At last, my spells were renewed.

There was a million spells I wanted to record, but the most pressing was a way to prevent me losing my gear like I nearly had yesterday. To that end, I cleared out an area which to the best of my knowledge was 150 feet. I ran back and forth along it a few times, trying to get my timing down.

After my third pass I fell into a rhythm. Now or never. I began recording. Light failed before I finished, but I could write in the dark. I’d had plenty of practice. In the end, I had a brand new spell, timed better than I could have imagined.

Transport: Move all of the caster’s gear 150 ft over the course of eight seconds.

One half of the spell complete without incident. Hopefully I would be as lucky on the new day. The hard part was done, anyway.

I summoned another light. I’d leave the ticks for now and deal with them if my day ended with some offensive spells left over. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. The archway in the spike room (The one with spikes on the floor. Without the bodies) awaited.

By rough estimate I figured the archway 3-500 feet away from my room. I didn’t know what I could do with that information, but I’d been trying to measure distances all morning so it was on my mind. Shorter than I’d expected, anyway.

I decided to learn from my mistakes yesterday, and go through the archway with only a cursory glance for traps. I’d not been struck by any traps from a doorless portal yet, and I couldn’t afford to waste light (and food, and water) combing over everything which looked slightly foreboding. I kept my spells and sword at the ready, of course.

The archway led to a tunnel which bent to the right at a right angle. Strike me. I’d meant to see if I could figure out where north was again. I’d have to do it later.

The tunnel ran on for several dozen feet before bending to the left. About halfway down, also on the left, was a door set in the wall. I tried the door first, on the principle that it was closer.

Careful studied revealed nothing my limited experience could constitute a trap, so I tried the handle.

It was stuck, of course.

I had to ram the thing with my shoulder a good few times before I got it open wide enough to squeeze through the gap. If I ever got out of here I was returning with an army of carpenters, not archaeologists. We were going to drive the warlocks out and fix every last door in this twisted dungeon.

On the plus side, I doubted the doors would be swinging shut or locking behind me.

Footsteps filled the air.

I leapt back. I sent my lights forward to illuminate what they could. It sounded like a small army was in there.

My lights found the far wall and circled back without revealing anything.

Rapid. Pounding. Clattering. Tapping. Someone was running up behind me.

I spun and swung my sword wildly. It was too dark to see my target and my sword only connected with air.

I backed up involuntarily, taking a step into the room. I sent one of my jack-o’-lanterns ahead of me, but before it could make it, the pounding foot steps had closed the distance and run through me, joining the others in the room.

I spun again, sword swinging, feeling like a top.

“Hello? Who’s there? Reveal yourself!”

Steady. Creeping. Sneaking.

I twisted and stabbed.

Nothing.

I was beginning to suspect whoever had left these footsteps had passed long ago.

I moved into the centre of the room and waited. I had my spells at the ready, still half expecting a knife in my back. Footsteps ran by. Others walked. A man with a peg leg tap tap tapped through the one of the doors. Another man, a noble by the sound of his high heels, strutted back and forth ceaselessly, only pausing to stamp dramatically by the fireplace next to the door I’d entered by.

I say man. They could have been women or even children with exceptionally heavy footfalls. Or it could be the only thing making the sounds was the footsteps themselves. Normally footstep and foot went hand in hand, but there was no rule which said they must. Perhaps there was some poor noble somewhere out there stamping in front of his fireplace to no effect. Perhaps a child ran gaily through the streets with a pitter-patter no one could hear.

They didn’t seem to mean any harm. Not that I rested easy. Every new or sudden sound had me twitching. I’d never done well in cities.

I went over and studied the fireplace. The hearth had run down to ashes, but a few good timbers still remained stacked next to it. A poker, shovel, and broom even leaned against the wall next to it. Clearly someone had cared for this room. It was far cleaner than the others. Far more homely. I’d move my casket here away from the rotting frogs if it wasn’t for the noise.

Even if I could get used to them, and even if they didn’t disturb my sleep, they’d cover the sounds of any more corporal entities sneaking up on me as I rested.

Plus the doors were less secured. In the frog room two doors led to a dead end section of the dungeon and a third was guarded by a pack of orcneas. I myself could watch the final door. Here, every door, even the one I’d entered through, was a source of unknown threats.

There were three other exits from the room. Since I didn’t know which way north was, I gave them all a quick once over. All of them were simple wooden doors I could break through as easy as open. Metaphorically. Turning a doorhandle was always going to be easier, and far less likely to attract trouble.

