I had strange dreams of forests and dimming light. Of canopies closing overhead. Beautiful women were in the forest with me, darting from tree to tree, tittering in the shadows where they hid. I spun to face them, leaving my back exposed to the others, who leapt on me to plant a kiss on my cheek. I spun back to face them, but their giggling forms had already retreated back to the shadows.
Roots grasped at both their feet and mine, adding into the game. We danced over the snaring roots as we chased each other around the glade. Elysium. For the first time since the dungeon I felt free. Above it all flew that albatross.
Despite my exhaustion from the night before, I still woke with the rising of the sun well rested and with clear mind. It must have been the healing spells. They would have eased the burden of physiological rest, allowing my body to focus on the psychological.
Will-o’-Wisp
Water was easy to come by. My waterskins alone held two weeks worth and that was if I didn’t ration the water and could not survive a day without it.
Food was more of an issue. I opened my bindle to retrieve my large bar of hardtack and, sure enough, it had been reduced to a bloody mess. My teleport could only do so much once the blood had become part of the objects nature.
I threw the hardtack over on top of the ogre’s trash pile.
Next was to somehow complete my morning routine. The room large for a normal room, but still far too small to be leaving my waste in a corner. I could wade down the corridor a ways, but blood and feces?
I shuddered. I’d have to walk back down there again at some point, and the day old blood and corpse of the ogress would be bad enough.
Though the ogres clearly had not been clean people, they themselves had left no bodily waste in the room.
I walked over to the well and sent one of my lights down it. I’d already considered sending my waste down the well, but sending water up had seemed far more important. I had two weeks of water, yes, but there was no telling how long it would take me to get out of here.
Both sight and scent confirmed my suspicions. The well went down a long way, all the way to what appeared to be a large chamber, either on the next floor or a former reservoir. Either way, there was no water, only a lumpen and shadowed mound. So high up the smell was faint, but my nose confirmed what my eyes could barely make out in the gloom. A mound of ogre waste.
EliminateII
The sun rose as I finished casting.
I blinked.
Had the first sun rising been the true dawn, or this second one. The new suns were going to destroy my sense of time if they could happen mere minutes apart. At least neither had attracted the devouring darkness.
The well had solved my most immediate problem. Now it might be the solution to a second one. If the chamber at the bottom of the well was indeed a room on the next floor, the well might be my way out of here. All I needed was a way down, and it just so happened that I had a rope.
The fact that I could make out even the faintest details at the bottom of the well with my dim will-o’-wisp told me the chamber was relatively close compared to the other floors, or, it spoke against what I was seeing being the next floor in truth. Either way, it was worth investigating.
First order of business was to secure my rope. With nothing heavier than the rope itself in my position, I settled for tying it about the well itself. The stones making up the retaining wall were rough enough I didn’t have to worry about the noose slipping up and back down when I descended, which I tested by trying to pull the loop straight up by hand and failing to budge.
At worst, I was in danger of cutting the rope with the raw edges of stone.
The next step was to divest myself of as much weight as possible. My new strength might make up for my lack of experience in climbing ropes, but I wasn’t about to make it any harder for myself than I needed to while at the top of a one hundred foot plus plunge. I removed cutlass, hammer, chisel, second pair of gloves, torches (two of which had been ruined by my fall into the bloody stream), and pouch from my belt and set them all by the edge of the well. The only objects coming with me on this climb would be my bar of wax, retrieved from my pouch, and my spellbook, tucked through my belt in a such a way that it lay open, with two blank pages exposed.
The plan, such as it was, was to write as I climbed. The well was narrow enough I could wedge myself against both stone walls at once with my legs straight out, and hopefully that would give me a chance to rest and write.
I had a plan to make that easier as well. I noticed in the ogre’s pile of junk a second piece of rope. The ogre’s rope was far shorter than mine, and of dubious quality. I wasn't the sort I’d want to trust my life to. But I wouldn’t have to. Instead, I took the full length of rope and wrapped it about my waist, between my legs and around them; circling my pelvis several times before tying it off. When I was done I had a sort of harness wrapped about me, but not attached to any rope.
