Piercing Shield
Spawning Cauldron
Hindering Claw
Serpent Moment
Whispers in my mind. Demanding to be used. Demanding to be... remembered.
Recorded.
Could I record the spells? If I couldn’t it would settle the debate as to whether they were natural or not. If I could record them... No. It was more than that. They didn’t just want a warrior bound to their will. They wanted a teacher. A teacher who could create an army. The power of the warlocks bound with the skills and precision of a mage.
A cool wind blew by me. A small vesper, a stirring of air, nothing more, but it was enough to pull me away from the thought. The air had cooled. The stone was still warm, but this far from the incident I could stand on it without harm. With my boots on I’d be able to walk closer.
If only I could see.
As I was fumbling around for my clothes my finger brushed against hot metal. I pulled my hand back with a hiss of pain, but the pain faded instantly. I’d felt the illusion of pain, nothing more. Like when hot water felt cold or vice versa. Cautiously, I found the blade again. It was my sword, warm to the touch, but cool enough to grasp fully in my hand.
My vision started to return shortly after I’d finished dressing. The light of my will-o’-wisps, all four of them, was still barely enough to illuminate the ground direct in front of me, even when I pulled them all together into a single mass.
Still, I managed to find all my things, scattered about as they had been, and attach them back to my belt.
It was my spellbook I was most concerned about, and when I found it I could see that it had indeed suffered. The cover had cracked from the extreme heat, and the edges of each page had become stiff and rippled where the parchment had been exposed. Thankfully my frantic efforts with the waterskins had soaked the book as well, and it had been protected from drying out too badly. Leafing through the book itself revealed that the wax had run, but not so badly I couldn’t make out the spells.
As I came to the page with Transport on it a jolt went through me. Something was wrong.
Transport: Move all of the caster’s gear 150 ft over the course of four seconds.
Four seconds. Four. The spell was twice as fast as it had been. No wonder my I’d landed on top of my gear this time. It had arrived long before me. On one level that was annoying. I’d been hoping to use the exact timing for my own purposes. On another level it was terrifying. I’d had my summoned lights double in number, but that had been an alteration of the effect.
Spells were more than words. They were recordings of that which had happened. Their magical nature was derived from the truth of their observations. And the dark magic of the dungeon had changed that. Had changed reality itself.
The Lightning Cascade.
I’d been toying with forces which warped reality. Which changed not only what was, but what had been. How could the warlock claim it to be natural when it literally disrupted the natural order? And by casting Lightning Cascade, by casting Ice Cloak even, I’d been part of that disruption. I felt ill.
No no no nono. My back hit the wall and I slumped to the floor. I’d violated my vows. I was unclean. I’d- people would look at me and see the corruption in my eyes. I’d undone any good I’d ever done in the world. I’d frayed the fabric of reality. How many deaths, present, past, and future were now on my hands? I was-
Breathe.
I took in a deep breath. Slowly let it out.
Never again.
No.
I wouldn’t hide from the truth of my actions with false promises. I’d not push away my pain. My fear. My loathing.
I took another deep breath.
And then another.
I let the pain course through me. Felt its sickening, twisted, sting. Felt it and opened my eyes anyway. Let it sit as I stood.
I squinted through the light tattoos burned onto my eyes. I could make out a little more the hallway now. I brought my lights closer, all four of them, and sent them along the wall to my left. Sure enough, there was my ‘X’, carved in stone.
I traced my fingers over it. The noise had probably been what had attracted the rats. If that was the case, the lightning might bring every creature in the dungeon down on my head. Or scare them away.
I thought I’d gone deaf, but I realized I could still make out the yipping laughter over the ringing in my ears. The silence wasn’t one of personal injury. The moaning and wailing had stopped. My spell had-
There was four lights.
Four. Why did that matter? What did that mean? It stood out to me for some reason. Because... I blinked rapidly. A wry smile crossed my face.
It had been less than an hour since I’d finished writing my last spell. Two hours since breakfast.
I’d spent 95% of the last several weeks in abject boredom, and the remaining 5% desperately fighting for my life. It would be nice if the dungeon could pace itself. Boring and deadly was a dangerous combination.
I cautiously made my way back to the safe spike room. My fingertips trailed along the wall to my left, feeling the heat rise as I went. I didn’t want to rely on my booted feet alone and suddenly find myself on fire.
The light scars continued to fade. By the time I rounded the corner I could make out the first ten or so feet of what I had done.
