“Oh Sir, it is so wonderful to see Sir. Old Tom heard the awful moaning and groaning beyond yonder door,” the little hobgoblin fluttered a hand vaguely in my direction, “and worried for the worst of Sir. But Sir overcame, as Sir always does! Master Tom knew Sir wouldn’t let Old Oldshoe down.”
The dobby had wanted to keep his presence a secret from others, had made it a requirement of one of my vows, and keep himself a secret he had for several days. And now, moments after I was alone again for the first time, he appeared. Which meant Tom had ways of keeping an eye on me. I wasn’t surprised, he was an elf after all, but it was an unpleasant reminder of the power he held over me.
“And you are unharmed as well, Master, despite the many dangers of the dungeon.”
Tom beamed and puffed out his chest, fists at his hips as he struck a heroic pose, “The dungeon holds no danger to Old Tom, Sir. Not since Sir took Master’s dreamseed, Sir.”
“Not even the warlocks, Master?” If that were true I’d do well to keep Tom as an ally. And the hob couldn’t lie.
Tom grinned, “Master Tom Oldshoe said the dungeon, Sir. Master Tom said nothing of warlocks. Perhaps Sir is needing his ears cleaned? Tom would be willing to trade a magical brush to Sir.”
I eyed the treasures scattered at the hob’s feet. A bottle, a brooch, a ring, a necklace; none even remotely resembled a brush.
“Is that why you are here Master Tom? Selling your wares?” I gestured to his feet.
Tom looked down and his eyes widened with surprise, “Master was not aware he was standing in-”
-the sun rose-
“-a pile of dwarf gold, Sir! Old Tom was completely unaware! Tom would sell them to Sir though, if Sir were willing, but that is not why Master Tom is here Sir! Master Tom is needing of a painting, Sir!”
I’d barely heard Tom, the rising of the sun distracting me. I rubbed the side of my head with the back of my hand holding my cutlass and tried to focus, “A painting, Master?”
“A painting of Tom Sir.”
“Forgive me Master, but I don’t have a painting of you.”
“Master Tom wants Sir to paint one, Sir.”
“I’m not a painter Master Tom.”
Tom rolled his eyes, “Old Tom is not needing a painter, Sir, Master is needing a paint-ing,” The hob was careful to emphasize the word.
Shrugging might have been seen as rude, so I could only bow. I knew how to hold a brush, and I had a good eye for detail. I proper painting would take me many hours and dozens of attempts, but if Tom didn’t care about the quality of his painter, neither did I.
“Very well Master, I would be honoured to perform this service as a repayment of one my favours.”
Tom’s face fell for the briefest of seconds before it bounced back into his trademark of a grin—Tom had been careful to avoid mention of repaying my favours before that, but I was getting used to dealing with the hob.
That said, a chill came over me as the words left my mouth. I’d agreed to Tom’s favour without asking him for the details. A dozen ways in which a painting could go wrong entered my mind at once. He could need it painted from my blood, or to pour my soul into the crafting, or to collect rare paints from far away, or want to be painted riding the back of a toad-dragon.
Instead, somewhere between my blinking and my eyes darting about the room in the way eyes at rest tending to do, Master Tom produced a trough of paint jars a square of canvas on a wooden frame which was nearly the size he was.
He held them out to me, “Very good Sir, very good. A painting for a favour Sir, a favour for a painting. Would Sir like Tom to pose Sir, or stand beneath one of Sir’s flames for better viewings?”
I’d have to divest myself of both my cutlass and spellbook to do the painting, but I didn’t suspect treachery on Tom’s part, at least not in this. If that had been his plan all along, he’d certainly been playing the long game. I’d no doubt he was stealthy enough to steal them while I slept.
I studied the room for a safe corner to tuck myself in while I painted and found it severely lacking. Four of the six corners were adjacent to a door, and another had a large crack through it large enough for two men to pass abreast. The final corner was “safe”, but the nature of a hexagon was such I wouldn’t be able to watch both sides at once for intrusion, especially not while also trying to paint the hob.
The tiled room would be safe enough, even if it now contained a liberal amount of half digested fish. But that wasn’t my problem. Tom had asked me to paint him, not shelter him from the wondrous sights and smells of the dungeon.
“I’d prefer to paint in a room a little ways from here, if you were willing Master.”
