The door came out into a small ten by ten foot chamber with another door to my right. This one was also stuck. To my credit I tried pushing, pulling, sliding it left, right, up and down, before giving up and smashing through it.

I was learning.

I’d entered a throne room from the looks of it. Unoccupied. The throne sat along the centre of the wall on a large dais. The dais and throne both were carved from living rock. Given the nature of the dungeon it was important to make the distinction that “living” in this case meant the rock rose from the earth itself, not that it had been animated with dark magic to pulse and breath on its own accord.

Direct across from the throne was another sculpture of the same living rock, this one an enormous skull stretching from floor to ceiling.

At this point it was safe, even necessary, to assume anything could be trapped. However, portcullises had yet to do me wrong, which naturally gravitated me towards the one in this room rather than the wooden door. The door was probably stuck anyway.

The portcullis looked out onto a fair sized corridor, which had to paths leading off of it to my left. It was made of iron, which might have been a problem normally, but I had my magic swords ready to assist me. I tried without them to begin with, just to see if I could. I couldn’t, so I set the swords in place and the three of us lifted the gate as one.

It rose.

I ducked under into the corridor and let my blades lower the portcullis gently to the floor. Spikes like the other had had would be nice. As it was, I was on a time limit to get back, or I’d be taking a full day if not longer.

The two offshoots of the corridor were close enough together I was able to view both almost simultaneously by standing against the right wall and taking a couple steps to the left or right as needed. The further of the two turned out to be a dead end, so I continued on down the closer one.

This corridor split as well, a path to my right and one continuing forward both ending in doors. Both were wooden, but one was clearly the flimsier of the two, so that was the one I tried. I put a hole through it without even checking the handle. It was probably stuck anyway.

It was an indulgence on my part, but a cathartic one all the same. Thankfully nothing was waiting for me as I wormed my way through the hole into the room beyond. The noise would have alerted a sleeping corpse.

Text greeted me instead, bold letters on the far wall proclaiming, “Death is the only exit.”

This clearly wasn’t true. I’d just come in through one of them, and there were three others besides. Whoever was writing these needed someone to take away his pen. He was dampening everyone’s spirits. Bet the warlocks weren’t inviting him to any of their parties.

Someone, possibly the very same warlock, had also dragged a large horse statue into a corner of the room, nose pointing at the walls, ears and forelegs scraping the ceiling. No taste for decoration.

As always, I took the path of least potential resistance, the open archway to my right. I could smash the other doors later.

Despite my best efforts the archway led to a hallway, and the hallway led to a door. I gave it a little convincing, and then a little convincing more. When that also failed I threw myself bodily at the door until it opened wide enough to allow me passage.

My jack-o’-lanterns spread out, revealing me to be in mid-sized room with a large mirror hanging on the right wall. Hole permeated two of the four walls, square ones just like the ones back in the mosaic room.

The moment my eyes fell across the mirror I looked away and made for the only other visible exit in the room, a door on the same wall I’d entered by. My life sight revealed that the fungus growing in the far corner of the room near the ceiling concealed or covered something, but I didn’t dare take the time to investigate. Mirrors showed a reflection of the world, which in a way, meant they themselves were all portals to a similar plane. It was possible to navigate that plane, possible to move between the mirrors. The demon might be waiting. And now, myself more fae than demon, she might be more terrible than ever.

Cowards fled when they shouldn’t. That didn’t mean it was bravery to stick your hand into a fire for no reason. I’ll admit I felt a moment of panic when I realized the door – made of stone no less – was locked by magical means. A row of faint runes circled the edge of the frame and a second circled the edge of the door, attracting both to each other like a lodestone to iron.

Fear lent me strength. The mirror had made me feel foolish, helpless, weak. Robbed me, if only temporarily, of that core of my being which granted me my will to go on. My self confidence and trust in myself had been damaged in that moment. It had not been irreparable. It never was. But it was never easy. Never pleasant. Never guaranteed.

I strained against the door and slowly, one by one, the runes failed. It was like I was opening a door half submerged in water. Every step was a struggle, never easier, never harder. I reached the back of the hinge and released it. The door held position, suspended in place by the same supernatural forces which had sealed it.

