by Garon Whited
Her legs are back in shape. The color is looking good; not quite perfect, but not bad. The craters in her body are now just large dents, and the missing ear is starting to re-form.
She’s not a hundred percent, but she feels that everything wrong is merely cosmetic. I agree, but I still don’t like the cosmetic problems. It’s like taking your car into the garage for some powertrain work and finding a scrape all the way down one side. I do not like seeing her marred, scarred, and battered.
One good thing, though, is that she’s finished the complete saddle and stirrup arrangement. It looks as though the sculptor included them deliberately. So there’s a small plus against the big minus.
I’ll be interrogating my elf-sausages when Tort gets here. I just hope she doesn’t think any less of me when I get unpleasant with them. I know something about how these creatures think. They respect power and ruthlessness and the willingness to use power to dominate others. I intend to give them every chance to recognize that I have power, and to assume both my ruthlessness and willingness to use that power on them.
I’m not sure I can keep up that kind of façade for long. Then again, maybe I should have Bronze in the room with me. If I start to go all soft and wishy-washy, I can look at the lump that isn’t yet an ear. That will remind me of why I’m doing it.
While waiting for Tort, I’ve taken the opportunity to have a little sit-down in my headspace and sort out my mental study. The butler-me has managed to tidy everything up, and we worked together to deal with the recent mess from the deceased army. There wasn’t much to that; everything they knew usually had something similar already on file.
On the other hand, they did leave behind some remnants. Language, for one. I’m pretty sure I can reliably speak all of the languages used under the Eastrange. I’m also dead sure about their cultural tendency to respect power. They also all have—had—an awareness that they were serving the Dark Queen of Vathula, the self-styled Empress of the Undermountains. I got the impression she was overestimating her domain a bit, either because she hadn’t actually brought the whole thing under her rule, or because some of her subjects weren’t too well-behaved as subjects. Maybe both. There was definitely a lot of conflict still going on down there.
There’s also a feeling that I get about their sudden desire to surrender to me. It was more than just the realization that they were trapped and divided up into bite-sized pieces. I had, somehow, managed to get the very rock and stone of the mountain to obey me. For races of people who live much of their lives underground, that’s like having the sky as your personal friend, complete with lightning, whirlwind, and meteorite hail. If I had opened chasms all around the army and caused walls of fire the shoot up from the earth, that would have made almost as much of an impression.
Having a mountain that does what I tell it to is apparently a pants-wettingly terrifying thing to them. It’s something that makes knees go weak and hearts start to flip-flop. They already think of nightlords as quasi-deific—a sort of low-grade angels of darkness, perhaps—but this kind of thing is worthy of at least demigod status, possibly full-on god-mode.
Strangely, I have no qualms whatsoever about impersonating a god insofar as those races are concerned. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but I just don’t like them very much.
Still, it’s a pity I can only do it at my mountain. That sort of intimidation could be useful if I have to go down into the Eastrange.
Anyway, we have my headspace organized and looking almost tidy. That seems wrong, somehow. I never think of my own mind as an orderly place; I always picture it as having scattered notes everywhere.
Although, to be fair, I do have a full tray on my desk with a “To Do” label on it.
“Good work,” I told my butler-ish persona.
“Thank you. It is a pleasure to have something clearly necessary to do.”
“Er, yes. I suppose so. Is there anything else that is… clearly necessary to do?”
“Not in here, sir. Therefore, if you will excuse me, it is now time for me to return to the basement of your subconscious mind.”
“Ah. Of course,” I agreed, dreading it. Tort might be right about this sort of thing being a quick route to crazytown. I might have to consider turning that door into floor again.
We set ourselves to make it as quick and possible. Having a door to my subconscious is a useful but dangerous thing. Having it open appears to be extremely dangerous. I have a number of personal issues and a lot of repressed anger, guilt, and other unpleasantness.
I whipped the door open; he dove forward into the things on the stairs. They had simply camped out on the stairs and waited, the clever things. The butler landed on some of them, dislodging a few and disrupting the balance of others. One, lying low at the very top, lashed out and grabbed me by an ankle with its tentacle.
I kept my foot planted, resisting the pull. Using the trapdoor itself, I slammed it down on the thing’s head and tentacle, twice. It let go with a wail and withdrew; I slammed the trapdoor completely shut and bolted it again.
The wailing and snarling seemed very loud. I stayed on top of the trapdoor for quite a while as they slowly quieted.
With my head in good order—or as good as it was likely to get—I started reviewing everything I knew about nightlords, vampirism, and the creation and control of my kind. I also looked up everything I didn’t know I knew on souls, both containing them and handling them.
I’ve got two big projects in mind. One for dealing with the Empire of the Eastrange, the other for T’yl.
I started to make some arrangements in my shrine, but found that it was in use. Quite a lot of people made it a point to spend time there, which kind of eliminated it as a room for experiments. Ah, well. There are lots of other rooms, but I decided my second choice would be the gate room. I could leave some of my captives wired into the gate, others into the scrying shield… maybe I could connect some of them to a lighting spell? Now there’s an idea!
