It said something that our second round of screaming attracted as little attention as the first. In any other circumstances the whole castle should have come running, but in the Bleak Fort we hardly warranted a few extra howls in reply.

I should have been more disturbed by that fact, but I felt oddly cheerful. I’d felt cheerful all day, I’d realized. My evil sense had finally ended. Even without seeing a dozen murders and suicide around every corner, the pull of each evil had weighed on me.

Now they were gone.

I impulsively pulled Attart up into a hug. She was practically weightless.

She laughed, “Whatever was that for? It is most unseemly.”

I picked her up again and spun her around, “You will see. Today we destroy the mural and you will wonder how your steps were ever so heavy.”

She raised a fine eyebrow above a sparkling eye but didn’t question me further and I didn’t elaborate. Better to show.

The journey took us half an hour which meant my spell ended on the far end of the strange smelling room before Tom’s house, and I was forced to carry my cask the last fifty or so feet.

We returned to find Eric buried beneath a pile of huldra. Both Eric and the women had outfitted themselves with clothing pilfered from Tom’s collection. The eclectic collection of cloth made it look as if though the room was full of jesters in motley and the huldra weren’t done there. Now the gaggle of troll women was holding various clashing colours to Eric’s chest in a competition to dress him in the most ridiculous outfit possible.

Eric waved me over, “Oswic! You’re just in time. Does blue suit my red half or my blond half better?”

“I haven’t a clue,” I said at the same time Attart declared, “Blond,” firmly behind me.

He grinned, “What about you? Surely a mage needs a uniform as overwhelming as his power?”

Several of the huldra giggled, which was a strange sight on a north woman. They were trying too hard to compensate for Eric knowing their nature. Or perhaps they truly found him that charming.

“I need my armour more. It’s saved my life a number of times here.”

He eyed the holes above my chest, “So long as no one tries to stab you in the heart. And what are the odds of that? You’ve clearly made it this far.”

I dropped the cask in front of him close enough that the nearest women had to scatter.

“I’ve brought breakfast. Lunch by now,” I removed my glove to pry off the lid, “All the dried fish you could hope for.”

Eric’s face lit up, “You could bring me anything which wasn’t cave bee jelly and I’d be ecstatic.”

He sat upright to peer into the case, “Though I’ve never had onions served on a bed of underclothes before.”

I reached past said underclothes and withdrew a stick of fish for myself, “First time for everything. Help yourself.”

All descended on my cask. There had been enough for a single person (me) to last just under two months before. If I continued to share among all ten of us, it wouldn’t last the week. Maybe two weeks given how small they all were.

That was fine. I could find other food. And the huldra knew how to survive without it besides. This would get them back on their feet and give them much better odds than last time when we’d sent the starving and still weak women out to fend for themselves.

Water was a different issue. I lent out my skins and was returned with all but two empty. I’d have to make a run for the stream, but first, I wanted to write something to ease my journey and Attart’s mind.

I sat and withdrew my spellbook.

“A boy I was, then did a maid become; a plant, bird, fish, and in the vast sea swum...” it was an ancient rhyme, the rhyme of reincarnation. The words didn’t matter so much as that they were said. I needed to keep speaking for an hour, so I’d chosen a number of poems to keep me going. If I simply recited an epic, I wouldn’t have the flexibility needed to create the spell I wanted. While I spoke I looked about the room at will, making sure to look down at myself on occasion as well as the full 360 degree scope of my surroundings.

Conscience: The caster can hear themselves speak for an hour. During this time they can see through their eyes.

I’d never recorded a spell like this before, nor had I heard of anyone else doing similar. Unfortunately for precedent, most people didn’t have the hybrid elf-woman soul of a necromancer inhabiting the transformed duplicate of their body.

It was amazing how boring some people could be.

I’d scarcely set down my crayon when Attart pounced on me. Not physically, I’d warned them about my protective curse, but her presence took up the full range of my sense as she moved to fill my gaze. She was back in that hybrid form of both mine and Eric’s regard, though she had changed somewhat from last time. Both of us had learned something.

“You promised me a spell Oswic. One spell per day. I have come to collect your debt.”

I scooted backward so I had enough room to stand, “There is no need to sound so ominous about it. What do you need?”