A few sharp tugs found it both uncomfortable and insecure, leading to me retying the whole thing twice more until finally I was satisfied with the result.
One of the limitations of magic (true magic, magus magic, not the half dozen other kinds I’d encountered in the dungeons) was that spells recorded through actions on the self could only be cast on the self, and spells recorded through actions not on the self, could not be cast on the self.
My harness was my way around that limitation.
The spell might not have been written by my hand, but it cast as easily as if it had been. (Which was to say, it cast at all).
Rapture
My harness began to glow, sudden the brightest light in the room, and tugged me upward. The force wasn’t enough to lift me off the ground, but I felt lighter on my feet, like I could leap across the room in a single bound. I bounced on the spot experimentally, jumping as high as I could.
The ogre’s room was more a shaft when viewed in it’s full. The ceiling disappeared into the shadows above me, far enough away I was in no danger of hitting my head. Still for a moment I doubted, for I must have risen, 10, 20 feet from the ground.
Cool breeze and warm sunlight, I felt as giddy as a child. I let out a whoop of joy and leapt from the ground again, and again.
Why had I never thought of this before? If it wasn’t for the harness digging painfully into me I’d feel like a child. In fact...
Abandoning my original plan I began to record as I frolicked about the room. I had two weeks of water, the well could wait. In such dark times, with no immediate danger at hand, I’d take what joy I could. I had to be careful to keep my bounces aligned with my harness—perpendicular to the floor—for though I could control which direction the harness pulled, something such as a full flip would require too many sources of focus in too many directions at once. I was just as likely to drive myself head-first into the ground with an extra 80lbs of force behind it.
Lightstep: The caster is made lighter, pulled upwards constantly with 80lbs of force for the next hour.
I was panting hard by the time I’d finished the spell, and even my toughened skin was beginning to ache where the rope had dug into it, but I couldn’t keep the stupid grin off my face. Sun and shower that had been fun.
No time spent in joy was wasted, and this more so than others. Should I need help in my descent this spell would perform admirably.
I tucked my spellbook back into my belt, though this time more securely draped across it as though the belt entire was a book mark, and dropped my wax atop my discarded pouch.
I paused.
I’d discarded the pouch in the first place as to make climbing with wax in one hand that much easier, but I was no longer going to record my descent. The pouch could hold both spellbook and wax, freeing my hands entirely. There was no reason to leave it behind.
I strapped the pouch back onto my belt. Time to descend.
Will-o’-WispII
I followed down after my wisp. I was tentative at first. It took more than a few weeks to get used to how strong I was, and more than a few hours to remember what it felt like to be hale and healthy. There was no twinge from my muscles, no pain in my chest, nor tremble in my limbs. In fact, hanging from the rope by my arms was about as easy as standing had been only a month before. Easier even, because I didn’t feel myself getting tired, even in my armour.
The rope creaked as I lowered my full weight onto it. That had been my second concern, and one which, now that I was in the well, I could do something about.
Despite having been used as a waste chute by the ogres, the sides of the walls were dry and as rough as the retaining wall. I had little skill in climbing, but it was easy enough to press my back and one boot against one side of the well, and my other boot across the opposite side.
If I was forced to, I could probably descend without the rope entirely. Waste and ruin, I could probably ascend given a bit of practice. The stone was that rough.
Still, I had the options and I was going to use them. Rather than trust to wall or rope entirely, I descended with the help of both. It took me several minutes longer than it needed to, perhaps ten in total, but the risk of a quick descent wasn’t worth the few extra minutes. I’d have bigger problems than food and water if I was on that tight of a schedule.
The only tricky part was the end, where the well ran out and I forced to switch over to the rope entirely. That alone wouldn’t present a problem, as not only did the rope prove able to hold my weight despite the creaking and groaning, it was also slightly longer than the descent in its entirety.
No, it was the landing which struck new fear into my heart.
Human and ogre waste, mine and theirs respectively, was piled high at the bottom of the shaft, directly below rope. The rope had enough give to attempt to swing away from the mound and land on solid stone, but I feared the swaying action combined with the well’s rough sides might act like a saw or rasp along the rope’s entire length.