I chose the door opposite the one I entered by on the principal that out would be furthest away from in.

A second examination of the door and its frame revealed nothing new to my senses. The dungeon designers had done well to make the traps rare enough to make searching for them boring rather than terrifying. Nothing was more deadly than dangerous and boring.

I tried the handle and, by the lupins which blossom in spring, it opened.

Footsteps beside me gave a little celebratory tap-dance to accompany the small chuckle which escaped my lips.

I pivoted and sliced through the air on reflex. Nothing. The possibility of traps still had me a little high strung. Besides, you never knew. Maybe this time my sword would connect.

The way beyond was a small antechamber which led immediately to a wooden door on my left.

I wasn’t yet brave enough not to check for traps, so performed my little ten minute door opening ritual once more.

After the customary grunting and cursing and trying to squeeze through an opening half my size (army of carpenters, I’m telling you), I managed to get my head far enough in the room to twist around and look up. I still remembered the room of spikes. I’d been checking every ceiling since then, but this was the first to actually have something.

This time it was a vast mural rather than more impaled corpses, thank heavens. It depicted a great battle. One, I realized as my jack-o’lanterns swept up and down its length, I recognized. The Springtime War, also known as the Battle of a Thousand days. It had been a siege of this very fort. It wasn’t the longest siege but it was the most violent in recorded history. Not just for Bleak Fort. For anywhere. There had been no reprieve. No pause in the fighting.

The invaders had thought it would be a quick campaign, hence the ironic name of “The Springtime War.” They hadn’t been blind fools either. The Fort had been operating with a skeleton crew at them time, and most of them were out on patrol when the attack began. It had been timed perfectly.

The mural recounted what they had failed to account for.

Monstrous forms manned the walls. Giants towered above the attackers. Thousands of fist sized spiders strung great webs across holes in the wall. Manticores rained down hails of spikes on the besiegers. Hordes of undead poured from the sally ports. The denizens of the dungeon and the caverns below had joined in the defence.

How the defenders had secured the alliances, and what it had cost them, was a secret lost to time. Not even the warlocks knew, or they wouldn’t have needed to activate the rift.

The room itself was perhaps a bit smaller than average for the dungeon, though still large by normal metrics. A large pile of sticks stood in the centre of the room; broken arrow-shafts. How strange. Curious, I walked over and pushed some aside with my sword. As I did so metal briefly scraped against metal.

Arrowheads? No. It had been longer than that. I wiggled my sword around feeling the outline of whatever was buried beneath the shafts. And wider, though not by much. An iron band. Like a chest.

I dropped my sword and pulled the remaining shafts away with vigour. Had a found another traveller’s cask? More food perhaps? Something other than fish?

The chest was smaller than the first, and locked. It was a good lock too, not just the kind you used to keep a hinge closed. I couldn’t pick it without some tools, but I might be able to break it with the hammer and chisel.

I hammered away for a handful of minutes without success other than to make the lock completely unpickable for anyone who came by after me. A few more minutes ruined the hinge as well.

The lights went out.

This was going well.

Marshlight

I hadn’t wanted to risk breaking the contents of the chest, but there was nothing for it now. I threw the chest against the floor a few times until the lid bent, and then wedge my sword in and pried it open the rest of the way.

My activities didn’t pass without notice, which might have been a first. When I finally looked up from my task I discovered a small hairy man was watching me. A dobby, or some kind of hobgoblin. Or maybe a very ugly dwarf.

I pulled my sword free from the mangled chest, “Who goes there?”

The creature was dressed in cardinal red motley, including a hat with dangling ends. He doffed this hat and held it against his chest as he spoke to me, “Master Tom Oldshoe if it pleases you, Sir. At your service.”

“Truly?” Hobs were known tricksters. It could be a great boon to have one working for you, or a never ending nightmare. I’d heard of at least one family which had been forced to abandon their home to get away from a house hob.

He grinned impishly, “True enough, Sir.”

He danced half a dozen steps closer to me, “Might old Master Tom ask what you’re doing to his treasure?”

I glanced at the chest, “This is yours?”

He placed the back of his hand against his forehead dramatically, hat still bunched up in it’s grasp, “Oh indeed Sir. Old Tom has a love for...” he squinted at the pile, “arrow shafts and battered boxes. Woe be you which has taken them from me.”

I lowered my sword, a trickster then, but a harmless enough one. I didn’t sheath my sword though, just in case.

