The room the dark elves had come from had a religious feel to it. The room was centred around a fountain of crystalline water which sat on the side of the room which had exploded in the volcanic eruption. The ceiling rose up around it, high and vaulted, with its peak directly above the fountain rather than the centre of the room. Gold coins, gems, spices, and rare goods were arranged in ever widening mandalas which rippled out from the fountain in waves. The effect was more than aesthetic. There was a strong sense of esoteric about it as well. A sense of ritual not in the magical sense, but the traditional. Even the explosion had not disturbed the intricate patterns, suggesting the elves had rebuilt it after everything had been scattered.

After they’d finished tending to the dead.

Four elves lay in front of the fountain. Their hands had been clasped over their chests and veils had been placed over their faces. The veils were now soaked with blood, both from the dead, and–judging by the bloody handprints—by the wounded who had laid them to rest.

The wounded who were now dead by my hand.

Treasures abounded in the room. Not just ones of simple avarice. Items which suggested magic powers. Items which would help me on my journey. I wondered what sort of person I’d be if I took them.

I’d taken from the dead before. This was different. This was more akin to robbing a grave. Even when I’d eaten the dryad I’d not disturbed her rightful place of rest. Perhaps I was already the worse sort of grave robber, one who’d eaten the dead, but an act of desperation felt different than one of cold deliberation.

I had not sought their deaths, but I had caused them through my carelessness. No—my ignorance. No amount of care could divine the unknowable future.

The mercenaries had had their reasons. As had the goblins. By the bark of the blessed birch so had the warlocks. I knew that, both now and then, and I’d killed them anyway. Everyone had their reasons. That did not excuse a thing they’d done.

But these elves I’d killed without seeking their deaths. I owed them. I’d not disturb their bodies. I’d not violate their rituals. I could do little for their companions. The wounds to my chest were still too severe to be moving bodies or performing last rites, but they too I’d leave alone. There had been no enmity between us. Merely a series of tragic accidents.

***

Three paths were available to me here. One was heading back the way I’d came which I quickly discarded. That could wait. Of the two remaining, one was an archway leading out of the first room I’d fought the elves in, and the other was a wooden portcullis.

While I had sixteen blades at my beck and call, I’d take the harder paths. What was more, I’d destroy the obstacles in my way without regard for the noise I may cause. Let the dangers come while my spells remained. Even another toad-dragon would quickly fall to my spells.

The portcullis went down in seconds. I swept the wreckage free with the same swords which had caused it and followed them down into the... I wasn’t sure what to call it.

And explosion had impacted in what appeared to have been an intersection of parallel rooms and hallways. Three, maybe four walls had collapsed entirely, and large cracks twice the width of my shoulders shot through another.

It was a wonder the ceiling hadn’t collapsed.

The whole thing totalled (as best as I could figure) to instant access to three different rooms and two hallways. One caught my eye above the others.

A series of ropes and pulleys disappearing up into the ceiling, and descending down to a wooden platform in the centre of the room to my left. An elevator leading back up. Or perhaps even further. The rift would have prevented it from exiting the dungeon even that had once been its purpose, but it would at least give me a better idea of what floor I was on.

I stepped on board and released (ow) the counter weight.

Gears kicked into motion. Something thudded (cliffs fall into the sea!) something spun, and the platform slowly began to ascended.

***

The journey was uneventful. Boring even. There was nothing in sight but the pulleys and gears of the shaft itself and the rough hewn walls which housed it. It had been carved straight from the rock of the mountain, with little effort to smooth the stone or conceal that fact. Even dark magic had its limits.

The top of the lift was its first and only stop. I reset the brake (frozen forest!) and disembarked.

Someone was waiting for me at the top. Several someones in fact. Nine of them.

They were surrounding the shaft with weapons drawn and raised high. I interceded my blades between each weapon and my vulnerable flesh. That left me with seven to spare which I distributed evenly among the room. I’d left the fireballs below, for fear of setting the shaft alight.

“Back the way you came creature! We’ve no need for elves in the dungeon.”

The man who had spoken had red hair and copper robes. They went quite well with his bright hazel eyes, but the my predisposition was somewhat offset by the large iron-capped quarterstaff he was waving in my face.

It was at that moment the sun rose.

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I relaxed, releasing a tension I didn’t know I’d been carrying. Having my magic swords out and ready was one thing, but the true power and safety of my magic was in its flexibility. Another way to put it, as my master had all those years ago, was that the power of the Magi was in not casting spells.

The red head must have noticed my lack of fear, for he started waving his staff even more fiercely.

“I said back! Say one word and I’ll end your miserable life.”

The staff worried me less than the lack of armour. He may have been a monk, but it also suggested he might be a magician or warlock. I shifted two of my free blades to cover him. Then I sent the remaining five to cover the open archway I’d spotted to my left.

True Teleport

The spell vanished at the same time I did. I returned on the far side of the doorway with a curse. I’d been getting far too blasé about risking my spells. The fight with the dark elves had nearly convinced me I couldn’t lose them anymore.

