I made my goodbyes, retrieved my sack, and headed out to the direction Conan figured was most likely south based on my carvings and the words of the orcneas. His map combined with my recollection had led us to believe we’d explored most of this floor save for the rooms beyond the lift. From what little Conan had gathered beyond that point, he’d said he’d discovered a room full of gigantic grubs and that had been enough to end his exploration in the area. That had been before the group from the Empire had made it impossible.
The room was empty now, as it had been the night before. I would have to explore the shaft once my wounds healed. Going hand over hand would be trivial with my goddess-blessed strength. If it led to some of the lower floors proper, I could bypass a large portion of my difficulties.
I was presented with the choice of two doors. One of wood which stood open—Conan had gone that way presumably, or the expedition from the lift. The other was made of stone and remained closed.
Magic Swords II
I’d take the path Conan had followed. If the swords couldn’t handle the grubs, I could still use them to batter down the stone door.
The wooden door led to a long hall. The long hall led to a short room. There was no sign of giant grubs in sight, but there were still objects of note. The first was a message in the language of the gods written on the wall to my right (the south wall?): “They ate him.” There was no further description of who whom had eaten whom nor who whom had been eaten.
The second was of even far greater worry than the grubs or the eaters themselves. A mirror up against the north wall.
The moment I drew close enough to see my lights reflecting around the corner I grew wary and slowed my advance. As the reflection grew clear enough to confirm my fears, not polished stone but polished metal—and large, not small—I stopped and turned about.
Conan had mentioned a mirror during our discussion, but he hadn’t pointed it out on his map, so I’d assumed he’d been talking about the demon mirror on the first floor. His descriptions had been vague and shifting at best, a condition I’d attributed to fear or embarrassment regarding his performance when he’d first laid eyes on the upper mirror.
But there was another, and one he’d avoided talking directly about. I wanted nothing to do with it. I’d send my swords to smash it at once if I wasn’t afraid of unleashing an even greater evil upon the world. I returned down the long hallway and sent my swords to smashing the stone door instead.
Once more, my luck held out and my actions didn’t attract any attention. I suppose one more smashing and clawing sound didn’t make a difference.
The room beyond would have been too small for the toad-dragon to turn around in. Seven by twenty paces, which was about ten by thirty feet. I knew because I circumnavigated the small space looking for exits other than the one directly next to the door I’d come by. The room had the shape of a hallway more than anything, one which ended abruptly.
The secret exits were concealed well, or the warlocks had no taste for design, for I found nothing. I hang back at the far end of the room/hall while my swords made quick work of the wooden door.
The room beyond was a pentagon. A true pentagon this time, with five walls instead of seven. I’d never been to the next room, but it was horrifyingly familiar.
A row of demonic faces covered the wall directly across from me. This time they were not my own. Instead they were the faces of two strangers, repeated over and over again, sometimes twice in a row, sometimes alternating, all twisted into expressions of rages.
Chained to the wall directly across from me, and directly two my right were two skeletons. There arms were raised above their heads. Long sharp poles extended from the walls to press into their backs. Their legs were changed back flush against the wall with water running over their bony feet. Both had bags over their heads.
I’d have bet Master Tom Oldshoe himself the ante of his choice that the demonic statues bore the skeletons’ faces as they had looked in life.
Fireball II
The spell slipped free without conscious thought, once more bringing on that strange feeling of shame and this time an additional feeling of fear. Or maybe the fear had brought on the spell. I was trembling, my chest constricted, my vision blurry. When was the last time I’d taken a breath.
I breathed deeply. The trembling faded. My vision returned. The pain in my chest lessened somewhat.
The fear remained.
This would have been my fate. Had I the experience and willpower to risk the warlocks, had the warlocks not taken so long to get to me, had I not risked my mind and soul to carve spells into my brain, this would have been me. Dead in the dark, with cold water running over my feet, bones bound together by dark magic and rotting sinew.
I set my swords to cut the bodies down. They collapsed into a heap of bones, sinews finally giving in. Using the flat of the blades I was able to sweep them into the small room behind me, away from the stream which flooded the entire room, and then gather them into a loose pile.
I placed my fireball in the centre, and left it there, letting them burn. I was far too late to save them—they’d probably been dead before I’d been captured—but at least I could give them this. No longer chained. No longer bound to the walls of the dungeon. Their skeletons would not become another pair of demons to haunt these halls.
I sent my swords at the demonic carvings, but once again they proved to be made of a stronger material, impervious to my blows.
“May your souls find Elysium,” I whispered as the bones began to crack and pop, “or at least peace in freedom.”
***
I followed the stream through the eastern door, which led directly across a second room and then out behind a grate in the wall. I didn’t give the stream much heed the moment I entered the room, for it astounded me.