“Then you may have them, Master Tom. I make no claim on your broken shafts and twisted chests. Only the treasure within is mine.”

“Treasure?” The hob’s eyes widened and he danced ever closer. Back and forth, making his motions hard to follow.

“Indeed, Master Tom. More of it than you can imagine.”

He frowned, and then a crafty look crossed his face, “This treasure is not yours, Sir. It can’t be! The treasure is in old Tom Oldshoe’s chest. What’s in yours is yours, sir. It’s the knowledge of babes.”

I nodded amicably, I’d been expecting something like this. Thankfully an answer entered my mind almost as fast as he spoke, “I can’t help but agree, Master Tom. But in this case I am prepared to make an exception and return you your box and arrows. For this room is mine.”

He slammed his hat back on his head, spun, and glared at me, “The room, sir? Old Master Tom has been under Bleak Fort for twenty years, and never has he seen you here! By what stake does Sir claim this room? Warlocks live here, Sir, not Magi.”

The last was said with a sly tilt of his head. Hobgoblins often had access to far more knowledge than they had any right. He knew the treasure wasn’t mine and he wanted me to know he knew it. But he’d already fallen for my trap.

“By the same stake with which you claimed your chest and arrows, Master.”

His face took on a struck expression. He stopped dancing.

“No fair, Sir, no fair. To use poor Master Tom’s words against him, to use his word against him! I’m bound by it, Sir, surely as you are.”

“How could I do otherwise, Master Tom? Would you have me take what is rightfully yours from you?”

He shook his head sadly. He knew I had won and he already knew why. This was now simply a performance on both of our parts.

I continued, “However,” he perked up, “I may be willing to trade some of my treasure.”

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Tom Oldshoe readjusted his hat and straightened his collar.

“A trade? I hope Sir does not think to take advantage of poor old Tom once more. Tom is a terrible trader. He is too honest sir.”

Somehow I doubted that. I tried not to let my thoughts reach my face.

“Of course not, Master Tom. We are both honest men here. Us honest men are incapable of taking advantage of one another. A fair trade is all I ask.”

“What would Sir trade then? What has Sir got?”

I smiled at him, doing my best to appear mysterious, “Let me show you.”

And let me see, I silently added. It was as good an opportunity as any to discover what my efforts had won me.

Red.

What?...

The majority of the space in the chest was taken up by a large box filled, of all things, with blood. My efforts to open the chest had liberally painted its contents crimson.

Even the hob recoiled as I began to lay out my treasures.

They were unfortunately few in numbers and in quality.

First came out a pair of blood-soaked workwoman’s gloves. Even at a glance they were too small for me. Next a skinning knife, and then a tin tankard. Three large stones were the last of my treasures.

Oldshoe and I stared at them in silence.

The tin could be useful, and would wash easily enough. The knife’s handle might never recover, but a few stains wouldn’t stop it from keeping its edge. The gloves were a lost cause and the stones were a mystery. I suppose before the ceiling collapse they had been rarer in the dungeon, but who need to always have a few stones on hand? The other items suggested she’d been a hunter of some sort, perhaps hunters had a use for stones I wasn’t aware of? Ballast in the stomach of a gutted animal?

Tom broke the silence, “If it pleases Sir might old Master Tom ask why sir has filled my chest with blood? And why Sir uses women’s gloves for his work? And what the stones are for?”

I kept the mysterious smile plastered on my face, “Magi have their reasons, Master. What do you have to offer? I offer you your pick of my treasures.”

The sly glint returned to Tom’s eye once more, “Master Tom would very much like Sir’s tankard, if it pleases Sir. Master Tom could fit Sir’s gloves in return. Old Master Tom wouldn’t want Sir’s poor fingers to go cold. Sir’s fingers must have been about to drop right off without Sir’s gloves.”

I showed him my clawed fingers, “I have little use for the gloves, Master Tom. Even the best fit pair would would soon have holes in it.”

“Oh Sir, Master Tom can fix that as well. For the tin and the knife shall we say? For the tin and the knife Master Tom will make Sir’s gloves fit, and never need worry about holes.”

My heart skipped a beat. I tried not to let it show on my face, but felt my eye twitch all the same. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

“You can undo this magic? Fix this transformation?”

Calm. Calmly. That had been far too direct for dealing with a hob.

