Strangely, Tom was in possession of several sets of clothing which fit his and Attart’s new body. One was so worn it looked like it might fall apart upon being put on, one was covered in a distressing number of bloodstains, and the final outfit (the one Attart settled on) was an all black scullery maid uniform. At least, that is what we thought it might be. I’d never met a scullery maid in uniform and Attart’s books had only contained pictures of scullions.
“My bodyguard wore this, but she was outside the Bleak Fort when the first was activated,” Attart explained, which was no explanation at all. Tom had a body guard? A woman? Who was four and half feet tall? With garments fitting Attart’s nymphine proportions? One who could leave the Bleak Fort without being detected? If Attart wasn’t at risk of falling apart or into Tom I’d be bombarding her with questions.
Attart decided to leave her moonsilk things behind. The house was hers anyway, so she wasn’t giving them away or even abandoning them. And I got back my tunic which was welcome. My skin didn’t chafe as easily as normal skin, but still, I was wearing armour directly above it. That would chafe an elephant.
“Where next Sir?” Attart asked once we were done changing.
“If I’m not mistaken we are close by. This door here, to our left when we entered your house,” I wasn’t sure if I should refer to it as her house or not, but Attart had already claimed the bodyguard as her own and left her (Attart’s) things on the clothing rack, “should be the western door.”
She nodded, “It is. Master Tom does not know all the ways of dungeon but Master Tom knows the ways from her house.”
“Is the door safe, Attart?” I wasn’t one to use someone’s name ten times a conversation, not unless formality demanded it, but I felt a little reinforcement might be welcome here. It might also be hated as a reminder of her failures. I’d take the gamble. I couldn’t avoid hurting everyone every time.
“Stronger than safe Master, the door is secure. Attart made sure of it.”
She tapped her finger thrice on the door and then slid it horizontally across. The door swung open on its own accord.
She curtsied, “After you, Master.”
Did elves curtsy? Was that a result of Attart’s etiquette or Tom’s courtly manners? I couldn’t tell who was winning.
The moment I left Tom/Attart’s home I was assaulted by a cacophony of whispers. Whispers I hadn’t heard in what felt like days. Or had it been weeks? Hours? They rejoiced as if it had. Jubilation, threats and dark promises overwhelmed my mind rising in sound until even my vision faded and then, just as suddenly, the voices dispersed, leaving only a memory.
Heat Blob
Heat Blob? That wasn’t just a contender for my least predisposing spell, it was the grand champion. Forget the dark promises and the corruption inherent in power, it was the names of the spells driving warlocks mad. How were you supposed to be taken seriously among your peers when that was your spell of the day? You’d be laughed out of Bleak Fort if anyone found out.
Who knew dark magic could be so incongruous with these darkened halls full of traps and tribulations?
Said darkened hall was about fifty feet long and only lit by the lights coming from Attart’s house behind us. My skin had been glowing earlier. Could I bring it back?
It was as easy as closing my eyes. Light swelled around me and then went dim as I reined it back in. It appeared could control the intensity and glow anywhere between darkness and the light of the sun.
“Sir is a torch for us to see by!” exclaimed Attart. I noticed she stayed behind me even now that she could see despite Tom’s knowledge of this path. In fact, Tom might be able to see better in the dark than I could in the first place.
I was pretty sure there hadn’t been any traps last time I’d been here, but I might have just gotten lucky. I took each step carefully and scouted with my ring.
It took two and a half minutes to reach the door on the other side. Once there Attart scampered forward in a manner more befitting a goblin than a woman of refinement and tapped her fingers along the door. The door swung open noiselessly, as if it had been installed by a semi-competent carpenter. Clearly some elf magic was beyond the ken of mortal man.
The room beyond was occupied.
Magic Swords II
The spell was cast before I remembered I should have been expecting that. Thankfully the seven blonde women resting on the other side of the stone henge between us couldn’t see my blades.
They were in much better condition than the (previous) first time I had seen them. I’d already smashed the altar for them this time. I’d forgotten it had been so poisonous to the other inhabitants of the dungeon. Seven startled pairs of eyes locked onto my face. They were wary, but more than wary they were interested. I hadn’t been able to recognize the sheer romantic yearning in their gaze before but now it was as plain as day. They were smitten with me.