I’d stumbled into what felt like the heart of some great machine, perhaps the very dungeon itself. The room was round, a squat cylinder perhaps ten feet in height but fifty in diameter. Nearly half the wall—the half flanking either side of the grate—was taken up with intricate runes carved into the rock. A further quarter—to the right of the grate and interspersed with the runes—was covered in levers, gears, pipes, valves, gauges, and pistons.
The whole thing moved as if alive, pumping and throbbing and whistling and shaking. The floor thrummed with it. The room stood alone in its power, separate from the normal rules of the dungeon. No laughter could be heard emanating from those lurching and breathing walls, whether children’s or –the sun rose—dog’s.
I hardly registered its rising.
The runes were that of the Magi.
What should have been comforting filled me with fear. There was no record of the Magi owning or dwelling in Bleakfort. Our art was secret, our organization small. The talent and knowledge to write these runes would not rise independently even if the ability for magic did.
Either a mage had betrayed us, or I was not the first to be successfully captured. Which, given the power of the warlocks, again amounted to betrayal.
Echo. Judge. Amount. Monitor. Double. Bedroom. Unit. Place. Fire. Hiccough. Chew. Inch. Haunt. Iron. Zone. Conviction.
Individual segments of runes caught my eye, formed a picture. The utility of each rune segment and the formation of each rune was personal. No two magi would write the same spell the same, even if such a thing were possible, but another mage could read the broad strokes.
This had been an observation chamber. A place where the mage could observer the rest of the dungeon and inflict whatever judgment they deemed necessary upon them. Some of the runes might even explain my own experiences in the dungeon, though why the mage would harass me rather than outright kill me if that were the case made little sense. They’d clearly have the power to do so.
The levers and dials were also labelled with mage runes. These were of a simpler sort, words instead of entire concepts or sentences: Voice, Body, Exit, Fear, Desire, Anger, Joy, Pride, Awe, Annihilation.
There were other lever with even simpler words: Left, Right, Up, Down; and ones which made no sense at all: Stranger, Friend, Rogue, Dancer.
There were others, hundreds of others, but those first few were the most common, repeated among half a dozen labels each. I had no clue what any of it meant or how it was used.
Like the mirror, I considered destroying it. Like the mirror I decided against it. The mage at the helm had restrained from using his powers against me, I didn’t want to give him reason to do so. If there was no one manning it, it was hopefully harmless, and I didn’t want a repeat of the volcanic eruption. I’d been lucky I’d not gotten anyone killed the first time around.
The chamber only had a single exit. A sturdy looking wooden door to the right of the entrance and roughly below the grate in the wall. I retreated back into the pentagonal prison while my swords took down the door. If anywhere would have gratuitously over the top traps defending it, it would be this control room.
Thankfully there were not traps, or at least none I triggered. I walked back around the corner and through the remains of the door.
Blood stained the floor. Bloody rags were scattered across it. A pool of blood stood by my feet.
As my lights spread outward they revealed more bloody rags and more blood stains, an entire room filled with them. Half of the far side of the room was missing, destroyed in an explosion. A rectangular room this time, normal save for the missing wall. Dark figures moved in the shadows beyond.
I called out to them, “Who goes there? I mean no harm, I merely seek passage.”
My heart pounded in my chest. I’d been off balance since I found the skeletons, and the mage runes and blood weren’t helping. Plus there was something off about these creatures. They remained shadowed even as they approached my light. My eyes could not penetrate the darkness which surrounded them.
“What a pretty voice.”
“Very pretty. And such a handsome face.”
“Handsome? Deceptive. She wears a face which is not her own.”
“It is her face. He is not worn. Dead. She is dead.”
“So sad. Tragedy.”
“The forest always returns.”
“Always.”
There was three of them, their conversation flowing so fast I couldn’t track who was saying what. They spoke in horrible, rasping whispers, almost muttering as if to themselves, as if they didn’t expect anyone to hear, as if they didn’t care if they did.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
There was something deceptive about they way they moved. They jerked from place to place, fell back suddenly. Skittered across a pool of blood and then danced backwards across another. Despite their strange progress they were fast. Faster than I could run, and yet their movements never seemed more hasty than a stroll.
They were tall also. Not unnaturally so, but enough that I was looking up at them by the time they drew near. They’d stopped right next to me, within the reach of my arms, and now huddled about, peering down at me.
Even now I couldn’t properly make out their faces and features. It was in part due to their skin I realized. Darker than pitch. And their eyes were like pits, like staring into the abyss which invites you to step from the edge just to see how far it really goes.
