“You’ve got to be the clumsiest dwarf I’ve ever seen in my life!” Petram got on his hands and knees and started searching the floor for what he’d stumbled on. He found it soon enough and was surprised it felt like a hinge. He started brushing away dust from the area and saw a sliver of an outline of a door. He took out his sword, stuck it in the crack and traced around it.
The trap door was small, and if there were something over it, which seemed likely, no one would notice it. With the tip lodged in front, he pushed down on the handle of his weapon and slowly the door began to rise. When there was enough room to wriggle fingers, Kiandra bent down and lifted it the rest of the way. The door fell to the side with a loud echoing boom, startling the both of them. They each looked into the opening and Kiandra was flung back by an unseen force. The light above went out, and she gave out an oomph before hitting her head on the floor, knocking herself out. Petram jumped to her side, grabbed her hand and held it, rubbing the palm with his thumb. “Kiandra!” he called, “Kiandra, wake up ye foul beast!”
Petram placed her limp hand on her chest and started lightly slapping her cheek. After a moment she let out a small moan, and sat up, rubbing the back of her head.
“What happened?” Petram asked. Kiandra could see the concern in his eyes and it almost melted the anger and resentment she’d felt all those years he’d been gone. Then she also thought of being stood up on her wedding day and the festering ill will grew again.
“Whatever is down there has more magic than our entire kingdom put together. It overwhelmed me.”
“Do ye want to wait here then?”
Kiandra shook her head and stood up. “Are you crazy? I want to see what has that much power!” Petram saw a look in her eyes that he didn’t quite like, but before he could say anything, she was heading down the stairwell, leaving Petram to catch up to her once again.
10: Body Politic
Saerus’ still stiff body was lying on Todrick’s bed, giving the mage a chance to study the protrusions without interruption as Kharisi watched on. He conjured a light no bigger than a pebble and used it to peer into the King’s eyes. He beckoned Kharisi over and told him to look.
“What am I looking at?”
“His eyes, elf, his eyes.” Kharisi leaned over and studied Saerus’ eyes. He blinked several times unsure he was actually seeing what he saw. Behind Saerus’ eyes were another set of eyes, and they were looking directly into Kharisi’s. He held the gaze until the other pair began to fade away and finally disappeared. Saerus’ body seemed to deflate a bit as the eyes wafted away.
“Another set behind his. They stared right at me.” Kharisi said, voice thick with fear and a bit of revulsion. He looked up to Todrick who nodded and walked over to a small table and chair and sat down.
“What brought about the change last night?” Todrick asked. Kharisi thought about this but hesitated in saying anything. Todrick sensing this stood up and was in front of Kharisi in a flash, right hand on the elf’s jaw in a vice-like grip.
“Do not play games elf, we have no time for modesty with a Kingdom at stake.” Kharisi’s eyes watered from the pain, and when Todrick let go, he rubbed at his face and feared there would be deep grooves where Todrick dug his fingers in. “Now what happened?”
Kharisi brushed some errant hairs back from his forehead and placed a hand over Saerus’. In spite of the frozen spell still being used, he didn’t feel it, just the stiffness of the flesh. “He talked about marriage between us, so if something should happen, he’d know the Kingdom was in good hands.”
Todrick gave a sharp, caustic laugh. “You?”
“Yes, I said the same thing about my being King.”
“You misunderstand. I’ve no issue with your ruling the Kingdom, but marriage? Impossible! Aside from your being an Elf, you’re a man.”
“And what issue is there with that?” Kharisi said in a slow measured voice, weighing each word carefully before speaking.
“What and who the King chooses to have relations with is up to him, but marriage, no, he can only marry a woman.”
“Men have married before Todrick, it’s not unheard of.”
“It is for a royal,” Todrick said, also measuring his words.
“Well, I told him no, and laughed it off. As I did the idea of being a leader, that’s when he passed out.”
Todrick said nothing, pondering what he’d been told. “It seems that whatever it is, tries to exert control when it feels threatened.”