I left it there, rocking unsteadily in an invisible current. It would hold. Or it wouldn’t. I had a dungeon to explore.

I was in a hallway, one which forked into a “T” after 50 or so feet. Left led to a door, right led to into a room through an archway. I took the right hand path.

The floor beyond the arch was tiled in alternating black and white squares. Three empty alcoves were sunk in the wall to my right, with the tiles extending there as well. If anything, it reminded me of some of the fancier baths back in Twinford. Blackbridge had a bath of course, two of them in fact, but they were simply concrete and pebbles.

Two doors led out from the room, as did another archway. The archways on either side lent more to the feeling of being in a bathhouse. The illusion wasn’t complete. The walls weren’t tiled and the alcoves had no discernible purpose, but with a little work... who knew? Maybe the warlocks had been building one and never got around to finishing it.

The archway led down a short but wide corridor, more an antechamber than a hallway, to a third door. The doorway swung open easily enough, which should have been my first warning that something was off. The second should have been the lack of all life beyond the door. Even in empty rooms like the unfinished bathhouse I could make out faint traces of roots working their way through the walls.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.

So servant of nature, you return.

My surprise cost me. Before I could react, the earth and stones under my feet moved conveying me deeper into his lair. I spun about to the door and saw it was blocked. Not by earth as the Mushroom-King had done the first time, but a horde of nearly naked women.

The women were achingly beautiful, so much so it hurt to look at. Breast, hip, waist, face, eyes, and legs, their proportions strained possibility. Not in size, but arrangement. Each curve and subtlety on its own would be the magnum opus of a master sculptor. In aggregate they composed the body of god. Nature could not create something so perfect, and yet something so pure could not be called unnatural. There was an edge in each of them, a hidden current, a wellspring of strength.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

“Oswic, it’s okay. I’m here now,” another voice, this one outside my head. Female. Beautiful. A hand touching my shoulder.

Unsteadily, I turned back to the Mushroom-King. Between the two of us stood another woman. This one clothed. She was still beautiful, though far less so than the others. I’d have said more human, but even that statement couldn’t be true. The others were painfully human. So much so I wanted to weep.

The woman holding my shoulder had long sandy blonde hair, tangled and wild like she’d just been running through the underbrush. Her eyes were dark blue and as bright as sapphires. She was tall. Her eyes level with my own, or nearly so. Her face... it wasn’t her smile, though she wore one, soft and unsure as she gazed into my eyes. Neither was it her lips, quirked like a god’s will. Or judgment. It wasn’t her nose, proud and strong, nor the way her hair framed her face like a bride.

It was all of them and none of them. Glimpses in the light from moment to moment. A ghost of divinity hiding in plain sight. In those moments she ascended. Perhaps not to the heights of the women behind me, but to someone like Erin, or the older woman from which I’d fled.

A faint concern tinged the woman’s eyes, “Aren’t you going to say something?”

I glanced over to the Mushroom-King. His large golden eyes were locked on the tableau of me and the woman. Expectant. What did he want from me?

“Are these hostages you plan to hold against me?” I demanded of him. The woman looked hurt, though I couldn’t say why. Had she been expecting me to reply to her?

The Mushroom-King’s eyes widened.

I see now. You are in need of an explanation.

He wobbled on the spot, somehow indicating himself.

This is not me. This body, this mind, they are dreams of a great whole. I have no form, no mind, no body. I am everywhere and nowhere. I touch the world through my dreams, and every dream is different. A different story, a different emotion. You have only so far met my wrath and my pride. Cruel facets of mine. Ones not to be crossed.

My will-o’-wisps were still behind me in the antechamber. I’d only just realized because the room had lights of its own. It was full of them. Bioluminescent fungi gently glittering on every surface. And what surfaces they were. A thick carpet of moss, piled puffball pillows, translucent webbed drapes. A paradise of comfort made of mushrooms.

The Mushroom-King nodded.

Yes. This aspect of me is somewhat softer. You are my slave, but I do not begrudge my slaves freedom. Not here. I’d rather they come to serve me through their own desires than through fear of force.

“If you’ve not trapped me here to threaten me, what do you want from me?”

The Mushroom-King looked disappointed in me. The woman, still gently holding my arm, was now staring into my face with a welling desperation.

“Oswic, please. It’s me, Melinda. Don’t you see?”