And then their clothing was white. Suddenly without warning I could make out their forms—humans for sure. Or creatures wearing human flesh—The cloth was white and had always been so, yet it was only now the shadows had retreated that I could tell.
“Strange.”
“So young.”
“Too young.”
“Agreed. Whose face is it you wear boy?”
The last was addressed at me. It was like being in the centre of a storm with words swirling all about.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I replied. My grip tightened on my spellbook and forced myself not to take a step back. They were unnerving me, but I’d no doubt I’d be in more danger if I showed it.
“Do not play the fool. Your face is clearly no your own. You have two, one for you, one for her. This is neither.”
“He doesn’t know!”
The one who had been addressing me turned to his companion, “Doesn’t know? How can he not know?”
The third replied, “She sleeps still. He tells the truth. Look at his mind. He’s carved the Magi’s marks there. He cannot lie.”
Elves. I had to be dealing with elves. No other creature wielded that kind of power without using it for more destructive purposes.
There questions raced through my mind, but I didn’t dare ask any of them.
They answered them any way. Taking turns one after the other. Round and round and round.
“Yes yes. Dark elves.”
“Elves of the dark.”
“Evil? No no no. Who has the time?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Depends.”
“On the season.”
“On my mood.”
“On the source of my ire.”
“She is the one who slumbers.”
“The one who waits.”
“The dead who shall forever be.”
“Dead.”
“Yes.”
“The one in the mirror? No.”
“An illusion.”
“The one who slumbers is real.”
“Dead,” one said shaking his head.
“Not dead,” another replied. Nodding.
“Exactly,” Concluded the third before his partner launched into his next thought.
“There is no returning to who you were.”
“Never.”
“Masks worn cannot be unworn.”
“Careful with the masks you choo-”
I stepped back and raised up my hands. I needed space to think, “Hold it!”
The three fell silently instantly, eyes on my hands. I was still holding my sabre and spellbook I realized. I lowered them, hoping I hadn’t incited the elves. Dark elves. Whatever those were. I’d not heard of them before. I’d heard of the black elves and the brown elves, but I’d always been told that was simply a term some used for dwarves. Maybe the dwarves themselves. But these clearly weren’t dwarves. They were far too human in appearance and inhuman in everything else.
“I... what happened here? What is with all the blood?”
The middle elf’s eyes slowly moved from my lowered hand to my own. The abyss of his gaze tore at mine causing me to sway. I blinked and looked away. I was involuntarily leaning forward I realized, pulled into that endless pit.
“Our companions.”
“Companions. Yes.”
“Seven.”
“Seven no more.”
“Three.”
“Dead and dying.”
“Dead now.”
“Dea-”
I took another step back. They’d shuffled closer while talking. I no longer cared as much about appearances as I did personal space.
“Please,” I interrupted, “just one of you reply.”
Three sets of eyes locked on my own. The ferocity almost brought me to my knees.
“Speak then,” the one on the left rasped, “and I will answer alone.”
“I... your companions are dead? Injured?”
Something changed in reply. Either my eyes adjusted—learned what to look for—or their glamours fell. All three of them were injured. Two them quite badly so. Their white robes were stained red with blood, and open wounds still wept blood along their faces and arms. One of them was missing an ear.
“Yes,” the left one whispered, “Died in an explosion.”
All three of their gazes had wondered while I’d talked, but the moment the words left his mouth all three locked on me once more. There was anger there now.
“An explosion.”
“The ritual ended.”
“The mountain woke.”
“Spoke.”
“And they died.”
“Death from afar.”
“Blood on your hands.”
“Clean hands.”
The other two fell silent as suddenly as they’d started speaking again, and their gazes wandered to their speaker. He was still staring at me as though his regard alone could kill.
Perhaps it could.
“I... regret the death of your companions. If you wish, I will do my best to treat and tend your wounds. I have an ointment which might ward of infection.”
I took a deep breath. Then I leapt into the metaphorical abyss before me. I continued, “However, I will not take the blame for what happened to them. I did not intend to harm anyone with my actions. The volcano killed them. A volcano I was not aware existed. Even the warlocks can not be considered to be truly at fault here. as much as I wish to blame them. An accident. A tragedy on all sides with no one to blame.”
“Disturb not which you do not understand. Thus spoke your elders to you. Thus all creatures have been warned. You broke the peace which you should have let lie.”
“Even so.”
The room was spinning. A whirlpool centred on the dark elf, sucking everything down into his depths. The air itself trembled in fear at the elf’s anger.
“Even so,” the elf replied, “you bear no guilt. And yet, we must seek retribution.”
I was far from helpless. Even against ones such as elves I stood a chance. Dark elves would presumably be similar. A few fireballs and a-
Fireball II
The fireball appeared directly between myself and the elves, instantly scorching all four of us.