The stone floor had been turned to glass. Smooth yellow-black glass. It was cracked all over, pitted in place where subsequent strikes had chewed it from the floor and spat it across the room. Any spikes which had been set in the floor between the two doorways were gone. Either flung aside or melted into oblivion.
The rats were gone.
As I wandered about the room I drew close enough to the other spikes to make them out in the gloom. Or rather, I drew close enough to the places where the spikes had been. Their metal must have attracted the electrical surges. Not a single one remained in the ground. They had all been twisted and flung aside, or destroyed.
Now that I knew the way was safe I was able to move more quickly. The only danger was the shards of glass crunching beneath my boots, and the slightly unstable footing they provided. I strode back into the corridor and double-checked my orientation.
I still had my magic sword for... for however long I still had it. It was hard to keep exact track of the time. I was going to use the sword while I had it.
I carved another ‘X’ into the north wall, to the far right of the doorway where I’d (unfortunately) done my business the other day. The rest of the walls were too melted for my blade to easily find purchase.
If the noise was noticed by any creatures they stayed away. I figured if the sound of hundreds if not thousands of lightning bolts hadn’t immediately attracted them to my location, then they’d avoid this place for a good long while.
I would’ve.
I carved a second ‘X’ in the corridor a the end of my field of glass. Turning 90 degrees to my right, both the footstep room and the continuation of the corridor were to my left. That was now three? four? maybe even five? possible route I could take to find the stairs down. “North” as a direction was turning out to be somewhat vague.
If I took the footstep room I’d eventually end up having to go through the corridor with frogs, or hope the door I’d found wandering in the dark also headed north. Plus, I still had a light spell and a teleport spell. And my magic sword. Down the corridor it was then.
The corridor went turned back to the east after about thirty feet. I marked the northern wall at the corner and continued on down. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I moved farther and further east. The hallway was probably 200 feet in length, completely interrupted. I kept expecting something to happen at any moment. Another douse of acid, or a masonry block sliding from the ceiling. The floor giving way to a pit of spikes. The walls suddenly closing in and holding me in place until I starved to death.
The longer I walked the more elaborate my imagination became, and the slower I walked, eyes darting left and right, looking for traps.
Finally, the end of the corridor came into sight, turning left and north once more. I was still on the right track.
The hall ended in an archway leading out into a moderately sized room. Moderate by the size of the dungeon. I could barely make out my will-o’-wisps when they flew to the far corner, though that may have been more a function of my light-blindness than the room’s size.
My path into the room was barred by a simple wooden gate or portcullis. My sword (magical or otherwise) could probably get me through it with a bit of work, but it turned out the much more expedient option of lifting it was far easier.
I slipped underneath and into the room without more than a cursory look for traps. If my lights and sword had gone through without trouble, I couldn’t afford to waste my remaining minutes checking for them.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
I lowered the portcullis gently to the ground behind me. No reason to make more noise than I needed to, even if my carving was likely to make more.
There was a strange smell in the air. One of those smells which was hard to identify as good or bad. Like curing meat. It could make you hungry or turn your stomach, depend on your mood. This smell was... soapy? Lemony? Acrid like vomit? All of them and none. Sweet like lilies. Cloying like rotting grass. Far from overpowering. Easy to ignore. Perhaps the room had inhabitants which produced the scent.
The east wall held some clue as to their potential nature. Someone had painted it with the same strange scrawling script I’d seen before. I’d seen it nearly every day in fact, or might not have recognized it. It was the same script which covered one of the walls in my room, the one with the fish casket.
I doubted the frogs had written it. I wouldn’t call it impossible, but the smell in this room had not been in the two others with the frogs. The orcneas had their own language, and as far as I knew, dwarves used the Language of the Gods or their own secret tongue. So this was a script most likely written by the warlocks.
Directions perhaps? I was surprised I hadn’t seen more signs already. But I doubted the mercenaries could read these words, and hired help would be in the most need of direction. I’d have to keep an eye out for more of the language, ask the mercs about if I ran into them again.
The rest of the room was empty. Just an iron door to the south, and a wooden door to the north. I set my magic sword to work next to the wooden door before I lost track. It was too easy to get turned around in these featureless rooms.
While it worked I studied the door, frame, and handle.
“What’s that racket? Master Tom can hardly think! Who’s scratching at old Tom’s door?”
I froze and raised my mortal sword. My magic sword withdrew from the wall and floated between myself and the door.
“Is that you, Master? Master Tom Oldshoe?”
The dobby cackled, “Oswic sir! Oswic of Blackbridge! Old Tom thought he’d never seen Sir again, and yet here Sir is, only a day after Master Tom last said his goodbyes. Did Sir miss old Tom so badly, Sir? Did Sir wish to make another deal?”