Tom waggled his head back and forth, deigning not to notice the breach in protocol, “Magic cannot be undone, Sir. Magic is magic. But old Master Tom can make Sir’s gloves fit all the same.”

The claws were useful, but I had my dagger now. And the prospect of being human once more...

“What about the rest of my appearance? Can you fix that as well, Master?”

“One trade at a time Sir, one trade at a time. Poor Master Tom can’t keep it all in his head.”

“My apologies, Master. It has been weighing on my mind.”

He nodded sympathetically, “Old Tom understands Sir, truly he does. To be aught from what you should be is a terrible thing indeed.”

He reached up to pat me on the back, “Sir’s tin and knife, that Sir’s hands might fit Sir’s gloves once more, then?”

I took his tiny hand in my clawed one.

“You have yourself a deal Master Tom.”

He cackled, “Wonderful, wonderful. Was there anything else, Sir? Anything at all?”

I wanted to immediately bargain to fix more of my appearance, but I caught myself. Not all my changes were negative. The strength. The nightvision. My toughened hide. I might not make it out of the dungeon at all if I removed them. Perhaps I didn’t want to escape if I didn’t remove them, but that was out of my hands.

I’d have to be careful. Hobs were tricksters and easily offended. Famously, giving a hob clothes would banish them. Who knew what other things would offend them? Every deal I made had a chance of being my last. My being screamed in protest, but I forced myself to stop and think. More than anything, I needed to destroy this keep, and to do that, I needed to escape. If I got another chance then I would think about restoring my appearance. If I didn’t, the debate would be solved for me. It might not work the other way around.

“Perhaps we could trade for some information, Master Tom? You must know things.”

He grinned and his head bobbed up and down, “Master Tom knows many things, Sir, many things indeed. Master Tom knows the names of all creatures and the form of every knot. He knows how to catch fish without a net and how to draw poison from a wound. He knows the habits of kings and the thoughts of peasants. Old Master Tom even knows much of Sir’s journey, Sir. The whos and the whys and the whiches, Sir.”

He paused, as though wondering if he should say something, then added, “Old Tom knows how to free Sir from the Mushroom-King Sir. Warlocks too.”

I grew still. I would find the exit eventually, it was just a matter of time and searching. But breaking free from the geasa laid upon me was something I might never be able to do on my own.

“You can free me, Master Tom? Truly?”

“From one Sir, but not the other. Master Tom knows many things, Sir, but some knowings are only that. Master Tom understands the soaring of birds, but no matter how he flaps his arms, old Master Tom has yet to fly.”

He waved his arms up and down in demonstration.

“Master Tom can free Sir from the warlocks Sir, but he only has knowings of how to be free from the Mushroom-king.”

The last was said in a whisper, and Tom looked over both shoulders before continuing, “Be most careful talking about him, Sir. The Mushroom-King has spies everywhere.”

“I’ll give you my dagger, my sword, and my undying thanks if you would grant me this information, Master Tom.”

But Tom was sadly shaking his head, “Oh no Sir, Master Tom could not take such a deal. As much as he wants to, old Tom’s mother would not allow it. To risk the Mushroom-King’s ire for such trifles, Master Tom’s mother would drive him from the house with a broom Sir. A broom!”

There was little else I could offer him. My hammer, my chisel, and my waterskins. My spellbook I need almost as much as I needed his help, and would be of little value to anyone other than myself. I knew better than to offer him my belt or armour. They were far too close to clothes.

That left only promises and more abstract concepts. My first born child. The light of my lover’s eyes. That sort of thing. The sort of trades which famously backfired.

But what choice did I have?

“What then, Master, may I offer in trade?”

A light lit up in the hobgoblin’s eyes. He knew he had me.

“On the fourth floor of the dungeon is old Tom’s poor mother’s house. She is too frail to clean it, is old Tom’s Mother. In exchange for the information Master Tom only asks that Sir cleans it for her. Top to bottom. Just the once.”

That was it? That was worth the Mushroom-King’s wrath? How dirty was her house? Why couldn’t Tom clean it? He’d played me straight so far, but this felt like a trap.

I said so.

“Master Tom, surely you can find better use for a Magi as I? I have no objection to cleaning your mother’s house, but the deal is so unbalanced as to feel you are tricking me.”

Master Tom pulled the hat down from his head once more and held it in both hands against his chest. He wilted,

“Sir has the right of it. Aye, he does. Old Tom is afraid, Sir. Afraid of the dungeon and his mother both. Master Tom can’t bear to face her. It was bad enough when warlocks wandered the halls, but now they’re full of monsters, Sir.