Down in the gate room, in addition to the niches I wanted, I noticed a couple of changes. The pool was still just a round pool, but now full of water. That was fine and dandy. The arch, however, was no longer in the wall. The wall had retracted from it, flowing back and away, leaving it a free-standing arch of what looked like intertwined, mirrored wire.
It looked like the Great Arch of Zirafel. I suppose that shouldn’t be surprising; I drew rather heavily on the knowledge from Zirafel when I made it. I just wasn’t sure why the mountain didn’t want to touch it. Was it unstable? Or alive? Or was it just a bad idea to turn it on while it was embedded in the rock?
Whatever the reason, I wasn’t going to argue with the mountain. I started stowing my prisoners more securely.
Alcoves had already formed in the walls. They were sized for the various types of prisoners. I un-sausaged the elves and moved each one into a niche. Some work with the stone made it flow over them, mummifying them, cocooning them in rock. It was like dunking them, naked, in cement. Naturally, I left some openings; they had to eat, drink, breathe, and excrete. With their arms down and to either side, in the rock, I had a hole develop down to their wrists; you never know when you’ll need to get blood out of the stoned.
I repeated the process for the orku and galgar prisoners. It took a while.
Then I unhooked Zaraneth from the vitality siphon and waited for him to recuperate from exhaustion to consciousness. When he woke, his eyes moved all around because his head was held firmly. He took in his situation and said nothing.
I didn’t say anything, either. I just held up a bowl of soup and a reed straw. He drank it without comment. I set the empty bowl in the niche underneath him and explained things.
“I’m not as angry as I was,” I began. “I’m still angry enough that I might kill you out of hand and use someone else if you give me any hint of a reason. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I liked that. Nothing but a straight, simple answer. Nobody ever accused elves of being stupid. Sadistic, cruel
, and callous, yes, but not stupid.
“In a little while, I’m going to ask you questions. You’re going to give me answers. I’m going to put you back to sleep and then ask the same questions of everyone else here. Anytime I get answers that don’t match, I will use unpleasant methods to determine the truth. If that uses up some of you, I don’t mind. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” If he was frightened, he hid it well. On the other hand, his simple, direct answers seemed to indicate that he understood just how awful things were; he had no desire to see how awful they could get.
Which, come to think of it, was still pretty damn awful. I was still carrying around a lot of animosity.
“Good. Are you still hungry?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see to it. Do you have any requests or questions at this time?”
“Is it possible that I will survive this?”
I stroked my chin and thought. He didn’t ask if it was likely, just if it was possible.
“What do you mean by ‘survive this’?” I asked. He didn’t seem to like that I needed him to clarify his question.
“Will I live?”
“It’s possible,” I admitted. “The odds depend on your answers—not on whether you tell me the truth, but on what the truth is. It won’t take much to make me… well, you know.
“Although,” I added, “not telling me the truth will definitely result in your body being used in experiments involving the reanimation of corpses. Also… do elves have souls? Well, whatever you use for a soul is likely to suffer for quite a long time.”
“I understand.” His voice trembled, but his expression was carefully neutral.
“Good. Anything else?”
“Is there anything I can do to enhance my chances of survival?”
“Cooperate as fully as you are capable. Until I finish my interrogations, I’m not sure what else I want from you.”
“I understand.”
“Then it’s time for you to sleep. We’ll talk more later.”
I re-engaged the life siphon and he faded away, struggling for consciousness the whole time. I don’t think he expected to wake up. I kept the siphon running at a higher-than-normal level until I was sure he was well and truly out.
I had a grand total of fifteen elf captives; I repeated the process on each. Why not? I need practice intimidating people. Their reactions were similar in that they all agreed to be good little captives on pain of horrible, gruesome, prolonged, eventual death. Salishar, in particular, was quite composed during the conversation, aside from a constant stream of tears, which we both ignored. I almost pitied her, but, somehow, didn’t quite manage it.
Eventually, we got the slumber party back into full swing. With rations arranged for later in the evening, I started some other experiments with my orku and galgar captives.
I once read a very informative document about vampirism, back when I was studying in Sasha’s library. It did not give as many details as it might about the exact nature of different processes and transformations; it was more of a how-to manual—or a how-not-to, if you were trying to avoid being an undead creator—than a scientific paper.
The orku and galgar were my test subjects. My plan was to make vampires out of all of them, or try to, in every type of circumstance and process I could imagine. Plus a couple of other unpleasant experiments that might prove useful.
Wednesday, May 19th
Tort arrived early this morning, before sunrise. I expected her later in the morning, but was pleased she arrived so quickly. She let me know she was outside my chambers; I realized that I probably needed to install some sort of system like a doorbell. Knocking on a ton of rock doesn’t really work. Maybe if the mountain makes a small hole, we can feed a cord through it and mount a bell on the wall.
Yes, I can put a spell on my door. I’m thinking in larger scales, here. What could we do that would work for everybody? Although, come to think of it, a spell to act like a doorbell wouldn’t be at all complicated. Anyone capable of counting past ten without taking off his shoes could probably manage it. I’ll think about it some more.