I desperately probed my memory. When had I told him my name? I hadn’t, had I. Had he been researching me? Tracking down my home?
...and, what was more, did I wish to make another deal? The warlocks still held some unknown power over my mind, and the orcneas’s directions had been vague at best.
Even if he was a dobby, he was still bound to the letter of his word, and there were stories of people getting the upper hand against them. My best bet, whether I wished to flee him or strike a deal, was to keep him talking. He would take my silence as fear, or a sign I no longer trusted him. I had every right to both emotions, but what offended a dobby was far from logical. And with offence came anger. Dobbys delighted in the suffering of others, and would take advantage of the slightest weakness.
“I was on my way to your mother’s house, Master, though I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself somewhat turned around. These corridors are no easy place to navigate.”
I almost see his little bobbing nod, “Indeed, Sir, indeed. These tunnels were not made by sane minds. Not like Sir’s and Master Tom’s, Sir, no indeed. But why is Sir scratching? Is Sir trying to tunnel into poor old Tom’s home? Has Sir given up on knocking? Has Sir given up on doors altogether?”
I was fairly certain elves could detect lies, perhaps even without looking at the one speaking them. I could say I would have knocked, but in truth, I’d have turned around and gone the other way unless I had no other options.
“I didn’t know this was your home, Master. I’d never wish to be seen as boorish or impolite by one such as yourself. I was merely marking the wall to guide my passage.”
This was completely true. An angry hob might make hallways connect in new ways, loop back on themselves, or lead nowhere. Wandering the dungeon for ever was the least of my concerns. He could even redirect my path through every trap and den of monsters if I annoyed him enough.
“Mark away, Sir! Mark away. Old Tom has as much need of directions as Sir. And the other poor wanderers need it twice as much as Tom!”
Time was running out. I set my magic sword to carving once more, keeping my other one firmly raised and at the ready.
“Others, Master? Have you met others down here?” I immediately thought of the mercenaries. I didn’t like them, but they’d suffered plenty, both from disease and by my hand. And they’d done right by me. I didn’t wish them any more ill will. Plus any favours Tom extracted from any denizen of the dungeon might work against me. The less people he interacted with, the better.
“Old Tom knows everyone Sir. Everyone! Master Tom doesn’t talk to them all, Sir, but he watches. Watches and waits.”
Tom’s voice came from behind me that time. I spun. He stood between me and the portcullis. His cap was in hand as he toyed with the tassels.
“Would Sir like to make another deal? Sir has not paid old Master Tom back for his first bargain, but old Tom trusts Sir to him. Master Tom is willing to extend credit.”
“That’s very kind of you, Master. I appreciate your latitude in this manner,” Tom bobbed his head in acknowledgement. I continued, “You said you could remove the influence the warlocks and their altar had on my mind, Master. Do I remember correctly?”
Tom rubbed his hands together, “Indeed Sir does, Sir! Indeed Sir does. Master Tom would be very happy to remove their nasty influences. Very happy Sir.”
“And in return, Master?”
Tom stuck out is tongue to the corner of his mouth in thought. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot. Just as my sword finished carving my latest ‘X’ into the wall he raised a finger in declaration.
“Old Tom lost a chest of his, Sir, a very valuable chest. Master Tom...” he went silent, looked up at me, and winked, “Master Tom lost a chest of his and the contents therein, Sir. The contents are Master Tom’s as well.”
He’d learned from our last encounter. I wasn’t sure how he did that, actually. Claiming things for his own. Either elves could lie – perhaps only under certain circumstances – and it was just a very well kept secret, or there was no lie in declaring something yours which became yours through declaration of ownership.
I wouldn’t be surprised if elves could lie about all things but for when making deals, but if that was the case I’d have to be even more careful when listening to the hob’s words.
Tom continued, “Poor Master Tom dropped the chest in a pool, Sir. A pool just over there.”
He pointed vaguely south-west.
“Retrieve poor Tom’s chest, Sir, and old Tom will be oh so grateful to Sir.”
“Is this the pool south directly south of the magical mirror, Master?”
Tom nodded, “The very same Sir. The very same.”
“When did you lose your chest, Master Tom?”
“Old Tom lost the chest long ago, Sir. Long before Sir entered the dungeon, Sir.”
“I’d be happy to get it for you Master, in exchange for removing the warlock and altar’s influence, but I must know, why haven’t you gotten it yourself?”