“And Old Tom’s mother? She has grown wickeder and wickeder as she aged, Sir. She only judges, Sir, never happy with Master Tom’s treasures. Never listens to his hopes or dreams. Truth be told Sir, Master Tom fled her house. But he loves her still, Sir.”

Elves were tricksters, but they couldn’t lie. I patted him gently on the shoulder.

“I’ve seen it before, Master. I know something of your troubles.”

He nodded at me, still looking ashamed, “And she is on the fourth floor, Sir. Finding her place will be no easy task! It is a fairer trade than Sir realizes.”

Once more I stuck out my hand, “Give me the information I need to free myself from the Mushroom-King, Master, and I’ll clean your mother’s house one time. As bargained.”

He grasped my hand as firmly as his tiny fingers allowed, “A fine deal happily made Sir! Would Sir like to make another? There is more Master Tom would ask of Sir.”

I hadn’t been sure the warlocks had done anything to my mind until Tom confirmed it, but now I answered without hesitation, “Remove what influence the warlocks have on my mind-”

My mind raced to catch up with my words. Exact words were important when dealing with elves. I didn’t want to lose my ability to be influenced; who knew what would happen to me? Even a well meaning hob might make an honest mistake with my wording there. Their minds were known to work in strange ways.

“-Rather... could you tell me the nature of the warlock’s influence upon me, Master Tom? Not in trade, but so that I may properly dictate the terms of our bargain?”

Master Tom smiled at me knowingly, “Of course, Sir, of course. Master Tom would not like Sir saying he cheated Sir. ‘Tis your mind Sir, stuffed full of the warlock’s dark magic. It grows and grows Sir, but old Master Tom know the trick of it.”

“Is the dark magic a problem, Master? It has save my life once already.”

“Master Tom doesn’t like, oh no Sir, he doesn’t. Sir would become a warlock, no doubt about it. But there is more, Sir.”

“More?”

He nodded vigorously, “Indeed Sir! A dark cloud on Sir’s thoughts. Master Tom does not like the look of it. He thinks he should blow it away. Poof!”

He blew out his cheeks in demonstration.

That disturbed me. I hadn’t noticed anything different. A dark cloud? When would the warlock have had time to alter my mind? The whispering hadn’t started till I lay on the altar. Perhaps the cloud was the whispering. And the source of my dark magic. Was that something I wanted to lose?

But a compulsion on my mind, unbeknownst in nature even to myself... That I couldn’t abide. I had my spell book and my waterskins. I no longer needed the dark magic. I would not be bound.

“Then blow away, Master! I ask that you remove the dark magic from my mind, and the dark cloud from my thoughts. What would you ask in return?”

“Master Tom would like a secret, Sir. The name of Sir’s true love.”

“Do you swear to do no harm to her, Master? To cause her no anguish?”

“Master Tom swears to only do alike to her as she would do to old Tom, Sir. Provided Sir tells Tom her name.”

There was a dangerous gleam in his eye, and my blood ran cold. That had been a threat. Tom was a dobby. I was certain. Dobbys were identical to hobs in all but maliciousness. If I didn’t tell Tom the poor woman’s name, he would now be under no compulsion to leave her alone. In fact, he’d have every reason to, simply as a matter of revenge.

He didn’t know who she was or where she was. It would take him time to find her. But he would. Hobs were immortal, and could hold a grudge for centuries. There were stories of house dobbys tormenting the descendants of those who wronged them for generations, going so far to follow them even if they fled home or county.

I’d have to be careful. Where a hob might trick you, a dobby would cheat you. They were bound to the letter of their promises, but were famous for doing everything they could to break the spirit. I thought of my last two bargains. What had been my exact wording?

Make my gloves fit? Knowledge of – My breaths started coming in fast and shallow. My heart began to flutter in my chest, pound in my ears. I was- I forced my breathing to be slow. Calmly now. What was done was done. I had to have my wits about me.

“Promise me you’ll not deal with her, Master.”

Tom shook his head, “That’s two deals in one. One at a time, as Tom has said.”

“Will you stay for a second bargain?”

“Tom will, Sir. Or he won’t. Master Tom will do as it pleases him in the moment, Sir.”

“Very well. Master Tom, for my first bargain I ask you promise not to deal with, harm or cause anguish to my true love.”