“Need is irrelevant,” she sniffed. I was suddenly reminded she had been an etiquette teacher for four very long years, “You made a promise. You will cast whatever I desire.”

Actually, I’d promised her one spell per day. That didn’t really mean much of anything. I could cast the spell of my choosing for her, or write a spell, or maybe even simply dedicated my casting to her. I wouldn’t push the issue unless needed. Tom was bound to her, and I didn’t want to face the vengeance of a dobby paired with the power of a necromancer.

“What would you like me to do?” I asked politely.

She flushed and raised her hand to cover her face, “Not here. Follow me.”

She led me out of her house and to the far corner of the strange smelling room. I could just make out an opening on the other side of the wall to my south. To the east was solid rock. The dungeon did have limits after all.

Probably.

“You have a spell for...” she flushed again, “Your morning routine. I am almost sure of it.”

I stared blankly at her. Morning routine? Spell writing? Drinking water?

Her face reddened further. It had started doing that again after her encounter with the orb. My curiosity was piqued, but I’d leave it to her to explain what that was about. If she ever so chose to do so.

“There are no... facilities down here,” she tried again before trailing off meaningfully.

Even I wasn’t that dense.

I cast my ring sense about for a suitable corner on the far side of the wall. Ten feet of stone was more than enough to preserve modesty. The other end of my bubble was already enveloping Attart. It was no worse than attending to a sick person’s bed pan. Better, really.

EliminateIII

It worked.

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I’d suspected it would work, else I wouldn’t have created the Conscience spell, but it was nice to have the confirmation. My soul was still wrapped about her body. For the purposes of spell casting, we were effectively the same person.

Attart sighed in relief, “Thank you.”

I gestured back the way we’d came, “Come. The mural awaits us.”

***

We left Eric to the questionable care of the huldra, much to both of their insistence and delight. I had my own misgivings, though none of the trolls had seemed hostile before. Even after I’d slain Gunhild she’d fled rather than attacked me. Even if Eric didn’t have the same strength I commanded, the threat of my return would keep them in line if necessary.

Attart and I exited to the door north of her house. It was trapped, but Attart insisted we not knock down her door. Instead, she ran her fingers along the door like she had the others, and it swung freely open, trap still dormant.

I was uneasy, but she blithely stepped straight through.

A row of demonic faces awaited us. I’d forgotten a set lurked here. They were my face, as per usual. They were also clearly female, a spitting image of the Watcher before she’d been the Watcher.

That was different, wasn’t it? Surely I would have noticed if they were female before. With the grotesque nature of the statue and the similarities between me and the mirror, any difference would be subtle.

I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that I didn’t notice that I’d forgotten about the pressure plate until Attart and I had both stepped over it. Neither of us set it off.

I felt, heard, and saw my heart begin to race. It even tasted different, which I didn’t need to know.

It wasn’t my lack of attention which had put us in danger. Not directly. We had moved slowly and my ring’s sense had been fully extended.

The trap was subtle, with the key components hidden far underground. Only the pipes, pressure plate, and triggering arm of the trap were visible, and the pipes only from the far side of the trap. I wouldn’t have noticed it among the noise of the ring’s sphere even if my mind had been fully focused on the task at hand. Only my memory would have saved us, and there the endless corridors of the dungeon all blurred together.

Would I have remembered if I hadn’t been distracted by the faces?

How could I know?

I would remember for next time.

The hallway opened directly into the room with the balcony. The room had four doors, and, much like the pressure plate, I didn’t remember which I’d gone through. I was almost certain it was one of the ones on the left.

And it hadn’t been close, had it? The far left doorway then.

“Are you able to open the doors here like those in your domain?”

“Attart cannot. She knows of other paths only a hob can go, but I am a goblin no longer.”

“I have my own spells for opening doors. Stay here.”

Soldiers’ Swords

I only had one more mass of swords available after this. I was starting to run low on spells since the death of the druidstone sun.

The simple wood door didn’t stand a chance. Harsh voices gibbered and screamed at the first impact. More joined as the door snapped around its lock and swung open.

“Goblins,” Attart whispered.

Wrong door.

“Friends of yours?” I asked. I whispered too, though there probably wasn’t much point. Maybe the silence would cause them to overestimate our numbers. Or our species. If they thought we were an ogre or the toad dragon they’d be less willing to charge out.