“Master Tom doesn’t want to get wet, Sir.”
“Is the pool dangerous, Master Tom?”
Tom blinked rapidly, “Dangerous, Sir? Of course it’s dangerous! Sir could drown!”
I had to stop myself from clenching my jaw, “What of the properties of the pool, Master? Is it poisonous? Cursed? Magical?”
A pantomime of understanding crossed the hobgoblin’s face, “Oh! Perhaps Sir, perhaps! If Sir were to bring Master Tom a sample of the liquid Master Tom could tell Sir.”
“Which would cost me another bargain, Master?”
“Of course, Sir. Master Tom can not give such information freely, Sir. Master Tom’s mother would never let him hear the end of it!”
I bit back another sigh and stuck out my hand. I had some idea of how to get back his chest, “I’ll retrieve your chest Master Tom, and in return you’ll remove the warlock and altar’s influence from my mind.”
“And it’s contents, Sir. Unbroken.”
“As unbroken as they are when I find them, Master.”
His eyes twinkled and he grabbed my hand, “We have a deal Sir! I’ll await your return! If Sir just knocks on Master Tom’s door it will open!”
My sword and two of the lights had given out sometime while we were speaking. The other two lights would remain for an hour more. Hopefully that would be enough time to refill my waterskins and retrieve Tom’s treasures.
I sidled around Tom to the portcullis. He watched with polite interest as I lifted it, slipped under, and then gentle lowered it behind myself. He waved at me, cap in hand, as I gave him one last look before turning and walking down the tunnel.
I was beginning to wonder if he was truly a dobby. He’d been far kinder than necessary with my gloves, and he hadn’t taken the opportunity to prank me as I’d been lifting the portcullis. All he had to do was make it heavier the higher I lifted it, or make me sneeze at a critical juncture, and the whole thing could have come crashing down around me.
Perhaps he really did want his chest back. I’d have to see what was in it.
The pool was closest, so I went there first. My first glance over its waters revealed nothing of its depths. A more careful second glance was much the same. Given the crystal clear nature of the water, either the hob’s chest was in a different pool, or the refraction was such that the bottom appeared much closer than it was.
I dipped my sword into the water, excepting it to find the bottom after two or three feet, but it sank to the hilt without touching anything.
I pulled it back and studied the blade. It was unharmed.
Just to be sure, I dipped the tip of my glove in next, to see if the waters had any effect on organics. It too seemed fine.
Focusing, I sent out my plant-life sense over the pool, checking for any algae or moss invisible to the... demonic eye. The waters were as clear as they appeared.
So, not filled with acid nor any strong alkali, and yet, life failed to bloom in the still waters. Poison and magic were the most likely culprits.
I sent my jack-o’-lanterns into the pond and started circling them around the base of the pond, spiralling towards it’s centre.
There.
I moved both lights closer. The refraction made it nearly impossible to make out its form, but something in the water there was casting strange shadows midway between myself and the centre.
It was enough to cast my next spell.
PushII
I aimed the force straight up, in case the box was lighter than expected, to give me more time time to cancel my spell and protect its contents.
It was well that I did so, for the small chest rocketed from the water in a massive plume of water. I cancelled the spell as quickly as I was able, but the chest was rising too fast. It was going to crash into the stone ceiling.
PushIII
I kept the second spell going for less than a fraction of a second, just enough to send the chest down and towards me. I wasn’t trying to retrieve the chest at this point, just prevent it from smashing into pieces.
It splashed down in front of me, sending a spray of water my way.
Safe Teleport
I landed (naked) on the opposite side of the pool, near the eastern door. I wasn’t taking any chances when it came to waters the hob refused to touch.
I circled back round to my gear. It had been lightly sprayed with water, but nothing was soaked through. I draped it along the retaining wall of the pool to dry all the same.
I considered taking my belt and waterskin – which had escaped most of the torrent – and heading back to the stream to refill them, but the thought of leaving my gear unattended for some wandering creature or hob to mess with kept me firmly in place.
It ended up only taking a dozen minutes or so for the worst of it to dry. I redressed, and despite the occasional spatter here and there, felt no worse for it.
I decided to cut my losses there. I’d used nearly every spell under my command to attempt to retrieve the chest and had nothing to show for it. I’d go refill my skins, and make a spell to retrieve the chest on the morrow.
I’d wanted to make a new eliminate spell, but I had no idea how patient Master Tom would be with delays. Not immediately retrieving it was a risk enough. Though there had been no time limit in our deal, neither had he promised to stay his ire should I take too long.