Tom shook his head, “Oh no Sir, oh no! Master Tom can do no such things. A painting in this very room is exactly what Old Tom Oldshoe needs Sir, exactly what Master Tom needs.”
There had to be a trick, but I couldn’t see one. I took the paints to the less than ideal corner I’d spotted a moment ago, and settled in. The paints didn’t seem to be cursed or ensorcelled or bewitched, or treated in any manner. Perhaps the canvas was made from the flesh of babies and whitened with their powdered bones, but that didn’t seem Tom’s style, and, sad as it was, didn’t actually put me in any further danger.
Tom elected to stay standing in the very centre of the room, above the pile of dwarven jewels.
“It is more dramatic this way Sir,” he called to me, hands cupped about his mouth, “Make sure to show Master Tom alone in all directions Sir! And don’t forget the glittering golds!”
So saying, the little hob struck the same pose he had earlier, hands on hips, legs spread, head twisted upward and looking away.
Fireball II
I’d left one fireball above the hob, keeping this one to light my canvas. The other three I left to either side of me, one to my right, two to my left. They would hopefully ward off or kill any potential threats which wander in. To back them I sent my swords, sometimes more than one, to every door and crevasse, both as a physical wall, and a weapon ready to strike.
Then I began to paint.
The painting itself was easy. I was no acolyte or even amateur at painting, but I had painted before. All Magi were taught a wide variety of arts, to aid them in rune-craft and better prepare them for the variant obstacles they may face. I had more of an eye for realism than form, but it was enough to produce a crude rendition of the scene. First grey and blue for stone and shadows, then red for the little hobgoblin in the centre, and final gold, for the treasures at his feet.
Concentration was harder, but only due to paranoia. The dark whispering in my head grew no closer and the moaning and wailing of the dungeon drew no nearer.
It was the shame which was hard. The loathing which clawed at me, which stabbed at my heart and brain like a knife. I’d struck a defenceless creature, and for what purpose? What ill? If the troll was indeed Gunhild, what had she done to me? She’d offered me no harm, presented no danger. She’d risked herself searching the Magus-King statue for a path through, she’d watched my back while I’d crafted spells.
Perhaps she’d been biding her time to strike, but I had to proof. She’d left her sister, who could have aided her. She’d slept among us. She’d held weapons to my back while my concentration had been wholly on my spells.
But she’d controlled my mind. And there was the anger. And the anger mixed with the shame, opposite and equal, neither letting the other resolve, neither letting the other die.
I caught myself more than once staring blankly into space, brush unmoving, as the spiral drew me in. I could deal with anger. I could deal with shame. But here was a riddle I’d yet to crack. I’d persevere, it was just a matter of holding firm, but that didn’t prevent the pain in the moment. It wasn’t meant to.
“Is Sir needing some assistance?” Tom called, “Sir is guilt-struck, heart-broken. Master Tom can see it plan from here, Sir.”
I grit my teeth and dabbed two large eyes onto the red blob’s face, “You are kind, Master, but I can manage. Need to manage. It is a private struggle.”
Tom bobbed his head up and down knowingly, tapped his nose, and then struck a completely different pose instead of returning his hand to where it had been, “Old Tom knows the sort Sir. The sort which made Old Tom old. It makes Master Tom old or it kills him, Sir.”
***
The painting took about an hour in all. Master Tom grew tired before I did. The little hob sagged dramatically, then hurried over to my side to peer over my shoulder at what I had done. Upon seen the vague smear I’d started trying to work into something passable, his eyes lit with delight.
“Oh Sir, it is wonderful! Perfect! Old Tom has never had a painting before Sir. Never! Old Tom is ever so grateful to have met Sir.”
I dropped the brush I was holding back into one of the jars. If Tom said it was perfect I wasn’t about to argue.
“Will that be all Master?”
Tom nodded happily. His hands snatched out for painting, then closed on air as he stopped himself from touching the wet canvas. He repeated the action twice more, “Oh indeed Sir, indeed! Master Tom considers Sir’s favour fully repaid!”
My fireballs and swords had all vanished by this point, which meant my prisoner’s bounds were no longer secured. I doubted the weight of chains and hammer alone would long hold a troll or even a child if they were determined.
And I still hadn’t recorded a spell since the sun rose.