“There was no threat to it last night. I wasn’t pushing pins into it.”
“No, not physical ones at least.”
Kharisi clucked his tongue, and looked down at Saerus’ face half expecting to see that second pair of eyes again, and feeling a bit of relief when he didn’t. “Speak true mage.”
“You said no to Saerus, which hurt every bit as the pin I used.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Kharisi said standing up. “While I said no last night, I had and have every intention of saying yes to him.”
Todrick stood, mouth agape, eyes wide, “You cannot be serious! Do you know what this would do to the country?”
Kharisi smirked, “and by my ancestor’s honor what can you do to stop me Mage?” Kharisi moved closer to Todrick, pulling a dagger from his boot, and placing it neatly and quietly between Todrick’s ribs. Blood spurted from the wound and dripped from the corners of the mage’s mouth. Kharisi grinned, felt his prick harden, and twisted the blade, feeling the metal scrape against the bone.
“Again! Again!” the voice in his head urged. Kharisi ignored it, buried it under his other thoughts and admired his handiwork.
Todrick’s eyes rolled up until nothing was left but the whites. His body went limp as he gave his last breath. Kharisi removed the blade and let the body crumble to the floor. He licked the blood from the blade and sheathed it in the top of his boot. He placed one foot on the wound and stepped down hard enough to make blood erupt like a geyser. Kharisi laughed and then turned his attention to the still slumbering, though no longer frozen Saerus.
He took Saerus’ hand, found it warm to the touch, and realized the spell had broken with the mage’s death. With the King in a simple, light slumber Kharisi set to work, creating false papers that would indicate Todrick wasn’t as faithful to the throne as he claimed. He picked up a quill, dipped it into a bottle of nearby ink and started to write on a blank piece of parchment.
Once he had finished, he set the pen down, blew on the parchment to dry the ink, and folded it in three. He placed it on the table near Todrick, and Kharisi waited for Saerus to wake up. He sat in the chair near the table and placed his feet upon the dead body as if it were nothing more than a footrest. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and gently rubbed the hard mound in his leggings.
Kharisi dozed off, hand between his legs when he awoke with a start. His breath caught in his throat and as he looked over at the bed Kharisi saw Saerus sitting up with blazing eyes focused on Kharisi.
“I saw what you did,” Saerus said in a voice not his own. Kharisi tried to speak but couldn’t. He tried to breathe but a breath would not come. He tried to move but mobility was nothing more than a fleeting memory. Saerus got out of bed, and went to the elf, picking up the letter on the table. “Did you think this would appease me? A piss poor worded piece of shit that would fool only the foulest brained of beasts?”
Kharisi continued to struggle for breath, tried to flail his arms, but only managed to let a trickle of urine run down his leg and into his boot. Saerus saw this and grimaced. He reached between Kharisi’s legs and squeezed. He tried to cry out from the pain, as he felt his balls about to be crushed, yet before he could feel their demise, blackness washed over him and the pain he felt was no more.
11: Druid, Scryer, Teacher. Flyer
Da’Nel stirred the cooling embers of the fire with a stick while looking for any errant sparks. Satisfied there were none, he relieved himself over it and watched as the liquid turned to acr
id steam. He shook the remaining drops off his flaccid manhood and the ash and piss mixture began swirling, creating a moving picture. He took the stick and tried covering it but when he did so, the ash would stretch and swirl only to bounce back to the image it was creating. Squatting down on his haunches, the Druid looked closer, black eyes squinting, though the clouds were covering the sun. He’d divined things in this manner before, so it was not a new ritual to him, but always it was preceded by an incantation. Never had a vision like this surfaced unbidden. Da’Nel studied the gestating image, allowing it to wash over his eyes and mind, rather than try to fit it into some neatly contained thought of what he was seeing. Instead, he let it tell its own story.
He plunged his hands into the muck, grateful it was only piss, letting it close over and encase his hands. Da’Nel closed his eyes, and slowly wriggled his fingers, feeling them tingle. Flashes of people he didn’t know darted in front of his closed eyes. An elf, a dwarf, a castle, and something else.
