The mushroom man did not move a muscle, or anything else, for that matter.

Oak was not an expert on mushroom monster anatomy, but he would have expected at least some kind of reaction from the thing when he set its brown face on fire.

“It is already dead, as in, it is a corpse.” Ur-Namma sighed. The ceiling above them all flashed and a torrent of rain fell on them and the flaming mushroom. The elf gave Oak a withering glare. “Are you done?”

Oak rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “I didn’t notice, all right. I just acted.”

“I can see that. I can feel it too.“ Ur-Namma hissed. He looked at his wet robes like one might look at a dead puppy and trudged on, slime squishing between his toes.

Geezer shook himself dry, spraying water everywhere for good measure.

“I’m sorry, okay,” Oak whispered. “I fucked up.”

“I know. For what it's worth, I’m sorry too, for losing my temper,” Ur-Namma said. “I’m a bit on edge here.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Oak said. “I almost killed you yesterday, so I can’t complain.”

They left the sitting corpse of a charred showroom behind them and kept walking. Oak was a bit on edge himself now, and he tried to listen for any sign of movement as they made their way through the mushroom farm. Every hallway crossing was a harrowing experience and, at every point, Oak expected something to go wrong, but nothing did. No monster assailed them from the fog.

Silence stretched between the three of them and no one was inclined to break it, lest something stalking in the shadows of the farm heard them. They had to be close to the middle of the massive library hall when they heard the screaming.

“That has to be a dwarf, right?” Oak asked. The screams barely pierced the muted atmosphere, but they were clearly coming from the center of the hall.

“Sounds like it to me,” Ur-Namma whispered. “We should have a look, but let's not get too close.”

***

Oak, Geezer and Ur-Namma poked their heads from behind the cover of a bookshelf overgrown with mushrooms, and examined the strange scene before them.

The center of the hall had been cleared, and now it housed a small square. In the middle of that square was a fire, crackling along merrily, unbothered by the enchanted ceiling above. The moving flame made shadows dance on the filthy stone floor, which was covered in wooden detritus, discarded weapons and bones of the former denizens of The City of God.

There were three figures in the square. A short and stocky male dwarf, dressed in a fine black coat and leather boots that were too big for his feet, was holding an iron poker in the fire and cackling. Behind him was another male dwarf, nailed to a cross.

The dwarf on the cross was quite fat, and he had a huge nose and a long, unkempt beard. He was almost completely naked, and horrific burns wracked his body. The dwarf in the black coat lifted the hot iron from the fire and pressed it against his victim's stomach. Flesh sizzled.

The dwarf on the cross let out a sound that began as a scream of pain and morphed into hysterical laughter as it went on. Oak was transfixed. He could not bear to look at it and yet he could not look away either. Finally, the torturer pulled the hot iron away, and the dwarf nailed to the cross let out a wheezing breath, gasping for air.

“What is good for the goose is good for the gander,” the fat dwarf on the cross said.

“Oh, that is right. So right,” the dwarf with the poker said and put it back in the fire. “Should I do it? Should I?”

“Yes. Yes, yes!” a shrill voice shouted. A young looking female dwarf dressed in a light blue frilly dress clapped her hands together excitedly. She had a cute button nose, and she was sitting on a box, watching the torture with rapt attention.

When the torturer judged that the poker was sufficiently hot, he lifted the glowing metal from the fire. Slowly, almost lovingly, the dwarf aimed it at his own eye and stabbed. The screams which followed were horrific.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

It was too much. Oak looked away. He felt like throwing up. Even now, his boon still painted a rough version of the scene of madness to his mind and he heard all of it. He heard it, as the dwarf's eye popped and the liquid inside was turned into steam. He heard the dwarf’s screams turn into gurgles and he heard the clang as the poker dropped to the stone floor.

By Ashmadei’s lance. By the Corpse in the Highest Heaven. What the fuck is this?

