Lesser Heal II. Lesser Heal III. Lesser Heal V. Lesser Heal VI. Heal. Heal III. Heal IIII. Heal V. Greater Heal. Greater Heal II. The spells were still cast close enough together to be mostly simultaneous, but it was growing unwieldy. In better circumstances I’d have the pages spread out before me, removed from their book. That was not a luxury I could afford. Instead I relied on speed; skill born of long practice. My fingers flew through the spellbook, casting one spell after another, triggering Lesser Heal VI and Greater Heal with my mind in the same moment. I didn’t have the attention spare to devote to anything but my spells. The record of my own natural healing was sacrificed in the process.

Greater Heal III: ~~~~~~

Something was going wrong with the spell, irrespective of the difficulty I was having in maintaining focus on ten separate spells and their locations. The rune slipped and shimmered beneath my crayon, forcing me to adapt on the fly, and make sudden changes to prevent it from escaping. It was like working with an animal more than a spell, and, midway through casting, the animal turned on me.

I felt heavy. My breathing grew shallow. The healing continued but with it came a new sensation: Pain. A burning in my lungs, an itch more painful than combustion darts had been, worse than the breaking of my leg. And the weight, the heaviness, it shouldn’t have mattered, but it continued to grow, continued to draw me down. I was already sitting, but now I was pressed against the wall. I wasn’t sure if I could stand.

My chest stilled. Only the slightest stream of air past my lips, and only once, once last gut-wrenching shudder from my diaphragm. I desperately flipped through my book for answers, but my healing spells had all been cast, were still being cast, and it wasn’t enough.

I couldn’t breathe.

There was a weight in my chest—in my lungs—and I couldn’t breathe.

Safe Teleport II

I was desperate, desperate to get away from the weight on my chest. Had I been poisoned by my spell? A slow acting gas in the room?

I reappeared, naked, and without my spellbook. I desperately turned my head to Gunhild, who was looking to where I had been, a look of horror on her face. I tried to call to her, to tell her to run, but chest wouldn’t move. I had to do something

Resurrecting Hammer

The words surged through me as a shout rather than a whisper. One which echoed from the tiles and ceiling of the room we were in. Gunhild turned at the noise, just in time for a hammer of crackling white light to crash into her and drive her through the far archway and into the hallway beyond.

Her body crumpled around the hammer like a doll when it impacted her, and her eyes rolled back in her head as she folded around it. I could only hope I hadn’t killed her.

Regenerating Form

The second shout was one of triumph from the darkness within me. I could feel it settling in my brain, calling me further down its path, yammering ever louder in my ear. For once I didn’t care.

I could breathe.

The pain was still there. As was the weight. Each breath was a titanic struggle, one which consumed every last bit of strength my lungs had to offer for the shallowest breath, like lifting a mountain with my chest, like fighting against the crushing weight of a god’s will, and yet I continued to breathe.

Minutes passed and my breath grew deeper. The weight never lessened but I grew strong. Far from tiring me, the weight seemed to invigorate me. Several minutes more and my chest was pumping like a billows, strong gusts of wind moving in and out of my lungs with a strength I’d never before experienced.

I tried to stand, and found I couldn’t even sit upright from where I lay. The weight in my chest swung downward with gravity, and a horrible pain suffused my whole body, horrible not for the levels, which were still less than the burning itch spreading through my lungs, but for the tearing sensation deep within the cavity of my being.

I collapsed and the sensation reverted in seconds, my breathing once more came fast and strong. I tried instead to roll over and was rewarded with the feeling of my lungs swinging downward to press against the inside of my right ribcage.

Both of them.

Luckily I was already on my side when I vomited, or I might have drowned. My vision had gone blurry and there were black spots forming in the centre. I was pretty sure my heart was being compressed along with everything else. I rolled back onto my back before it stopped.

“By the last of the great trees,” I groaned. I’d thought my healing spell would mark the end of my physical tortures.

Spell...

I hadn’t yet cast one. Could I write one from where I lay on the floor to save myself? The thought of writing another spell caused me to shudder where I lay. I was experiencing the results of a spell crafting gone wrong still. My mind shied from the thought. Still, I pressed onward. If I didn’t write again soon I’d never write. The fear would grow too great.

A stasis spell could keep me alive, but the cost of such spells was always unpredictable, and the period was limited.

I could potentially come up with a rune to hold my lungs in place relative to the rest of my body, but I feared that would stop me from breathing.

It was frustrating; I could summon gouts of flame and impart enough force to collapse the whole dungeon in on itself given time, but I was as helpless as a faun against an attack from my own body.