There was something struggling under the surface of these figures trying to get out and be noticed. The feelings of hate and rage made Da’Nel’s blood turn to ice. Never in his years of existence, and there were quite a few of those, had he ever known such a pure form of hate and evil. He began to pull his hands out of the drying compound and couldn’t. The more he struggled the harder it was to move them, and when they began to get warm, then hot, and only after what seemed hours, to burn and blister was he able to pull them free. Not pull, he thought, released. It let me go, Whatever it was.
Da’Nel stood and looked at his hands, amazed they weren’t even red or blistered. He looked down at the ground and saw two words written in the dirt.
“They’re coming,” it said. Once more the muck began shifting, forming another picture, this time of a face, one Da’Nel had no memory of, but somehow knew. Blood trickled out from the corners of the burgeoning eyes, the muddy substance becoming something more. Something fleshy, but not quite there, more like the substance of an unborn babe, dead in the womb. He reached out to touch it and as he did so, a high-pitched wail came issuing from the ill-made mouth. Da’Nel pulled his hand back quickly but wasn’t fast enough as the face grew from the mound straining for his finger like an infant for its mother’s tit, and a fang sunk into the flesh of his forefinger. A small drop of blood fell into the foul maw as Da’Nel wiped his finger with the bottom of the jerkin he was wearing. The tiny crimson drop seemed to invigorate the relief, as the features became even more clear and discernible.
“It can’t be,” he muttered, standing up.
“Oh, but it can, and it is!” it said. Da’Nel had no chance to reply before it burst upward, as if it were some kind of malignant pimple, spewing the ash and piss mixture up, peppering the druid with its foulness. He stepped back, turning his head away, keeping his eyes and mouth closed. He waited a few moments before opening them again, and when he looked down, there was nothing but the ground. Da’Nel fell to his knees from the sudden dizziness he felt and struggled to make sense of what he’d seen. He closed his eyes, placing his hands on his thighs, digging his nails into the sinewy flesh.
He inhaled, the smell of the piss-mud burning his nostrils. Da’Nel let his mind go blank as he’d been taught hundreds of years prior when he was but a lad and searched for any remnants of the spirit who’d invaded his home. There was nothing, not even the faintest hint of a whisper. Da’Nel saw a barren desert stretched out before him, where not one lizard or piece of scrub brush littered the hard-packed sand. Turning in a circle, surveying all he could, it seemed as if this were a child’s idea of what a desert was and not an actual wasteland.
Da’Nel made a face and began walking, his footprints vanishing as he strode forward. The slightest of breezes, almost breath like brushed his clean-shaven cheek causing him to stop. He pivoted in the direction he felt it come from. On the horizon was a black speck, imperceptible to most anyone else. To the Druid, it was easily spotted, and more than a little concerning, as it was traveling in his direction at a pace he never thought was possible.
Da’Nel blinked, and it had halved its distance to him. The speck had turned into a malevolent whirlwind. Even from where he stood, Da’Nel could feel the wind picking up, could see the hardpan start to minuet around his feet, the particles cutting into his bare ankles like sharp teeth. Da’Nel squinted to get a better look at the dust devil and what he was able to make out made him sick to his soon to me emptied stomach. He had seen towering winds rip through small villages and hamlets, leaving nothing in its wake as homes, animals and other detritus were carried along. This contained none of those things. It appeared to Da’Nel that this was composed entirely of dead bodies and body parts. A fine red mist mixed with it adding to its shape.
The closer it came the stronger its stench grew as well, with the aroma of rotted, festering flesh assaulting his senses. The druid leaned down and heaved the last of his midday meal between his sandal-clad feet, leaving strands of spit and bile to dangle from his tongue and lips. His stomach tightened and convulsed as the cyclone of the dead picked up speed as if sensing him. For the first time in his all too long life, Da’Nel knew true fear. He knew what it was to feel his hackles rise, to piss himself, and feel as if his mind might crack.