I lowered my gaze from the Mushroom-King’s eyes to her own. Melinda who? Surely my memory wasn’t that bad.

“I’m sorry have we met? It’s been a hectic couple weeks.”

She’d have looked less betrayed if I’d replied by stabbing her instead. Even the Mushroom-King rocked back in surprise. Women’s hands – attached to long, bodyless arms – rose up from the floor, wrapping around my calves, thighs and torso.

There is something different about you. Very different. Floral? Feminine?

The grip of the hands tightened and attempted to pull me to the floor. I let out a yell and summoned my swords to my side, hacking and slashing. The first cut severed one of the arms in a spray of blood, red as poppies. Melinda screamed in fear and shock and retreated, running behind the Mushroom-King for cover.

Other arms began to split and bleed, bone and gristle flying everywhere. It was gruesome work. I’d nearly freed myself when the rest of the arms withdrew. Those which had been severed were engulfed by a rising carpet of woollen clouds.

My apologies, servant of nature. My curiosity overcame me. Your being has been altered nearly beyond recognition. I meant you no harm. A simple desire to study you, nothing more.

I flew my jack-o’-lanterns over to myself. For comfort more than anything.

“Try it again and I’ll go for you. I don’t know how much you care about your “aspects” but I’m betting you have eyes for a reason.”

And my harem?

He sounded amused.

“I’ll kill those who try to stop me. Better to be dead and free.”

Easily said.

“I’ve lived it.”

You haven’t.

The words were like a blow. Images followed. Trapped. Bound to a wall with a blade digging into my back. Broken and groveling before the Mushroom-King. Driving myself into the blade before the warlock arrived. Using Bite not on the Mushroom-King but myself before he could react.

You’ve always fought. Always found a new path to freedom.

Other images. These less clear. My own thoughts. Bargain after bargain with Tom Oldshoe. The dark altar. Dark magic. The dwarf goddess. Brace’s party. Each deal binding me down, restricting me.

Morality was the same. Chains on my behaviour. Limitations on my freedom.

Death is the path of cowards. Only those who live can fight. Kill my servants. Self defence. Sadistic pleasure. It matters not. Break free from my domain. Run to live another day. Do what you have always done: Ensure your own survival at the cost of everything else. But do not pretend you do it for their sake.

His words brought me to my knees. There was force their. Anger. A reminder that no matter how much kinder this iteration of the Mushroom-King might be than his fellows, there was a great power, a greater being behind all of them.

He was doing it again.

Mind control.

My fingers flipped open my pouch and found my druid stone. The waves of electricity flowing through my body crashed behind my eyes. My head buzzed, my hair danced wildly, more frantic than before.

I stood.

The Mushroom-King’s eyes darted to my hand.

What is that?

I closed my pouch.

“We are done here.”

I turned back to the entrance. The women still barred my path.

I can offer you strength, knowledge, healing, desire.

Rian.

If he died I might never be able to forgive myself for my next words, but a bargain was only a bargain given in good faith. I trusted the Mushroom-King less than the number of trees in the sea.

“Let me pass.”

My price is cheap. A night with your desired. Even if you do not remember her, surely part of you calls to her. If not, there are the other members of my harem.

Red lines appeared in perfect flesh. Women cried out in pain. I felt simultaneously like I was torturing a museum and desecrating an angel.

“Move.”

You fear I will take your mind, but I cannot. Not while you wield that stone. I have my own motivations, true, but they are not ones which should concern you. A map of your mind, to teach your desired magic. Surely she is deserving of that? Unless you consider her your lesser?

More lines appeared. Gods bled red. My heart was lurching in my chest, straining to break free. The women fell back from the entrance.

A simpler trade, perhaps? A favour for a favour? Your stone for one of my many treasures?

I walked out the door.

The Mushroom-King’s voice grew fainter as I returned to the checker-board room, still calling after me, Knowledge for knowledge? The way to what you seek, for the reason behind your transformation. The power behind your stone. A weakness of the warlocks.

I nearly paused, but caught myself. A hitch in my step, nothing more. It was a trade I’d make with an elf, any elf, but not the Mushroom-King. Elves couldn’t (or didn’t) lie.

The Mushroom-King served only himself.