Shouts of fear and confusion heralded my return. One of the fools had cut themselves on my invisible blades. Judging by the screams it was the red head himself. Good.

“I come and go where I please,” I retorted. It took every fibre of willpower I had left to resist adding “mortal” to the end of the statement. I was getting sick of being mistaken for one of the fair folk, but I didn’t need to add to the confusion as part of some petty revenge, “prevent my passage at your peril.”

Slide into the sea! That alliteration hadn’t been on purpose. It wasn’t going to help my elfin reputation.

A woman with a face nearly as round as the head of her flail spoke up. Shouted really. She didn’t seem the sort to speak diffidently. Bulging eyes and an unfortunate twist to her mouth spoke of a life spent in rage, “Do you know who we serve? The warlocks will have your head!”

Mercenaries then. Ones still in the happy employ of the warlocks.

Eight out of nine faces paled as they saw my change in expression. The remainder was still blinded by her self-righteousness. “That’s right! The warlocks. No more will you lure innocents beneath your hills. No more will you wonder wither you may. The warlocks will flatten your hills. Put you in chains. Wreak upon you every just cruelty you have afforded others. Justice is especially sweet delivered to those who believe themselves untouchable.”

She paused to draw a shaking breath. Another of her companions attempted to intercede.

“Elyn, I think you should—”

She spoke over him, hushing him with an angry gesture of her hand, “But we are not cruel people. As deserved as it may be, submit to us now, and we may ask that the warlocks grant you mercy.”

Something snapped. My vision. My hearing. The air and the lights themselves. I couldn’t tell. It was like a pulse filled my being. There were screams. Then there were whimpers. The whimpers lasted a long time. Nine bodies lay about my feet. I barely registered them over the thumping of my heart. The white sparks in my eyes. The pink haze which settled about me.

Magicians were dangerous. Closer to sorcerers than warlocks. Unlike sorcerers they bound themselves to others rather than binding others to themselves. Oath makers as opposed to the warlock’s oath breaker. The opposite of warlocks in many ways, but similar in a deadly few. Practitioners of dark magic. Oath makers instead of breakers.

Had a given him time to react he might have unleashed his demons upon me. Killing them as I had was not just vengeance, but a cruel necessity.

So I told myself.

Memories kept forcing themselves into my mind. Memories of sharp metal digging into my spine. Memories of darkness. Laughter. Hunger. Sleepless nights. Boredom induced insanity.

Too many memories to deal with right now.

I continued down the hallway I’d teleported into. I didn’t bother to search the room or their bodies. I could do that when I returned. If I returned. I needed to get away more than anything.

The hallway forked to my left. On the principle that I was presumably on the first floor, and the first floor had continually let me down when I hugged the wall, I took the fork.

It ended in an iron door set in the left-hand wall.

I ducked around a corner and sent half my blades to work, leaving the others in a field of protection about myself.

My precautions were unnecessary. Everything on this floor of the dungeon capable of investigating was either dead or smart enough to avoid investigating the sound of doors being tortured.

It took nearly ten minutes of constant attention for the screeching and wailing to come to an end. At some point in the process a trap was engaged and sparks flew around the corner, miniature suns in the low light. A ringing pinging continued on for several minutes later as whatever springs and mechanisms drove the trap broke free.

I gave the noises time to settle before popping back around the corner.

A mangled heap of metal greeted me. Tangled wires, springs, and gears all in a heap. A large scything blade with two large notches out of its base lay shattered against one wall. There must have been a discount on scythe traps when the builders were making the place.

The room beyond had partially collapsed. I was no expert by any means, but the rubble looked old. Worn. There were no raw edges. Everything was of uniform colour. It was unlikely that the volcanic eruption had caused this particular cave in.

On the wall to the left were words. The same large scrawling script I’d seen before, but still had no clue as to even the name of the language itself, let alone what any of it meant. It too was worn. The warlocks hadn’t come through here often.

A portcullis led out of the room. Beyond the portcullis lay...

Glimmering flames.

Dancing lights.

A demon with red eyes.

I slammed my own eyes shut and hastily backed out of the collapsed room. My fear lent me grace and even the tangle of metal and wires failed to slow me or cause me to stumble.

I was on the first floor. On the other side of the demon mirror’s room. Handy so long as I didn’t find myself entrapped by the mirror once more.

I returned to the fork in the corridor and took the passage to my left. I had been intent on continuing on where I had left off, but my plans were scuppered by the corridor seventy or so feet later when it took a 90◦ turn and abruptly ended.

What was more it ended not in a blank wall, but a macabre display. One I had seen before. Skeletons chained to walls with metal spikes pressing into their desiccated spines. One of the skeletons had been sawn clean in half by the blade’s edge.

Fireball II

The spell slipped free without my control, but I had been moments from summoning it myself. I set the fireball between them and let them burn.