That was when he heard it, heard the wailing and moans coming from the whirling dervish. More than the speed, or the bodies or the blood, it was the sound that compelled him to move. When he tried to, Da’Nel found he couldn’t. As he looked down where the vomit was being soaked up in the sand, two hands with mottled flesh protruded from the ground, holding his ankles tighter than any iron manacles ever had.
The force of the wind made it almost impossible for Da’Nel to blink, move his arms, or even open his mouth (not that he’d want to, as stray bits of flesh were being ripped from the bodies and sent flying). All the sensations were increasing, the smells, the sounds, the wind, and the final indignity of being pelted with fat drops of blood, and sticky strands of ejaculate. Bile dripped from his mouth as the fluids whipped across his face like liquid razors. The hands which were holding his ankles were starting to retract the nails that had embedded themselves in his flesh.
The cyclone of writhing corpses plucked him from the spot he stood and was thrown into the mix. Da’Nel tumbled head over ass, limbs flailing, unable to control any of his movement. His stomach turned and flipped as much as his body, though there was nothing left but dull pains and empty coughs. While he could see the wind storm moving, all he felt was the dizzying sensation of going around in a circle. It was only when the stained garment of one of the dead wrapped itself around his face, that nausea subsided.
Blinded by the cloth, and his nose shielded from the worst of the smells, Da’Nel chanted prayers for his safety and life. His lips moved silently as he continued to tumble, only stopping his liturgy when the clothing started to slide down his face. The wind still held his arms making it impossible to move them, but he felt an almost imperceptible slowing down. As the rag inched down further, he knew for certain the cyclone was dying, running out of energy and speed.
Da’Nel was able to see above the frayed bit of cloth as it uncovered his eyes, but what he saw made no sense to him. Nothing he could see was in his range of knowledge whether from experience or books. He regained use of his arms and pulled the fabric away completely and was then pitched forward like he’d been fired from a trebuchet. Again he was hurtling scalp over sphincter unable to guide his own way and at the mercy of whatever forces were at play.
He was certain that whatever was occurring had no basis in nature. This felt foul and unholy. The work of the devil from the piss-mud. The arc Da’Nel had been flung in was now on its descent, though his brain was still not able to decipher his surroundings, other than knowing he was no longer in the desert. Below was a bright light, warm and blinding, soothing and scalding, and it was without a doubt where he was not only heading but landing if there was even a place to land.
Da’Nel began chanting
again; this time for a soft landing.
12: Druids, Dwarves, and Demons
The room was awash with light, though there were no reasons for its existence. There were no candles or torches; no windows or skylights; no magical orbs or conjurers hidden in the recesses or alcoves of the vast and empty room.
Kiandra stood at the bottom of the ladder looking around in awe, causing Petram to have to give her a forcible kick in her hindquarters to get out of his way. “Do ya see it?” she asked.
“All I see is your ass, and fine as it is, move it somewhere else.”
Kiandra either hadn’t heard him, or was ignoring the remark, but moved all the same. As she drifted further from him, her figure began to be swallowed by the illumination. Petram followed and lost her in the fog of light. He called her name and got no response. He held his hands out in front hoping to feel his way around giving no thought to what may be on the floor until he tripped over something that cried out when stepped on by Petram’s oversized feet. He fell and gave his own cry as he hit the rough, unhewn ground.
“Clumsy oaf!” a voice full of annoyance more than injury called out.
“Who the hell are you? And where?” Petram answered. A frail-looking, but deceptively strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. Petram turned and stood face to crotch with a tall, wiry elf.
“What is this place?” the stranger asked.
“I dunno,” Petram said, “other than it’s under KillGarter.”
“KillGarter? I’m all the way in that godforsaken crypt?” He kneeled down so he could look the dwarf in the eye, or try to at least, as the light had a soupy, tangible quality to it, that made seeing anything very difficult.
“How’d ye get here?” Petram asked, “We saw no one, and the entrance hadn’t been touched in I don’t know how long.”
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