There was no helping it. I had to try to move again, at least onto my chest before a second vomiting fit ended me.

I rolled to my left this time, to avoid the puddle opposite me. The pain was less this time, and I was prepared to it, managing to flip completely onto my front without the same nauseating attack on my vital organs.

My chest pressed heavily into the ground, forcing me to turn my head to the side to avoid breaking my nose or neck. The pain from my still healing wounds was minor compared to the burning inside my chest, but it grew as the pressure mounted.

I took a deep breath—ironically one of the few things I could do at this point—and brought my knees to my chest.

For a second I thought my ribcage would break from the strain, but it was my spine which gave out first. Something clicked out of place, as loud as a handcannon to my ears, and I collapsed onto the side of my face.

My healing spell restored me as I lay there. The bruising on my cheeks faded in a matter of minutes, my spine stopped screaming after half a dozen, and felt usable after fifteen. Another five minutes passed before I gathered the courage to try again.

This time I started with my arms, and hunched myself forward, straining to keep the curve in my spine. Now that I was prepared for it, the weight was manageable. Without my improved strength, I might not have been able to do it. It felt like I’d nearly doubled in weight from my chest alone.

From my knees I made it to my heels, and then I was standing. My lungs pressed strangely against the base of my diaphragm and what I assumed were my intestines, but didn’t tear straight through my body, which was nice. Horrible pressure on my guts aside, standing was in many ways easier than lying down, and I bore the weight more easily.

I brought my remaining lights and the Fireball II I’d been sure to cast before starting my spellcraft to illuminate me as I looked down at my chest. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary to explain the strange heaviness within me.

I took a few slow, deep breaths to centre myself, and get used to the strange feeling. The breaths seemed to do wonders, as the pressure on my guts slowly alleviated, and the prickling pain faded away. The second could be explained by the end of my healing spell, the first I wasn’t sure.

I took a cautious step, and felt my internals swing like a pendulum, but my vision didn’t waver. The second step was easier. By the fourth or fifth it felt almost normal, aside from the extra strain in my legs.

I’d figured out the pattern by now. Pain was followed by strength. It was exercise, but for my lungs. Which meant I needed to cover as much ground as possible before an emergency.

This was going to hurt.

I braced my self mentally and hopped gently on the spot. I completely misjudged the distance with my new weight, and barely left the ground. Even so, it was enough for my lungs to float up towards my throat.

It felt simultaneously like I was gagging and vomiting, enough so that a spatter of vomit followed soon after. Once more the smell of half digested fish assaulted me. It was going to be hard to want to eat that again.

I stepped back from the mess and tried again, involuntarily hopping even more cautiously this time. A child bit by frost once would wear a scarf until spring, as the saying went.

The second hop went better, as I’d hoped, giving me enough courage to try a slightly larger one.

My luck didn’t hold long.

I spat the taste of my latest torrent of vomit clear and staggered back to lean against a wall. It was more than the pain which felled me. Voluntarily inflicting torture on myself was exhausting. My whole being, mind and body shied from it, and the feeling, any feeling of all, of internal organs moving, was a profound wrong in its own right.

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But if Gunhild was in danger and I had to jump or jump aside to save her, I couldn’t be stunned by a lack of preparation.

I clenched the inside of my cheeks with my teeth, just to feel a cleaner pain I could hold on to, then began a slow jog around the room. Once the pain subsided I switched into a run.

Please no! Please! Why? by the rain’s mercy, please! “Please, no. I can’t go on. No.”

At some point my internal monologue escaped my lips and I started begging with myself outloud. I ignored the whiner. I had a job to do.

From the run I switched into a sprint, and once the sprint steadied I finished with a leap, jumping as far as was possible, which was only slightly further than I’d been able to jump before I’d gained the strength of the dark altar. My extra weight almost entirely compensated for my increased strength.

Something tore as I landed, my knees buckled, but did not collapse. A moment later I experienced the uncanny feeling of my lungs being reeled back into place, and the pain ended.

I put a hand to my chest. I felt queasy. My heart was beating far faster than the light exercise would warrant, and the hand was trembling. That would have to do. For now.

“I promise to continue to strengthen myself.”

Sometimes it helped to swear my vows to myself out loud. Especially when no one else was around.

I went over to my pile of belongings and retrieved by spellbook. I needed to check on Gunhild, but first-

True Teleport II

I could have used the spell tattooed on my arm to remove the vomit, but given the inherent risk of losing spells cast in the dungeon, I’d rather chance one easily rewritten.