I stood and bowed to the little hob, “I am glad to have been of service Master Tom. Now please, I must bid you farewell. I have urgent business to attend to. Until next time Master.”
Tom nodded vaguely, still enraptured by my painting, “Fare thee well Sir! Do not be forgettings Master Tom’s mother!”
“Of course not Master.”
I retrieved my spellbook and cutlass and hurried out of the room and back the way I’d come.
It was a short journey, but by the looks of things, I’d already been too late half an hour ago. The troll was gone, the hammer and chains were scattered, and a beautiful young woman with long blonde hair sat amidst them all wearing the very same robes the troll had been.
The woman was not Gunhild, but was close enough in appearance she could have been one of her sisters (Though not any of the sisters I’d met). Her eyes were wide and pinned on me, and had been so since the moment I came around the corner heralded by one of my will-o’-wisps.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Gunhild?” I asked.
She nodded, trembling.
It took me a moment to realize I’d pointed my cutlass at her. No wonder she was terrified. The memory of me kicking the troll—her—body only an hour before flashed through my head. I lowered my sword and sat, deigning to keep distance between us.
On further consideration I dropped my sword entirely. My spellbook was my main weapon anyway, but it was far less intimidating.
I took a deep breath, then slowly released it, trying to release the hold my anger and shame held on me with it. The emotions could stay, but they wouldn’t control me for this conversation, “Could you please explain?”
If anything, my forced calm intimidated her more than my anger. She shrunk back, back pressed against the wall behind her, and her eyes darted from one side of the corridor to the other seeking an escape.
She licked her lips, “Did you- Did you see...?”
The voice was not her own. Not the voice I’d grown used to, anyway. The sudden change in sound seemed to surprise her more than me. She clapped her hands to her mouth and tears began to form at the corners of her eyes.
I was starting to feel pretty bad about the whole thing. That sort of terror wasn’t easily feigned.
We both spoke at once.
“”What happened-”
“Please, I don’t know what’s wrong with me but-”
I raised a hand and she cut off instantly.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d gone about this completely the wrong way, hadn’t I?
“I’m sorry, continue.”
I re-opened my eyes. Just because I was feeling bad didn’t mean she hadn’t simply re-bewitched me. Even now I’d need to keep my guard up.
“I was cursed. Me and my sisters all were. Cursed to look like hideous creatures. It was only with our mother’s magic that we were able to take on some semblance of our true forms. Imperfect, but at least human. But now...” the tears continued to well, “but now I don’t know what happened.”
She raised her hand to study it, front and back, and stared at it like a stranger, “I’ve only just realized I no longer have the same appearance.” She grabbed a strand of hair and moved it by her face, then she twisted it around her fist and pulled on it, pulling it tight, “Did you see... when I was unconscious... when I woke I was...”
“A troll,” I confirmed, “Or at least very trollish in nature.”
She slumped back against the wall, “I don’t know what happened. You were just writing your spell and then you went mad; writhing about, teleporting across the room. And then,” she swallowed, “then I was struck with that hammer there,” she stuck her chin out in its direction, “I felt everything break. I thought I’d died,” she studied her new hands again, still wrapped a stranger’s hair, “maybe I did.”
“Resurrecting Hammer,” I nodded towards said hammer.
Gunhild ran her hand along the shaft, “I remember. When we first faced the dead man. You said the words were dark magic. Were they are warning? Did the warlocks attack me in revenge for their dead man?”
My guilt compounded my shame with every word from her lips. She still hadn’t realized it had been me who had summoned the hammer.
“Something went wrong when I was writing my spell. The runes were twisted by dark magic. It robbed the air from my lungs, crushed me with a terrible weight.”
Gunhild met my eyes, “And sent the hammer after me?”
I grimaced. It was an easy out, but the truth would serve me better in the long run, “I summoned the hammer. I thought we were under attack by another form of gas, or perhaps an invisible being. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t gather the words to tell you to flee, so I panicked. I summon the hammer to try to push you from the room but...”
I trailed off. Death. A world of indescribable pain and an unforgettable moment of breaking. How could you apologize for that?
Gunhild’s trembling grew stronger. She glanced down at the hammer, then up to me, back to the hammer, than down the corridor leading back to the room of giant stone pillars.
She looked back at me and recoiled in shock, jumping to her feet, “Behind you!”
I spun into a low crouch.
Swordferno. Fireball II.