They couldn’t know I’d been the one to cure them, but the other option was that they’d all fallen for my handsome face. I’d be the last to downplay my good looks, but I didn’t look like myself at the moment, and even despite my genetic prowess seven women were going to have seven different sets of taste. There was something else at play here.
Gunhild was a troll of some kind. It would be safe to assume her sisters were as well. Was there a kind of troll compelled to seek companionship with human beings? Were they under a curse which could only be broken with marriage?
Huldra.
Beautiful women with tails of animals, hollows like trees in their backs, and something to do with marriage. Only the faintest fragments remained in my mind, but they’d finally all clicked into place.
I didn’t recall anything about a troll-like form nor a propensity to live underground, but I’d only come across the passage on the strange creatures in passing to begin with. Perhaps I could ask them.
I stepped forward which (eaugh) unfortunately brought me into contact with the strange boundary produced by the stone henge. It was just as unpleasant as the previous time. I took another step and passed through, raising my empty hands as I did so.
“I am sorry to intrude. You are clearly still recovering from a poisoning of some sort. I am a Magus of some talent, is there anything I can do to assist you? You are all huldra, correct?”
It wasn’t the most elegant introduction, but the intent mattered more than words.
The women relaxed. As much as they were able in their weakened state. The one furthest from me must have felt safest for it was here which spoke, “What do you know of the huldra?”
“Very little. I have spent some time with one of your kind before and read a sentence or two in my studies. She appeared to be a gentle sort of troll who was intent on seducing me. Naturally I’d appreciate it if you ladies avoided that.”
The sisters glanced at one another and then back to me, “Of course. I cannot speak for the one you met, of course, but our kind’s attempts do not tend to be malicious. It is in our nature, but we are a gentle folk as a rule.”
She weakly gestured at her fallen sisters and herself, “And we’re in no state to offer you harm even if we wished to.”
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“Of course,” I said with a slight bow of my head.
“But how did you know we were recovering from a poisoning? Any other would think we were dying if they’d not seen our state an hour before.”
Saxifrage.
“Truth be told, I suspected it because of my other knowledge. I’ve seen huldra poisoned by dark metals before, and less than an hour ago I destroyed a nearby altar of the warlocks giving off a wicked energy.”
I could see the suspicion growing.
“Who is your companion?”
Prickly saxifrage.
I didn’t think “She is a necromancer fused with the soul of a trickster elf” would put them at ease. The fact that they were attracted to me despite my elfin appearance suggested they had some way of detecting humans, or at least human males, despite their appearance. Attart could have been setting off all kind of alarm bells.
“Attart was a prisoner of the warlocks for many years. I recently freed her and now she has agreed to help me free another of their prisoners who is bound near here.”
The tiny Northwoman—Huldra—looked skeptical.
“Why doesn’t she approach us?”
“I cannot,” Attart said. She was pressing her whole body against the gap between the standing stones. Her clothes sagged forward freely, but her flesh compressed as though against my walls of force.
...
Former walls of force. I’d have to go find them again.
“The henge was made by the warlocks, not druids, that much is clear,” said the huldra, “But if it keeps out that which is good, why could the Magus cross?”
I felt like I’d had this conversation before, I was going to be feeling that way for the next month at least I guess.
“Perhaps for the same reason you can. I was infected by the warlock’s dark magic in the course of my time in the dungeon here, by that very altar I suspect was poisoning you.”
The huldra stumbled to her feet. In the swishing of her dress I caught a glimpse of the outline of her tail pressing against the fabric. Gunhild had been far more cautious.
She’d also been far more healthy and with more to hide by the time I started interacting with her regularity.
Not that it would have helped against my ring. I saw the new woman’s body entire as she passed by me. She had a long scraggilly tail like a cow’s and a large cavity in her back like a hollow in an old tree.
I’d have turned off my ring sight, but Eric was close enough I didn’t want to risk it.
The huldra managed to make it all the way to Attart’s side. In fact she gained in strength as she walked. The hand that firmly grabbed Attart’s arm and pulled her through the henge’s barrier was confident and full of power by the time it did so.
A delighted shiver ran through Attart as she crossed the barrier and her eye closed in bliss. Given my own experience with the barrier, I suspected I was once again seeing the effects of one of the holy man’s cards.
“Trollskap?” I asked, “Or can anyone pull anyone through?”
“We huldra have our ways. It is our knowing. Skap, as you say.”
“So you trust us?”
“No. But with our health we do not have that luxury. Better to trust an unknown than the next thing the dungeon throws at us. I can only pray luck is with us.”