I gathered my cutlass but didn’t bother with clothes or armour. Gunhild still hadn’t returned through the doorway I’d sent her through, and I was starting to get worried. I quickly checked my potions and grabbed the vial of Breathing, just in case it would help. Had I not been panicking earlier and I’d remembered my potions, perhaps I’d have been able to save myself without increasing dark magic’s hold on me.

***

Gunhild’s crumpled form lay just around the corner. I wasn’t entirely sure how’d she’d gotten there.

She was oriented away from me, with her head on the far and a single foot peeking free from her robes towards me. Her robes were tangled about her, obscuring the rest of her body as well as any injury. In the dim light of my will-o’-wisps what little skin I could see looked almost grey. Ashen.

Fireball

I needed to see.

In the increased light her skin was indeed pale. Almost the same colour of the stone where she lay. Something peeked out of her robes beside her foot, a large bushy tail, almost like a fox’s.

My eyebrows rose. As did my cutlass. Something was wrong here.

I cautiously approached the body, no longer sure it was Gunhild. The hair was indeed the same colour and length, but it was stringy, tattered and tangled.

I flipped it over with a foot, then leapt back in shock. Praise the morning’s red cloud I’d already practiced the action or my lungs might have torn through my ribcage.

The sun rose, somewhere far above at the back of my mind, in synchronicity with the revelation before me.

The creature’s face was lumpen and craggy as if hewn from stone with an axe rather than a chisel. Its skin furthered the comparison, grey and mottled, with orange blotches like lichen on the cheeks and nose. It was, in short, a troll, though far smaller than the trolls in any tales I’d heard.

Nestled against the troll’s abdomen was the very same hammer I’d sent to drive Gunhild from the room, which only furthered my suspicions. Those very same suspicions were all but confirmed by the maps clenched in the troll’s fists. Conan’s maps. The maps Gunhild had been holding.

Trollskap. Was that the source of my desire? The source of my reasoning? The explanation for her inconsistent night vision? Conan had warned me against taking her with me.

The dancing.

All of it, a lie. All of it, trollskap.

A troll with a fox’s tail. A troll with a fox’s tail who enchanted men and preyed on their trust.

My jaw clenched. I could feel the skin of my face growing heated. How dare she? The troll wasn’t moving, either dead or insensate, and yet still I wanted to strike it.

Strike her.

I wasn’t sure if the thought was my own or a new influence against my mind. I didn’t care. My leg lashed out, suddenly, viciously, with far more force than the ironic tap of revenge I’d imagined. The troll wheezed as air was forced from its lungs, but otherwise didn’t react. The haft of the hammer continued to stir gently above its chest as it slept; wavering back and forth.

Regret and shame flooded in the instant the kick ended, and suddenly I saw myself with awful clarity. When had I become one who beat the defenceless? I squeezed my eyes shut, forced out a slow, shaking breath. I wanted to deny it, tell myself that wasn’t me, I acted in anger, fear, loathing.

But the one who had acted in anger was me. I was the sum of my actions. The river carved through time by my soul only flowed in one direction. All I could do was correct course. Anger alone would not serve here.

I opened my eyes and fixed my gaze on the hammer. Perhaps it had bound the creature somehow? I dropped my cutlass and grabbed the haft. That turned out to be a struggle in of itself. The handle was so short I could only grasp half of it at a time. The hammer, by contrast, weighed more than an anvil. Few men could lift it. Even with my strength I ended up resorting to merely dragging it off the troll’s body.

The troll didn’t wake from its slumber. It didn’t even seem to notice the missing weight.

Fireball II

I cast the spell to avoid losing control, but I wouldn’t hesitate to use it against the fiend. Creatures of the night tended to fear fire.

I settled opposite the troll in the hallway. I wanted answers, and for answers I wanted it awake. Failing that, I wasn’t about to let it sneak up on me while I was spell crafting.

And I needed to craft.

Urgently.

It wasn’t just about missing the sunrise. My fear was perceptibly growing by the minute. I could feel it, a gnawing dread, slowly hollowing me out from within. Not just of the creation of spells, but also their casting.

Both the fireballs had been safe, as had the teleports, but the healing, the healing had caused me pain like I’d rarely experienced. The thought of another healing spell sent me into a spiralling panic, an endless circle of remembrance which simultaneously sucked me and sent my mind racing far away. I’d start cautious, start small, to regain my trust in my magic. Something I’d hardly notice in normal circumstances.