There was nothing for it.
I descended the rope to the ground, carefully avoiding at least my own leavings. I still had to maintain some sense of decency.
Manure. It was manure. A day on the farm. Nothing more.
Stolen story; please report.
I sank to my ankles in muck, unsure whether to be horrified or relieved. The pile was much deeper than that.
My first step resolved the dilemma.
I should have been relieved. Relieved for sure, and now, as I sank up to my armpits in the mound, horrified beyond measure.
Worst of all, I was trapped. I’d sunken as though the manure (it was manure, and nobody would tell me otherwise) were quicksand, to quickly to react. Both my hands were stuck by my sides, and even my prodigious strength wasn’t enough to move my arms. I couldn’t even reach my pouch to access my spellbook.
For the first time in my life, I thanked the warlocks. If they hadn’t capture me and tortured me, and rent my sanity and freedom away, I never would have burned the teleport rune into my brain.
I chuckled, I couldn’t help myself. Thank the warlocks I wouldn’t die here, and like this.
Before I risked the spell, I had one other recourse available to me. I gathered my strength in my arms and pushed upward with all my might.
This had the unfortunate side effect of driving me further down into the muck, but not much more than my shoulders, and, more importantly, it freed my hands from the pile.
“Praise the endless return of spring!” I cried aloud.
That was a mistake. The smell got to me the moment I opened my mouth. I quickly closed it and wrapped my hands around the rope.
Like quicksand, I had to move slowly to free myself or the muck would harden and hold me in place, but my strength prevailed.
In the end I combined a small amount of swinging with a bit of a flopping leap to what appeared the shallowest portion of the pile. The rope held and I ended knee deep but free from further danger.
My fingers fumbled for my spellbook like an addict seeking opium. I flipped rapidly through the pages.
“Come on, come on.”
I needed it, needed the spell. My eyes darted around, seeking, seeking. I was in a corridor of sorts with a high ceiling, maybe twenty feet tall. Behind me was a door, (no no no no no) and on the far side of the mound I could just make out an open portal of some sort—it would do.
True Teleport II
I reappeared on the other side of the portal with a sigh of relief. I was clean. I was happy. No more was the ground shifting under me, no longer something running down the back of my—the room I’d arrived in thankfully tore my thoughts away from that line of thought and rather forcefully too.
I’d have been happy to see another toad-dragon if it meant it could distract me.
It was not a toad dragon I faced but the abyss. The room consisted mostly of a pit, with a narrow ledge running around two sides of it. My teleport spell had taken me right to the edge of one of said ledges.
Despite the imminent danger, it was not the ledges which drew my attention, but their source of illumination, for it was not just my will-o’-wisp lighting the room, there were others.
They danced to the left of me, a veritable swarm of them in colours of red, white, orange, and yellow. I supposed they might look like fireflies, though I’d never seen them myself.
If they were will-o’-wisp, real ones, the jack-o’-lanterns of the marshes which lured travellers to their deaths, they were doing a poor job. Most of them were floating above the same ledge I was standing on, and none of them seemed to have reacted to my presence. If they had been slightly above eye level and moved in the right eye catching way, maybe I would have noticed them before the pit and stepped forward to get a better look.
Not that I was complaining.
I stepped back from the ledge. The archway on the far side of the chasm and the door to my right all but confirmed my hopes. The well led to a new floor rather than just a chamber. That must make the fourth and fifth floors the two closest together floors yet, which made Conan’s explanation as to why they hadn’t explored the floor make all the less sense.
“The prison wasn’t likely to be that far away from the surface. It didn’t feel like a dungeon anyway,” I muttered, repeating his words. I couldn’t find any sense in them. Maybe I’d misremembered.
The simplest explanation was that I wasn’t on the fifth floor at all, but some sort of sub floor, and there wasn’t even a stairway in or out of here, or at least not one Conan had found.
Actually, the simplest explanation was that Conan’s mind had been broken and controlled. This was a dungeon of warlocks after all.