My fireballs fanned out and my swords rose to the ready.
There was nothing there.
Not even a growl. Not even a whisper. Just the sound of bare feet pounding down the corridor away from me.
“It’s safe!” I called half-heartedly. It had been a distraction, nothing more. But on the off chance it wasn’t, I’d leave no more room for misunderstanding.
She didn’t slow.
I couldn’t blame her.
Pain flooded through me; guilt, fear, anger, regret, outrage. I held it all as I turned away from her retreating form and returned to the bath room.
I hadn’t been sure if we would continue on together, even if the talk had gone well. She’d betrayed my trust. Clouded my judgment. Ensorcelled my mind. But given her curse, what would I do to belong? I still hadn’t picked apart which parts of her seduction had been enchantment and which had been a natural attraction.
I needed to write a new spell. I’d already missed one, but the clouding of my mind had grown worse upon confronting Gunhild, not better. She may have wounded me, but I’d killed her. Crushed her. I had memories of a tooth being pulled which still made me shudder; her collapsing ribs and rupturing organs would haunt her for life.
I slumped into the corner of the room. I needed to try. Even if I was distracted, felt like I’d fail, the sunrises were a gift I couldn’t ignore. If I had any opportunity to reconcile with Gunhild, to protect her or repay my guilt, new spells would make it possible. Make it more likely.
She’d fled into danger, but she’d spent her life in danger—spent her life in the dungeon. I’d been the one to kill her.
I blinked rapidly. Forced myself to study the tiles in the room. Made my flames dance up and down. I was going in circles. I needed to focus on what was, not what had been.
The sun rose.
A wolf of shadow rose with it. Both as clear in my mind as if I stood atop a mountain and watched the horizon. The sun rose rapidly, fleeing toward its zenith in a matter of seconds.
The wolf rose faster.
Its jaws stretched open, wide as a snake’s and reached around the sun. For a moment they kept pace with each other, the sun caught between the wolf’s teeth, and then they snapped shut and the sun was extinguished.
Again the sun had been extinguished, and again after I’d been too slow in writing a spell. There was a price to be paid for not accepting the gift, which made it no gift at all.
Fireball II
My spells had returned all the same. Whatever that meant. In theory I could still record a spell. I needed to. The sun had been extinguished twice already, and these things tended to come in threes.
***
I was still afraid. It took more than one success to counter fear. But I’d already been through the worst of it. I knew my strength. And so I wrote. And so I cast. Lesser Heal II. Lesser Heal III. Lesser Heal VI. Heal. Heal III. Heal IIII. Heal V. Greater Heal. Greater Heal II. Greater Heal III. And so I was rewarded. My body healed, but so did my mind in spirit. Fear felt and faced again was fear overcome. Not fully, but I was ready for the next time.
Greater Heal IIII: The caster’s body heals 11,345 hours’ worth of injuries over the course of an hour.
In many ways the most remarkable thing about the spell was that the wounds on my chest still hadn’t fully healed. Though there was apparently some debate among healers, Magi knew the truth. Results spoke for themselves. A day of healing awake was worth less than half that asleep.
It was hard to examine my wounds properly, given their position on my chest, but the swelling had gone down. The skin was still tight and slightly tender to the touch and as shiny as a new shoot of grass, but I could move my arms freely without pulling painfully on the muscles beneath.
I returned to room beyond that of the chained men.
To my surprise, Tom was still there studying his new painting. It must have been approaching two hours since I’d left him.
He looked up as I drew near, “Oh Sir! Master Tom was not expecting Sir again so soon Sir. Master Tom was admiring Sir’s painting Sir.”
A bubbling, sparking sense of pride mixed with fondness in my chest. Deceitful though the little hob might be, he wore his heart for the world to see.
“I’m glad you enjoy it, Master,” I said truthfully, “It does my heart good.”
The hob’s eyes returned to his painting, “Of course Sir, of course.”
I headed deeper into the room, not toward the hob, but to its centre where the jewels lay. Tom had not disturbed them so enamoured was he with the painting. Or perhaps he had no need for jewels easily won. Elves were strange that way.
The first of the treasures was a jade brooch, which I fastened over one of the holes in my gambeson. It was easy enough to carry, and fine enough I might be able to trade it with another inhabitant of the dungeon. Perhaps Tom’s mother would like it. Even if I didn’t find anyone to trade with it matched my overall aesthetic and probably provided me some small protection.