The gleam in Tom’s eye danced, “Very good, Sir. Very good. Master Tom will be kind Sir. Let it not be said Master Tom is cruel. He asks for a mere trifle, Sir. The name of the girl (which is of no use to old Tom) and Sir’s word, Sir, to never speak of Master Tom. There are warlocks about, Sir, and Master Tom would not like to meet them, oh no Sir.”

“I am sorry Master, but I cannot give you her name. But as you said, it is a mere trifling thing, perhaps I can offer my sword or dagger instead? They would serve far better than a useless name.”

Tom’s face drooped, “Master Tom did want the name, Sir, for his own curiosity and kindness. But if Sir considers her name more than a trifle (and it is wonderful Sir does, Sir) than Master Tom will ask instead for Sir’s vow and a favour.”

“What favour, Master?”

Tom shrugged, “Master Tom does not know Sir. A favour for the future in old Tom’s time of need.”

“Any favour, Master?”

“Just so, Sir.”

It was my turn to shake my head. Everyone knew better than to grant elves such liberty. I’d have flat out refused if it wasn’t my love’s life on the line. But as it was, I couldn’t afford to offend Master Tom and have him storm off before her safety was secured. Thankfully, there was a precedent for such things.

“If you let me veto your requests, I’ll give you three favours instead of one Master Tom.”

The hobgoblin licked his lips, “And what shall be Sir’s binder?”

“My memory of my love, Master.”

“All of Sir’s love?”

I swallowed. In theory I’d get them back. And memories of my loved ones wouldn’t help me get through these black halls beneath the keep.

“Exactly so, Master.”

“For three favours Sir can veto, with the binder of Sir’s memory of love, and a promise Sir will speak to no one of Master Tom Oldshoe the hob, Master Tom will swear not to deal with, harm or cause anguish to Sir’s true love-”

“-Whether or not a remember she is my true love.”

Tom nodded evenly, “Whether or not Sir remembers she is Sir’s true love. Does Sir agree to this bargain?”

For the third time I shook Tom’s hand.

“Then, Sir, it is done.”

My will-o’-wisps dimmed and swirled out of my control, began multiplying without end. The world spun. The ground rocked. Wind roared. A thousand twinkling stars danced. Laughter echoed off the walls. Tom’s laughter. But the man himself, along with the arrows, chest, knife, and tin, had vanished.

I’ll admit I found the whole thing slightly ominous.

My lights returned to me. The gloves, as well as the stones, remained. I picked them up. They were bigger than before. I placed my hand beside them. Exactly my size, in fact. I could just make out the stitching where the hob must have added the extra material.

Noticing the stitches was secondary. My claws had indeed gone. My fingers were now tipped with thick black stubs, like a sorcerers nails. Like the hob had merely taken a file to my talons. It still didn’t look human, but it didn’t look in-human.

I pulled the gloves on with a bitter sigh. They fit perfectly. It could have been far worse. He’d shown unusual clemency for a dobby. He could have shrunk me down to fit the gloves. Or turned me into a woman to ‘fit’ the gloves. By the River that Runs to Ocean, depending on how I’d worded it, he could have turned me into a hand. Or shrunk the gloves to fit my toes or nose.

The bitterness remained.

My mind felt changed. Different. Something was missing, but I couldn’t remember what. That oo had been part of our bargain. What I had bargained for, I could not remember. Not until I did old Master Tom Oldshoe’s three favours. I hope it had been worth it.

There was a tugging sensation there too. Something calling me through the arch at the far end of the room. Like the dark whispering of the warlocks in my mind, but different. Gentler. Less urgent. More of a simple knowing.

Freedom.

I rushed through the archway, not bothering to check for traps. The Mushroom King could learn of- Your thoughts are your own, till such point you disobey me – no, best to think of something else. Keep moving.

The archway opened into a long corridor which turned right, then right again, bending back on itself. Rather than continuing down the corridor, the tugging in my brain pulled me to my left, where a second archway lay. Another room lay immediately beyond it, one perhaps twice the size of the one which I’d recently vacated.

The room was dominated by a large stone statue of wyvern in the centre. In front of the wyvern lay a body, covered in moss. The bodies hands were clasped to its chest, as if in arranged for a crypt. The moss was brilliant green – bio-luminescent – and so much so I could even make out its colour in the dim light of my jack-o’-lanterns.

What drew my attention, however, was neither body nor statue, for the room contained other occupants. Instead my attention was drawn to the other occupants of the room.

The giant frogs.

Four of them.