Light blossomed. Not the faint light I expected, but enough to light the entire altar where I lay and a good portion of the ceiling, walls, and nearby floor.
I blinked. Sands that grind the shore, something was wrong. The light was wrong. It was pale; white and grey, rather than the warm red-orange glow I had recorded.
And it was not the only thing wrong. My hair floated about me, nearly as though I was underwater, or in a strong breeze. And it was white, white as snow. It stretched out nearly as far as my arms, even as it curled and danced to a secret rhythm. My nails were also different. They were black and pointed, almost like a bear or a dog, though not nearly so long.
I touched the tip of one with a finger. They were as sharp as an eagle’s talons.
My arms too had changed. My entire musculature I realized. Sinews and tendons stood out on arms, which shifted visibly under my skin as I moved. Almost as if I had not skin at all. Only the colour was wrong.
I stood upright in my bowl – an offering bowl, I now realized – and checked out the rest of my body. It felt like it was humming, taught with strength. The strange skinless appearance was not restricted to my arms. My legs and torso were much the same. Thankfully, though now extremely hard feeling, my toenails had not also grown claws.
It must have been the altar. I clambered down to get a better look at it. Though the icy fog had dissipated its legacy remained. Deep cracks ran through the floor, making footing uncertain, and the broken stone were still cold to the touch. Bestial though I now appeared, had it not been for this altar, I’d have been in pieces along with the cobbles.
The altar took on the appearance of a great twisted tree, like an ancient pine. Its bare branches stretched out in every direction, many etched with what must have been moss. Set into the top the tree was the giant bowl I had slept in, a place of offering. The structure was as wide as it was tall, perhaps 15 feet in every direction. It was no wonder I’d run into it. It almost completely blocked the door I had entered by.
The sun finished rising. My investigation of the rest of the room would have to wait.
Candlelight
A second light blossomed. I pulled both of them towards me, then hesitated. My plan had been to merge them together, but seeing them both dance before me, gave me a better idea. One which was much more flexible.
I sent the balls weaving and dancing about the room as I concentrated on them. Their wavering light revealed only a statue of a woman in the far corner suspended above a pit. Interesting, but not enough so to divert my focus. It could wait until my new spells were recorded.
Giddy Flames:Two large glowing masses, bright as candles, slowly fade over the course of an hour. They move following the whims of their master.
An hour passed. The lights dimmed. Blood trickled down my right arm. Once more I was in darkness.
The dark chaotic swirl at the back of my mind had grown. I could no longer push it aside. I could no longer ignore the whispering.
Ice Cloak
It should have been nonsense. A non-sequitur. But the moment I heard it I knew. I understood and felt its power. The Ice Cloak was mine to do with as I wished. Power over the world – no. Power through the world, through nature, that is what the warlock had said.
Did I trust him?
Not really. I hadn’t chosen the spell, it had been forced into my mind. That seemed far from natural. Perhaps it was a response to icy fog? Yes. I could see that. This spell would protect me from further freezing attacks, among other things. The versatility was astounding. Just this glimpse into dark magic gave me a new appreciating for warlocks. They could rule the world if they wanted, yet they contented themselves with their towers and castles and petty schemes. Suspicious, really.
I would wait to use the spell. Perhaps in a time of absolute need, but until that point, I would ignore the eldritch murmurs in my head.
I stumbled about in the dark until I reached the statue of the woman. The room hadn’t appeared to hold any exits, but I was getting a feel for this dungeon. Everything held secrets. Hadn’t I entered the wailing room through a hole concealed behind a carving of some sort? If the statue in this room also concealed a passage I’d not need to retrace my steps back through the trapped doorway.
I could summon my lights to guide me, but they were a rare commodity at this point. I’d see what could be discovered without them first.
I traced the statue’s outline in the dark. She was larger than real life, slightly taller than me and set in the wall a little ways off the ground like a ship’s figurehead. Her body rippled and flowed, like the carver had covered her in a stone facsimile of cloth. There was even a strip above her nose, where her eyes would be. Her arms were attached to her head by her hands, and her mouth was open in a scream or shout.
I halfheartedly searched her tongue and the roof of her mouth for a hidden lever or button, feeling like a bit of a fool as I did so. Nothing.
She started merging with the wall down by her hips. By her shins, she was completely sunk into it.
Her hair strange. Thick and bulbous, like seaweeds or... snakes.