I’d wanted to go through the ogre’s stash before continuing, but I didn’t feel like going through their waste back to the rope at the moment. That left one of the portals along the edge of the chasm or the hall on the other side of the mound, and I sure as spring wasn’t going back to the mound any time soon.
Sword Storm II
My spells had been behaving strangely lately, so I didn’t risk the Swordferno if I didn’t have to.
Although...
Flames of Revenge had followed the hallway up the stairs to seek out whoever the spell had deemed my enemies. Provided it wasn’t based on my knowledge, I could use it as a potential guide up to the next floor.
If I was willing to put my “enemies” at risk. Whoever they were.
I ducked back into the hall, a few steps too many closer to the waste pile, but a necessary concession. Some of the warlock traps packed a punch. Holding my breath would have to do.
My swords attacked the door with enthusiasm.
I attacked through the door with enthusiasm. The swords—to the best of my knowledge—had no emotions of their own. The dark magic might have changed that. The important thing was, it was always cathartic to exact revenge against the architect of this place. Maybe when they had to replace all the doors they’d get someone who knew how to use a level.
The door was made of stone, so it shattered rather than tore, and it had been made to slide much like a portcullis, as evidenced by the way it continually slide down as the bottom broke off. It was fortunate the design made it so fragile. Slightly thicker stone or a sturdier frame, and my basic attack might not have been able to break its way through.
It was a shame really, I thought as I moved away from the ogre’s mound, allowing me to breathe once more, It was a shame the well or the chasm hadn’t been built but thirty feet closer to one another. Then neither would be as deadly.
And then I’d have needed to descend the pit as well, or swing over to the ledge and I’d have run out of rope. Or died in the attempt.
It was a nice thought anyway. Maybe I could transport the waste into the pit somehow if I was going to be going up and down the well often.
Light flooded free of the shattered doorway, far stronger than the will-o’-wisps dancing across from it.
“So then manling, have you come to worship?” a tortured voice called through the destroyed door, dry as the desert wind, “Or have you come to desecrate the throne of the king’s chamber as well as his door?”
The voice ended with a snort. It was answered by several grunts and a loud squeal.
My blood chilled.
What had the Warden’s name been again?
“Warden? Do I speak to those I’ve met before? You may recall an Oswic, of Blackbridge.”
The voice muttered something in a strangely singsong tongue—Orcish, perhaps?—then called back through the door, “Come out where we can see you manling. You offend us and the king’s council.”
My fingers both my a teleport and Swordferno. Tom had already shown he could see my magics so I didn’t summon the swords just yet. If the orcneas could see my weapons they’d undoubtedly take offence. I was, however, ready.
I rounded the corner.
The air was thick with smoke. It was a wonder the torches the orcneas bore hadn’t been extinguished. There were seven orcneas total. To the best of my knowledge I’d never met any of them, though they were hard to tell apart. All fourteen beady pig eyes were locked on me. Those shrivelled grey hands which didn’t hold a torch hovered a hair’s breadth from their swords, never touching them, never moving far away.
The reason for their offence was obvious, and the best argument against smashing random doors I’d yet encountered.
The chamber appeared to be a tomb.
To my left stood a tall throne, upon which sat a mummified corpse. The corpse bore once-regal clothes, now in tatters, and an iron crown atop his head. Protruding from the inner thigh of its left leg was the shaft of a short spear or lance. In front of the throne knelt a further series of mummified corpses, heads bowed in respect.
The orcneas watched me take in the sight silently. I couldn’t even hear them breathe.
Did they need to breathe? I still wasn’t sure if orcs were truly alive. All the sources I’d read had disagreed.
I raised my hands—perhaps deceptively—to show my lack of weapons, “I meant to offence by damaging your door. I’ve been faced too often with the warlock’s traps in these chambers to risk opening them myself. I hold no grievance against any here.”
The lead orcneas—different from the Warden I’d met before—tilted his head with the creak of a rusted gate; a nod towards my book of spells. His voice was the rumble of the hearse cart, of the stone being rolled in front of the tomb, “You are the Magus. Mannelig spoke of you. You brought us the gift of invisibility. You are forgiven,” the orc’s pig nose flared and he let out a small, angry squeal, “once.”