There was no helping it now. I didn’t want to fight these creatures, and their punishment may have been acceptable and just, but my fireball had decided it for me. I couldn’t take the chance they’d forgive my mistake.
The elves fell back instantly, flowing sinuously like shadows from the area of immediate danger. I matched them, in speed if not grace. My chest burned and my eyes watered from the pain of doing so. I sent my swords towards the two elves on my flanks before the pain caused me to pass out, trying to buy myself some time. I summoned a second pair to halt the advance of the elf in the middle.
Magic Swords II
Lesser Heal. Lesser Heal II. Lesser Heal III. Lesser Heal IIII. My vision cleared instantly, the pain from the flames vanished, and the pain in my chest dimmed. Strength began creeping into my limbs. I didn’t have an hour to risk recording my spells, and sunrise could happen at any time. A quick scribble with saliva on parchment would have to do.
Lesser Heal V: The caster’s body heals fifteen hours’ worth of injuries over the course of an hour.
The sun rose as I finished the final stroke of my rune. I’d not had a single second to spare.
The rising sun had brought me to the height of my power and the dark elves were injured. I could win this.
Fireball II
I cast the spell willingly this time, removing it from my head before it caused me more problems. I’d have erased the rune entire if I could have, even mid combat.
Four swords and two balls of fire homed in on the elves while my lights spread out in a wide net around our impromptu battlefield. Around the battlefield. All battlefields were impromptu. Otherwise they were an arena.
The dark elf directly in front of me jittered both left and right at the same time, weaving impossibly between my invisible blades. Before my fireball could stop him he raised his hands and tendrils of shadow engulfed it, extinguishing its flame like a candle.
The one on my right did much the same, minus the destruction of my remaining fireball. Instead he spun around and under it, ending up between the fireball and myself. It put me in danger, but it put him in more. His companion on the left handily avoided my sword at the same time.
That was fine. I had more.
Magic Swords II
Magic Swords III
Magi were not cheap conjurers nor mere users of magic. What separated rude practitioners from one of the wise was our training. Flipping pages with a single hand. Aiming for a specific page. Sorting hundreds of spells and their locations in your head. All were second nature.
Fireball
True Teleport
From swords to fireballs, then I teleported behind the dark elves, rotating as I did so to throw them off track. I ended the spell after a split second, a mere ten or so feet from where I’d started. The elves reacted almost instantly, but almost wasn’t fast enough.
All the while I’d been recording.
Sword Storm: Six invisible blades dance and strike with the base force of 484 lbs. One for half an hour, Three for 45 minutes, and two more for an hour. A fireball appears in the centre. Two lights, bright as candles, swirl about them, rising into existence just before the blade appears for the first time and dying an hour after it vanishes. Two more lights join in at the end of the first hour, and end an hour after the first lights fade, providing 3 hours of light total. All move independently following the whims of their master.
Sword Storm
Sixteen blades and three fireballs descended on the elves, swirling about them in an ever shrinking vortex. The elf who had extinguished my first fireball reached out to the second and nearly lost his fingers to a blade for his trouble. He twisted free heroically, weaving past the blurring blades in the only possible path to safety, one which left him sprawled on the ground.
My blades took one of the more injured elves while his companion managed to stay ahead of them, dancing through them like they were ribbons at a wedding festival.
I wasn’t done.
BiteII
PushII
Unlike my other spells, there was no escaping BiteII. I struck at the throat of the elf on the ground. He died as PushII sent his remaining companion into my magic swords.
Except...
It didn’t.
Even as my spell lifted him off the ground his foot struck backwards behind him, finding the flat of one of my invisible blades and using the momentum of the push to launch himself off and over the advancing wall of death. His body went parallel to the floor for a moment as he squeezed between swords and ceiling, then angled down into a dive, rolling as he landed and surging to his feet.
It was impossible. And beautiful. And tragic. My push spell hadn’t ended, and neither had my swords.
But the dark elf wasn't done.
A sword appeared in his hand, one wrought from shadows. He blocked my first strike, and deflected the second, each sending him skittering back another dozen feet. The combined force of my spells was too much even for his strength and magic.
He knew it too. The decision was instant, again too fast for me to react. He leapt into the air, letting my spell carry him back as he sighted and threw. His sword sprung from his fingers as if shot from a bow. My swords were too slow to stop it, his supernatural aim allowing him to thread the needle between them.
It wasn't enough.
Even an elf had limits.
The blade sunk into the wall behind me. A moment later a hank of hair from above my right ear drifted gently to the ground. He’d missed.
The elf was dead before he landed.