Was this a statue of one of the Gorgons? The blindfold across her eyes would be a cruel irony. In fact – no, it was too obvious.
I grabbed the blindfold and wiggled it about. It moved, sliding free from the statue. There was a click, and the statue, as well as a piece of the wall, popped forward. Ridiculous. That would be the first thing anyone tried if they could see the statue. I’d solved it in the dark! Who was this supposed to conceal anything from?
I grabbed her by the crook of her elbows and pulled. She was stuck fast, but a newfound strength burned within me. The altar’s transformation, I supposed. The statue slid forward, grinding inch by grinding inch, squealing and protesting all the way, until I’d revealed a gap large enough for me to slip through.
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The statue concealed (what appeared to be, it was dark after all) a hallway. At the end of the hallway was another door, this one made of cool metal. I gave it an unenthusiastic shove with my shoulder. Sure enough, it didn’t budge. The metal doors all appeared to be locked and bolted. What I wouldn’t give for some kind of lock-picking spell.
Back around then, unless I wanted to risk Teleport. I wasn’t that desperate yet. Besides, a foul odour leaked from under the door. Perhaps it was for the best.
I felt my way over the door and to the opposite wall. Yep, I was in a corridor alright. I could almost touch both sides at once.
I began my long journey back the way I’d come.
***
Shortly after I passed the metal tree I’d stubbed my toe on something sharp and metallic.
“May the sea swallow the stars!”
I’d grown sick of crawling, but now I remembered why I’d been doing it. I bent and felt around for the piece of metal. There was several of them, as well as a leather wrapped handle. A broken sword. Well, if I wasn’t crawling my hands may as well be carrying something. I grabbed the handle. It still held a short fragment of the blade. Perhaps I could use it as a knife in a pinch.
I continued on, this time with my feet shuffling carefully,hand tracing downlong stone corridors. I entered the room of rotten fruit once more, this time going wide about the barrels. It was quite a bit large room than I’d realized, with some sort of mosaic on the side of the room opposite the barrels.
The wailing room was next. I braced myself, but still nearly jumped out of my skin when I accidentally stumbled into the area. There was a door here, on the far side of the wailing zone. No wonderI’d not discovered it, I thought as I desperately tried to clamp my jaws shut with my hands.
As I pushed through the doorway the world spun suddenly, and I stumbled. Had the link between worlds been restored? Perhaps I’d been out of here sooner than later, ready to serve the Mushroom-King’s – no, not while he wasn’t here. I was not the Mushroom-King’s servant. I was not a warlock. I was Oswic of Black bridge, mage extraordinaire, and even more extraordinaire barn floor dancer, not some mean evil’s minion.
I shuffled into the room, kicking shards that flew and clattered lightly from my path. Bone. I quickened my pace. The room didn’t smell of a lair, or even a crypt, but the bones had gotten here somehow.
A dozen steps led me to one of the barred iron doors. I continued to circle the room, returning to the door I’d entered by...
It was closed. I distinctly remembered leaving it open. I’d not heard it swing shut. Even the most oiled hinges in this dungeon squealed.
I raised my broken sword before myself and flattened myself against the wall. Cautiously, quietly, I made my way to the corner of the room. I waited
And waited.
And waited.
Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Even the wails of the greater dungeon seemed fainter here.
Giddy Flames
Four glowing balls of light rose off my skin and flew to each corner of the room, bathing it in dim light. The room was empty. Only shards of bone littered the floor. The ceiling too, was bare. Whatever had closed the door had left, or had never been—
Four?
The jack-o’-lanterns had come to me so naturally I’d not thought about it. I checked my right arm. Sure enough, the spell still read “Two large glowing masses, bright as candles, slowly fade over the course of an hour. They move following the whims of their master.”
I’d somehow cast it wrong. That wasn’t possible. Nature could be shortcutted, but not superseded. Not without dark magic.
Was this the altar’s work? Or was it the dark magic atmosphere of the dungeon? I pulled the lights back to me and studied them. They didn’t look different. They still behaved as normal. Still gave off no heat, still passed through one another as if they weren’t there. Perhaps they were brighter than I remembered, but that was it.
Dark magic was essentially random when viewed from the outside, yet this had aligned with my casting perfectly. More credence given to the warlock’s words.