Next were the object which only held value to me as potential magical items. A cold-forged ring and cold-forged necklace, both made of gold.
I tried both on in turn, but neither held the faintest glimmer of potential. I returned them to the ground. Light though they may be, if I wore every set of jewellery I came across I’d be a walking treasury by the end of the month. More seriously, rings and necklaces had a habit of snagging, and taking the body part they were secured around with them. I’d once heard a story from my master of a man jumping down from his horse when his ring had caught on his saddle. He’d have lost the finger if not for my master’s quick intervention.
Finally there was the large crystal bottle, surrounded and sealed with a mesh of gold wire. The liquid within shone like the heart of a mountain, a swirling mass of molten crystal. There had been a lake a ways off from my hut which had been similar at the right times of the year. Salt, in heavy concentration, turned the waters sparkling white.
The crystal body and gold wire suggested this bottle contained more than salt, but there was no marks of identification anywhere on its smooth surface. The only clue was the resonance it held. The whole bottle thrummed with power, a lesser version of the druid stone. Smoothing crystal was no easy feat, doing so to contain and enhance the frequency of a specific potion could only mean the potion was more valuable than the container. This was a potent elixir, of that I had no doubt.
There was room aplenty in my pouch now that the dreamseed had gone... wherever it had gone. I drop the potion on top and resealed the flap.
“Pardon my hasty departure Master, but the hour draws late and my destination cannot wait.”
“Of course Sir, of course,” Tom said again, “Master Tom must be leaving soon too Sir, far too soon Sir, but Masters and Sirs must what Masters and Sirs must.”
Thus, having bid my leave, I headed for the door directly to my left, one of a pair on the west side. It was there, Conan’s map claimed, I would find my alternate route to the stairs leading below.
Swordferno
The door was already stuck open, depriving me of the pleasure of tearing it down. Instead I sent my swords raking across the perimeter of the frame in a bid to trigger any traps Conan may have unknowingly left disarmed.
When nothing happened, I deemed the path as safe as it was going to get and proceeded, spellbook and cutlass in hand.
It was just as I was crossing the threshold that I was struck by a terrible thought and a decision to be made. With me there would be no shelter nor safety for Gunhild. Even if I could have convinced her to stick with me there would have been no point other than a selfish one to have chased after her, and there were many ways in which it would make her life worse.
However, I’d only just now considered that she might decide to reseek shelter with Brace’s crew, but Brace’s crew would not recognize her. I need to return and alert them of her changed appearance. I’d keep her curse a secret for the moment to avoid misunderstanding, but an attack between friends was a tragedy I couldn’t bear.
I was halfway out the other side of the room when I was struck by another pair of thoughts. Thought one was that Gunhild was no fool. She could convince them, or lie and say she was one of their sisters, or seek out her sisters for shelter instead of Brace. Thought two was that I didn’t truly know if Gunhild had been honest with me. Perhaps she wasn’t safe. Perhaps she wasn’t Gunhild. And if I told them to accept any stranger bear her name, it might be Conan or Stovepipe who woke up dead instead of Gunhild. This was quickly followed by thoughts three and four. Three: Even if Gunhild was innocent, there was no saying my intervention would make the situation better, it could exacerbate an already reached resolution, or simply drive a wedge between all three of us. Four: It wasn’t my place or even my right to solve everyone else’s problems. Gunhild had run from me. She’d been right in doing so, reasonable, but she’d made her choice. It was not mine to undo hers.
I turned back to the thoroughly scratched door even though every fibre of my being screamed against it. I was not one to back down from a problem, or justify away difficult conversations at my convenience.
I spared a glance to Tom and received none in return. The little hob had either not noticed or chosen to ignore my indecisive pacing.
Ten feet past the door, then thirty feet to my left and another fifty or so to my right after that led me to the top of the stairs, just as Conan’s maps had shown.
Just before the stairs to my right was an enormous mound of rock and rubble blocking off the passage there. Gunhild and I had been less than twenty feet away when we’d been forced back by the collapsed corridor. I could have teleported through it had I been able to peer through a crack.
And not averse to abandoning Gunhild.
How quickly things changed in a few hours. How quickly lives changed. I bit my lip, letting the pain distract me from spiralling once more.