I transferred by spellbook to my left hand. My right I placed in a fist over my heart. I bowed to the orc, “Thank you. Please, is there some way I may avoid causing offence in the future?”
The pig-man snorted, “Be less stupid.”
I nodded as if that were wisdom, “Then let me introduce myself, as is proper. I am Oswic, Magi of the Sacred Order, Wise Man of Blackbridge, The Starcaller of Dawn, Master of Twilight, Voice of the Storm, Speaker on the Wind, and Five Time Hoopstone Champion of Ravenhold.”
The Orcneas’ hand dropped away from his sword, and the tortured muscles of his arms, while not relaxed, at least strained somewhat less visibly, “Then I am Skarde the Redeemed One, He of the Handsome Face, The Twice Exiled, Slayer of Mutnofret, Lord of Nothing, and Goreswallower of Mammharrow. Well met, Starcaller.”
I swallowed. Those were not kind titles.
“And you, Goreswallower.”
The other orcs let out squeals of laughter at my reaction and the chamber of the dead king echoed like a slaughter house. Skarde raised a hand and the orcneas stopped at once. His snout flared as he sniffed the air, “You are human. But you do not look human.”
“The warlocks’ dungeon is not a kind place, I’ve befallen many misfortunes and transformations since I escaped their capture.”
“Escaped?” Skarde snorted but his eyes tightened with interest, “Victims of the warlocks do not escape.”
“Magi are not easily held.”
“Tell me.”
It was surprise which freed me from the warlock’s grasp. I wasn’t about to risk giving away all of my secrets. For all I knew, the orcneas wanted to capture me next and didn’t want to repeat the warlock’s mistakes. That said, I wasn’t about to risk lying to those who hadn’t demonstrated an ability to lie.
“The warlock came to dominate my mind. I killed him with my magic.”
Skarde looked to his fellows, then back at me, “And the room was filled with a darkness light could not pierce?”
My heart lurched in my chest. Had he read my mind? Or had he been watching? The other orcneas, Mannelig?, had implied they had their own means of navigating Bleakfort’s halls.
The pig-headed man’s lips slid back from his tusks in an orc’s approximation of a smile. Could the creature see my heart? Or had my transformation unknowingly removed my ability to hide my reactions?
“It was you,” rumbled Goreswallower, “You slew Neferhi. You tore out the Shadowmaster’s throat with your teeth.”
The Shadowmaster? So he’d been known for that sphere of darkness he’d cast when he’d died? Did that mean warlocks had some control over which spells they cast? What then were the whispers in my head?
All I could do was nod, “I suppose I did.”
Skarde’s lips peeled back further, one of the other orcs let out a strange, barking cough which got the rest snorting and squealing.
“Human or not, the death of a warlock is cause for celebration. Their presence taints these sacred halls. I kin-name you Darkswallower of Bleakfort. May you forever continue to devour the shadows.”
Darkswallower? It didn’t really mesh with the rest of my titles. Better than Teeth of Revenge or Devourer of Warlock Throats I suppose. I wasn’t about to reject a gift from ‘Goreswallower’ simply because of aesthetics.
I returned my hand to my heart and bowed again.
“Thank you, Goreswallower. I am honoured to be your name kin.”
I wasn’t just being polite. Hollow pleasantries were considered lies by most supernatural creatures anyway. It was a rare thing to receive a title, and even rarer to have a titled person tie their name to your own. It was perhaps a bit impulsive of Skarde, given that we’d just met, but he’d also all but confirmed my suspicion that the orcneas were marking my progress.
Withered hands thumped against cracked and flaking armour. The three orcs closest to me, Skarde included, returned my bow.
I gestured to the throne bearing the corpse of a king, “Do I pay my respects?”
The orc to Skarde’s right spoke. His voice was more like the Warden’s, dry and whisping, like a man dying of thirst, “That is up to you. What respect do you have to give?”
“Respect is earned from those granted it. I don’t know if you’ve seen her, but the statue of the dwarf goddess taught me that.”
Air rattled in the orcneas’s lungs. He swept his hand toward the king, “By all means, Darkswallower.”