I crept back over to the closed door. Time to capitalize on my unexpected fortune. If nothing else I could get a glimpse of what the wailing room carving looked like. Perhaps a little light was what I needed to find a way through one of the many barred doors in this place.
I carefully pushed open the door, sword shard at the ready.
Silence.
I sent two will-o’-the-wisps in before me to light the way. The room beyond was circular, neither large nor small. At the centre of the room stood a small statue. A woman, quite squat in stature. Her breasts and hips were nearly as large as the rest of her put together. I would have thought it to be some sort of fertility goddess if not for her enormous beard. A dwarf, then?
This wasn’t right. There were no exists save the one I’d entered through. The room had no corners, though I’d felt them in dark. The room didn’t have the wailing corner, nor any torch sconces on the wall.
That feeling of disorientation. Time and space and changed once more. Either I’d been moved, or the room had. I hoped it was the first option, otherwise, whatever sort of sense of the dungeon’s layout I had would be worthless. I’d only know once I found my way back to familiar ground.
I walked slowly about the room. The sensible side of my brain knew it was futile, but I still held a secret hope that I’d somehow imagined the corners, that I’d find my discarded torches or the wailing face hiding behind the statue. Alas it was not to be. Two circuits of the room revealed naught but the statue’s impressive rear end, and a rusted gauntlet against the wall. It didn’t even fit.
As for the statue, I’d heard stories about dwarves. Master craftsmen. Greedy. Deceitful. Shapeshifters. But there was other stories. Stories of bravery and cunning. Stories of wondrous cities with golden roofs and silver floors and gemstones gleaming in the dark. Stories of heroes overcoming their natural inclinations and striking down great evils.
Perhaps she was a goddess. Perhaps she would hear me if I prayed.
I knelt before her, clasped my hands and bent my head.
“Hi. I- I’m not...”
I stopped. I’d been too busy cursing in pain before to notice, but something was wrong with my voice. Very wrong.
“Hello? Testing. My name is Oswic the Mage-”
I cut off abruptly and shuddered. My voice had never been high pitched, but I’d thought it pleasant and lilting. A kind voice, if nothing else.
It had changed.
Deep and menacing. Rich, yet dripping with a contempt I couldn’t remove. Yet another change.
“Hi there. I’m Oswic-”
I stopped again. It was too disconcerting. I took a deep breath. I could do this. What choice did I have? The options were get used to my new voice, or never speak again. Anything which must be borne could be.
“Hi, I don’t know if you’re a god, or I’m just talking to a stone statue. If you are a god I don’t know which one you are, so please forgive me my ignorance. I need help. A warlock and a mushroom are warring for control of my mind. I’m afraid of losing myself. I’m afraid that they’re right. I’m afraid of my own judgment. I don’t know which thoughts are mine, and which are theirs. Even my body isn’t my own.”
I held up my clawed hands to her face. I’d been trying not to think about them. What would happen if I escaped from here? Would I be shunned? Could I ever find love? I’d been happy with who I was. Thought myself handsome even. Now I looked like a monster.
Most forgot the wisdom of children and elders. Most did not want to remember their cruel insight. Beauty was more than skin deep. My mind was not my own. Perhaps they’d be right to shun me as a monster.
“I need help,” I said again, “I’ve got no water, no food, and yet, the thing which bothers me is my mind. Please, help me overcome, as the heroes of old once did. Help me listen to what is right. Let me trust myself again. Please. I don’t have an offering, save for myself. Name your price. Please.”
You can overcome. To offer a prayer is enough. Desire, once spoken, is action. Trust yourself. Pay attention. Do not give in. Resist, and they will flee from you.
The thoughts were my own, come unbidden to my mind. And yet... I sensed a power behind them, a rightness. A truth. Was this her reply?
Words carved into the base of the statue suddenly caught my eye. How had I not noticed them before? They were written in an ancient tongue, one which was old when the mountains were born. One which wrote of the first rainfall. One which had been illuminated by the first rising of the sun. The Language of the Gods. Few knew it. I was one of them.
THE STRENGTH OF THE DWARVES GOES WITH YOU
How had-? Perhaps my prayer had been answered after all.
I stood with a new strength. It was different from that lent me by the altar. This was surer, gentler, deeper. The mountain may crumble, but the mountain endures.
“Thank you.”
There was no sign she heard me. No sign she’d ever heard me. But gratitude isn’t for the listener.