Oak spared a glance towards his companions. All color had left Ur-Namma’s face. The elf was holding onto the bookshelf, heedless of the mold and grime staining his hands. Geezer’s tail was between his legs and the hellhound was backing away, ears flat against his skull.

The dwarf who had just stabbed a hot iron through his own eye dropped to his knees, panting for breath.

The child clapped her hands together again, and shouted: “Good show, very good show indeed, sir Kallik!”

“Yes. Impressive,” the dwarf on the cross said. “Almost sublime.”

“Almost sublime? Almost!” Kallik roared. “I put out my eye, you old fuck and you call that almost sublime? It was a masterpiece, that’s what that was!”

“Well, it was great, don’t get me wrong, Kallik,” the dwarf on the cross said. “The scream was amateurish, but other than that, it was perfect, really. What do you say, young Yura?”

The child, who presumably was Yura, tapped her chin. “I guess you are right, Toklo. The scream had an amateurish feel to it,” she said.

“Amateurish. Amateurish! You know what, Toklo. I think you need some time with the hot iron. Maybe you’ll appreciate my art more afterwards,” Kallik said, and shoved the poker back into the fire. Mad giggles and drool spilled from his lips.

When Oak thought back to that moment, he could not remember which of them had backed away first, but as Kallik pulled the glowing iron from the fire and started aiming it at Toklo’s right eye, Ur-Namma and Oak turned around and fled. That was the truth of it. He sneaked away, heart pounding and shivers going down his spine.

For a long time, they walked in the shadows of the shelves, and no one said a thing. Oak kept running what he had seen through his head and every time he ended in the same place. On that square, right now, was a dwarf child. The pace of his walking slowed down every time that thought landed in his head, and his hand twitched towards the falchion on his hip, but he just kept walking.

He just kept walking.

It felt like an age had passed by the time they reached the stairs on the other side of the hall. Oak looked at the stairs, but he felt no relief or excitement. A child, Oak thought. A child. He let out a shaky sigh and took the first step up the stairs. Ur-Namma grabbed his hand.

“I can’t bear it, Oak,” Ur-Namma said. His hand was sweaty, and it gripped Oak’s arm like a claw. “I’m sorry, but if I climb up those stairs, I will shatter to pieces.”

Oak looked Ur-Namma in the eye. “It’s the child, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ur-Namma said.

“It is a risk. We could just keep going and head for the vault,” Oak said. He felt like he was standing on a ledge in front of a great fall, looking down at the rocky ground below. There was a wind at his back, whispering in his ear. It told him to jump.

“I know. Believe me, I know. Vengeance fuels me. But that is not all that I am. Please,” Ur-Namma begged.

Of all the things we could run into, we had to run into a child. As was often the case, when he could not figure out the right course of action, Oak’s thoughts turned to his father. What would the old man have done in my position? He turned the thought around and around inside his head until he found the answer waiting in his heart. It had been there all along.

Oak closed his eyes and thought of the summers of his childhood. Gone were the days of innocent joy and yet he could remember how the sun had warmed his face. Is a thing lost if you could still feel the echo of it?

“You know what? I wished you would say something like that,” Oak said, and turned around. “We are going back.”

Ur-Namma bowed his head in thanks. “I am honored to call you a friend. I’m not much of a fighter at the moment, so it falls on you and Geezer to get it done. Do you understand what I am asking you to do?”

“Yeah. I understand,” Oak said and cracked his neck. “Let's get to it. As my old man used to say, indecision and delay are the parents of failure.”

“Quite a man, that father of yours, wasn’t he,” Ur-Namma muttered.

“The best. He had a way with words. Always knew what to say and who to say it to,” Oak said. “Can’t say I inherited that gift. But I guess there is nothing special about that. In their own way, all men live in their father's shadow.”

“I never had a father, so I can’t comment on that. A rare occasion where I must trust your expertise,” Ur-Namma said.

“Hah. I’ll try not to get used to it,” Oak said, and started walking back towards the square in the middle of the hall. Ur-Namma and Geezer followed at his heels and soon the three of them vanished among the misty corridors of the mushroom farm.