I let Tort in and she immediately hugged me. She was dressed in an embroidered gown of dark red; it was tight around the hips and cut rather low in the front. She looked amazingly good in it. I hugged her in return, of course. She seemed awfully glad to see me.
When she let go, she gestured to her companions. They hauled in several sacks and boxes and a couple of large chests. They set it all down, bowed, and left when she dismissed them. I noted that more than one sack clanked.
I shut the door behind them. Once we were alone, she took a moment to subject me to intense scrutiny.
“You are unharmed, my angel?” she asked.
“I am now,” I agreed. I held up my left hand, still missing some armor. Kavel was working on replacement parts. “There were some injuries, but they were all nighttime things. Bronze had it harder.”
“She is recovered?”
“Almost. She’s happy with her progress; I’m annoyed at the necessity.”
“I imagine. I have brought the things you have requested, and I bear messages, as well.”
I started going through a sack of the right shape, hunting for Kelvin’s old sword.
“Oh? Like what?”
“Amber wishes to discuss with you your views on immigration, as well as the movement of people from Mochara to Karvalen.”
“I’m not looking forward to that. Does she still think of herself as the ruling Princess of Mochara?”
“I believe so.”
“Great. What else?”
“A man named Flim has sent word that he is feeling well, but is not yet strong enough to travel all the way to Karvalen.”
“Ah. Thanks. I’ll stop by and see him.”
“There is also a length of stone that extends from the western wall, by the coast, and grows daily toward the Eastrange.”
“Good.”
“This is your doing?” she asked, with a tone of one who wants to make sure of the facts.
“I had a hand in it, yes. I want it to keep going.”
“Very well. There is also some sort of change coming over the canal spillway. It appears to be changing shape, and the current in the canal is rising.”
“Hmm. At a guess, it’s being prepared for a water wheel. I don’t remember if I mentioned that idea to the mountain or if it just picked up on it. I was thinking of building a mill there and using the canal water to turn it.”
“I will see to it that no one interferes, then.”
“Thank you. And did you remember T’yl?”
She produced a wooden case from one of the chests. Inside, fitted into a padded niche, was his crystal.
“He is here. May I ask why I have brought him?”
“Sweetie, you can ask me anything you want,” I told her. “I may not be able to explain what I’m doing or why I’m doing it, because I might not understand it too well, myself, but you—you—can always ask.” Tort blushed hard enough that I thought her ears might catch fire. I found Kelvin’s sword and sat down to consider the magic already in it.
“Thank you, my angel.”
“And, in answer to your question, I think I have a way to make him alive again.”
“You what?”
I looked up from the sword. Tort’s eyes were huge. All the blood drained from her face so quickly I thought she might faint. She stared at me with openmouthed amazement.
Ha. Take that, Linnaeus. A thousand of your legendary lies, and I can still surprise people!
“Yep. I figure I can take the soul out of someone’s body, then put another one in it. I’ve tried something like it between a couple of galgar and orku, and it seems to work. They screamed a lot when they finally opened their eyes, of course, but I think that’s mainly from realizing what happened.”
Tort sat down heavily.
“I suppose,” she said, slowly, “that this is only to be expected.”
“How
so?”
“You are a nightlord. You can take souls from the flesh and send them on. Why not take them from one flesh and put them in another? Upon reflection, it does not seem impossible, or even unlikely. There is… a certain logic to it, I suppose. Yes.”
“I thought so,” I agreed. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, and repeated it more strongly. “Yes, my angel. Of course. It was merely the surprise at the thought of you holding the power to undo the doom of death. I had only thought of you as a door that led in one direction, not both.”
“Doors usually work both ways,” I pointed out. “To be fair, I only think I can do this with people who are still alive. In T’yl’s case, he’s still right here. I’m not sure it would work if we called him up from the netherworld. But I have a different project that needs your particular expertise,” I told her. Her demeanor brightened immediately.
“How may I be of service?”
“I have some elf captives. I intend to interrogate them, and I’m just pissed off enough to handle it myself. I’d like you there to watch what goes on, check their honesty, and keep me from losing my temper.”
“I do not think I can keep you from losing your temper,” she advised. “Anything that pushes you to that point probably deserves what it is about to receive.”
“But you can tell me when I’m starting to get to that point,” I countered. “I’ll understand, though, if you’re not comfortable watching me be an evil bastard.” A thought occurred to me. “Or if you’re not comfortable being too near me when I might get a bit more angry than is safe,” I added.
“These elves… they are part of the force that invaded?”
“Yes.”
“I am quite comfortable with it, my angel.”
“I’m not sure I’m pleased about that,” I admitted. “At any rate, let me give you the details on what happened…”
I entered the great hall at noon. A massed body of men formed ranks and came to attention, drew salvaged swords and saluted. I’ve been trying to impress on them that a member of the military is a special class of citizen. Kneeling and doing that fist-on-floor genuflection is all right, I suppose, but soldiers salute; they don’t genuflect. They’re getting it, mostly, and Kelvin has helped pound in the protocol.