Lesser Heal II

Nothing happened. No pain, no strange prickling burn inside my chest. No maddening itch that only a spear could scratch. If anything, I felt my body relax, felt aches of the body and spirit fade. Healing affected as well as effected.

Before my courage could fail me, I prepared my next spell:

Lesser Heal III. Lesser Heal V. Lesser Heal VI. Heal. Heal III. Heal IIII. Heal V. Greater Heal. Greater Heal II. The pain didn’t come. My chest wounds eased once more. The strain in my arm from pulling the hammer disappeared in an instant. Tiredness fled my legs, sore from carrying a weight they were unused to. Lesser Heal V vanished from my spellbook as it was cast, but it was a small price to pay for relief. My spells had not turned on me, my magic was still my own. Whatever had afflicted my lungs had been a rare surge of dark magic, nothing more.

But could it happen again?

The thought shook my mind, but my hand was steady. I let it sit with me, let my worries burn, but I paid them no mind. I had a spell to write.

Greater Heal III: The caster’s body heals 5680 hours’ worth of injuries over the course of an hour.

I stood in the same moment I finished. One of the many advantages of casting my healing spell was I ended less stiff after an hour of sitting than I started. Even my chest wounds were barely noticeable, which, after nearly a year’s worth of waking healing, they’d better be.

My fireballs had both gone out, but some of my jack-o’-lanterns remained. By their faint light I could still make out the troll’s face. It hadn’t moved during my casting, except faintly at the lips, where its breath continued to pass slowly in and out.

Perhaps it would never wake.

Perhaps you shouldn’t let it.

The whispers returned, stronger than ever.

Don’t blame us, it’s all in your head.

I shook my head to clear them from my mind. The whispers laughed, There is no dark magic here, Magus. Only your fraying mind.

Admittedly, I wasn’t sure what to do with that. Had I only imagined their words this time. Given my own dark thoughts an attribution other than my own? It was a wonder any sort of mental speech could be differentiated from my own thoughts. Perhaps only because the speaker thoughts ran so contrary to my own.

But this time, the whispers didn’t, which further strengthened their assertion that they didn’t exi—I was going mad, wasn’t I?

I felt a sudden sympathetic kinship with the warlocks. Constantly having voices which were not your own in your head would lead you to doubt even your personal claim to your own thoughts, let alone the truth of them.

I returned to my study of the troll. I could continue to wait, abandon it, arrange some means of dragging it along with me, or kill it.

Or, as the voices—real or imaginary—pointed out, I could kill it.

Swordferno

I’d already decided I wanted answers, but if those answers had to wait, I wanted to continue exploring while I still had the energy to do so. I left a ring of swords around the creature while I returned to the tiled bath room. There I first dressed, recovering my gear before some other denizen of the dungeon decided to abscond with it, then I gathered as many of the ghostly chains as I could carry while not giving up my grip on cutlass or spellbook.

Thus burdened, I returned to the troll and draped the chains over it. A sword at the end of each chain secured them in place, hopefully binding the troll to the ground where it lay. I used my longest lasting swords to do so, which gave me slightly over half an hour to continue exploring for the majority of the chains, and a further 15 minutes for the remainder.

I pried Conan’s maps from the troll’s grasp, and tucked them into my belt for easy access. Finally, I dragged the strange, half-hafted hammer back onto the creature’s abdomen. The weight hadn’t killed it before, but it was heavy enough it would hopefully slow it down. It couldn’t hurt.

I passed through the hexagon of the chained-men without further incident. Conan’s map directed me northward, where a door lay propped open, a series of spikes ringing the threshold.

As I drew closer, the light of my fireballs revealed a number of panels in the wall, gears which Conan had locked in place. The floor contained a further large panel, a trap door of sorts, with enough of a gap from one of the spikes to reveal a short pit beneath, perhaps ten feet in depth; another of the warlock’s mancatchers.

It was easy to avoid. Even if Conan hadn’t disabled the trap all I had to do was stick to the left side of the doorway and I wouldn’t even pass over the trap door. I didn’t even have to shimmy.

The room on the other side was another hexagon which fit against the previous room like a honeycomb. Give the bees of Eric’s prison, perhaps it had at one point indeed been a honey comb for giants. The frogs I’d encountered had certainly suggested their existence. Some had even had wings.

Thankfully, this second room didn’t contain chained-men, corpses or otherwise. Instead it was empty, save for a small scattering of glittering items on the floor and the tiny man in red standing in their centre.

“There you are Sir! Master Tom has been looking for you!”