Attart shook her head, “Mistress Attart has no friends among them Sir. Savages. Cannibals Sir. She would not want to meet them alone. The goblins below can be reasoned with. These ones cannot.”

I’d met the goblins below and their “reason”. If these were less civilized than the other group they’d be little more than slavering animals. They weren’t charging out, but I didn’t want them at our backs.

Neither did I want to slaughter them in cold blood, nor bait them in to a hot blooded conflict they’d otherwise avoid. I still remembered the dark elves.

“Can you speak to them? Can I? I don’t mean to bargain, I just want to see if we can establish where we stand.”

“What would you have me say?”

“We mean no harm—no, a truce. A truce as long as we don’t cross the threshold and neither do they.”

Attart closed another twenty feet from the arch we’d entered through to the battered open door. I followed. Both of us stopped ten feet from the door.

Attart let out a series of feral shrieks and howls that sent a spike of fear directly into the part of my brain responsible for huddling around the fire on a dark night while wolves circled in. My swords twitched reflexively; a hairs breadth, nothing more. I trusted her.

They shot into stabbing position a moment later when the chorus of howls replied to her. Had any goblins been standing within ten feet of the doorway we would have had a diplomatic incident.

The howls died down.

“They accept. Though they are not happy about their door Sir,” Attart pulled her bonnet down into her hands, “Not happy at all.”

“Can goblins lie?”

“These ones can.”

“Is your house safe?”

“No.”

I could feel tension growing between my shoulder blades. Either I took the goblins at their word or I didn’t. If I didn’t... I wasn’t about to slaughter them to make me feel a little more secure.

Maybe I’d feel different if they snuck past and killed all the huldra.

I pushed that thought aside. The huldra could defend themselves, there was a trap in the way, and even if Attart’s house couldn’t guarantee safety it was still a fortified position.

Attack anyone who walks through that doorway.

The spell said I had to order the swords, not order them out loud. They’d keep our deal enforced, at least for the next hour.

Soldiers’ Swords II

I ducked behind the metal staircase. Attart took my queue and crouched with me.

The second set of swords struck home.

The crash of magic against wood resulted in a fresh cacophony of howls from the goblins. Scrabbling feet rushed forward. The howls grew louder.

I spun to face the doorway where my swords lay ready.

The noises stopped before the goblins made themselves visible. They’d caught themselves, or only approached far enough to see whatever it was they wanted to see.

That was good. They had kept their deal.

The feeling in my shoulders eased. Not fully, but it eased nonetheless.

A “small” square room full of torches instead of goblins. That was more in line with my memories.

Two doorways led outward; one to our left, one to our right.

Wrap a rose about the willow.

I didn’t remember which one it was.

I chose at random. Left from where Attart and I now crouched behind the broken door frame.

The door was rendered into wood chips in short order.

Several cautious minutes later revealed the stairway descending into the depths.

“Here is our path,” I said, “Restitution awaits.”

***

Half an hour of walking brought us to the 60 foot landing. It had taken longer than normal because Attart’s legs couldn’t handle the stairs, though after the first painful five minutes they had grown somewhat. Apparently I was fickle in my attraction.

The heavy portcullis waited before me, the one it had taken three or four strong men to lift. Attart was still descending the last of the stairs.

Each of my swords was a strong man.

The portcullis rose.

Attart hurried to my side, faster than caution would permit, though still far slower than a normal woman walking a normal path.

She recoiled as she caught sight of the mosaic.

“By the last ships, what is this?”

“I travelled to Elysium, to the land of the dead. A man there spoke to me, a friend. It is easy to make friends in the land of the dead. He told me the secret, the truth the warlocks have hid from the rest of the world for a thousand years. We were never meant to be afraid. Righteous men need not fear death.”

“And yet they do.”

“They do.”

Sword Storm III

I could have saved the spell. I could have avoided the risk, strengthened my spell book, doubled my power.

It was the blind pursuit of strength which had driven warlocks down this path. Pursuing strength wasn’t wrong, admirable even. Helplessness and dependency were no virtues. Even power pursued for its own sake allowed for mastery.

Perversion, and losing sight of what mattered was too high a price. Would forever be too high a price. I need not senselessly throw my spells away for symbolism. Neither need I hoard them like a miser when they could bring about my desires.

My needs.

I needed the mosaic gone. The world did.

And so I removed it.