I stuck out my hand, “Oswic of Blackbridge.”
“Angrboda,” she shook it lightly.
Bringer of Grief. I didn’t know the language, but that one was easy enough to figure out. My own trust wasn’t running too high after my last experience with Gunhild and now I was hit with an omen like that. My ring would be watching my back.
Attart nodded politely but didn’t stick out her own hand. Maybe women weren’t supposed to shake hands? I hadn’t gotten to that section before the book had devoured me.
“Where now?” Attart asked.
I pointed to the door which shared the corner with the one she’d just come through.
“Other side of that door. Be careful. A giant colony of bees has made the entire room their hive.”
“Are you able to disrupt the power of this henge?”
I studied the stones. I didn’t recognize the runes which adorned them, save for the fact that they were in the manner of others I’d seen in the dungeon. But I didn’t need to be able to recognize them in order to read them.
I pulled my glove free and ran my finger along the nearest.
The carvings writhed from jagged runes to an image of two doors. One door led nowhere, the other to a wondrous field. A solicitor stood before both doors, head turned to the door of wonder. A second man, fearful, had already run through the door to nowhere. Only the chooser could pass, I supposed.
So it didn’t block magic but the mind of the person themselves. I’d “chosen” dark magic, therefore I could pass, though with some difficulty, perhaps on account of my doubts. The Delta people and the huldra could pass because... because they had no magic? Trollskap was magic, but it was inherent. Again, the choice could be inherent.
In any case, there was nothing here defending the stones. I ran my hand along the only other series of runes just to be sure and was rewarded with the image of a man cloaked in shadows. A name. The very man I’d killed for my title in all likelihood. He’d probably created the structure.
That was more than enough motivation.
Push VI
Sword Storm III
I chose one of the top horizontal stones to begin with. Once it started moving I figured friction would do the rest. I lined up my sword and crashed it against the henge in the direction of my push.
Much to my surprise the stone didn’t move. The stones were heavy-looking, sure, but I had been counting on them being as shoddily built as everything else in the dungeon. I guess... Neferhi (had that been his name?) was a better builder than the rest.
Scorch, Sword, Scintillation
It was a bit of risk to summon my strongest sword for such a basic task, but I would have spent far worse dealing with the cave bees. Even if Attart used her ghosts I’d have to have found our way past the ogre to retrieve them.
This time the stone toppled. The combined force of both swords was too much. The top stone flipped off the pillars supporting it and crashed into the ground with an impact that made the floor shudder and my ears hurt.
Something shrieked in response so loudly I could feel its cry reverberating up through the floor from the levels below. How had it even heard me?
The act of losing the topstone didn’t topple the pillars, but without it to anchor them they both tipped over backward a moment later on their own accord. The second and third impact were still loud, but much lesser than the first. The Shrieker-from-Below didn’t bother preparing a response.
The horrible tingling buzz of the stone henge slowly faded over the course of the next minute. My shoulders lowered half an inch I hadn’t been aware they were raised.
“Thank you Sir! Now Oswic must sit tight while Attart finds your friend.”
Attart scampered back the way we came, skidded to a halt at the turn, and turned crawl along the south wall with her fingers.
Angrboda moved to my elbow, “What’s wrong with her?”
Truth was a trick thing with many of the mystical creatures found at the edges of civilization. Trolls were one of the exceptions. There were countless tales of trolls being tricked, manipulated, and lied to. I doubted the huldra could detect a lie like elves could. But lying had a cost all of its own as well. There was scant few situations where it was appropriate, and even if you thought the time was nigh, you were probably wrong. Far better to simply refuse to answer.
In this case, however, truth might start building trust, “Her soul was fused with hobgoblin’s. She has managed to keep herself together admirably, but in the course of fulfilling a bargain she is overwhelmed.”
“She made a deal with a hobgoblin? Didn’t her mother ever teach her not to talk to elves?”
Darkness rose. An endless wave swallowed all light. There had never been any light. The endless tide swelled and swelled until it encompassed the totality of creation.
And yet.
Reflections of light rippled on the surface.
The memory of what was was never truly lost.
My ring touched flicked rapidly through my spellbook. My spells had not been restored, but my ability to write new ones had. I could feel it, calling to me to take pen to paper.
Wax to parchment.
The memory of what was was never truly lost.
It bore repeating.
It applied to more than my three lost suns.