Underland

Most of his life, Valdemar had expected to face a trial for violating the empire’s rules on magic one day. But he had never expected the trial to come after the prison time.

It had been only months since the inquisitors tossed him in a cell without judgment. Afterward, his life had taken an unexpected turn; and instead of rotting in prison, Valdemar now stood before the most lethal assembly ever gathered by mankind.

Though Marianne was close and his familiar hid in his bag, their presence gave Valdemar little comfort. As the gazes of the seven Dark Lords fell upon him, the summoner had never felt so alone. Most were smiling, the same way vicious predators might smile while toying with their prey.

The merciless elite of mankind had gathered to decide whether he would live or die.

Valdemar took a few seconds to check the Dark Lords’ defenses with his psychic sight. He didn’t test them for fear of deadly retaliation, but a cursory glance told him a great deal about the Empire’s ruling class. To commoners and most sorcerers, these seven imperial autocrats would have looked equally almighty and dangerous; but Valdemar’s senses had sharpened under his various teachers’ guidance. From the strength of the Dark Lords’ magical defenses, he identified the presence of a subtle power hierarchy between them.

Empress Aratra and Lord Bethor were equal in strength. Where Bethor was a mighty volcano ready to unleash cataclysmic destruction at the first provocation, Aratra was an implacable glacier; strong, ancient, a cold presence so chilling that it hurt to breathe in her presence. They were fire and ice, and both far beyond Valdemar’s power to confront.

Och and Hagith came afterward. Lord Och’s defenses were an imperceptible mist hiding the monster within, but Hagith’s were a fortress’ thick walls. His power was nowhere near as overwhelming as Lord Bethor’s all-consuming might, but fearsome all the same. Lord Hagith reminded Valdemar of a cave bear, placid and friendly under most circumstances, but frighteningly dangerous when roused.

Lady Phul… Valdemar didn’t know what to make of her. He could hardly even sense her existence in the tapestry of the Blood. Sometimes he received feedback about the presence of flesh and bones, only for them to be replaced with ephemeral ectoplasm a second later. She wasn’t fully anchored in Underland’s physical reality, which was both a strength and a weakness.

As for the others, Lord Ophiel and Phaleg struck Valdemar as the weakest of the Dark Lords in terms of raw magical power. The former’s defenses were more akin to a chameleon’s camouflage than a fortress; his psychic protections shifted like water from one form to another, sometimes weak, sometimes strong. The androgynous body-thief seemed aware and amused by Valdemar’s probing, his magic flaring as a silent warning not to overstep.

As for the last of the Dark Lords, he wasn’t even the shadow of Bethor even though they had both studied under Lord Och. Although Phaleg possessed effective defenses, they lacked the finesse and innovation of the others. He was the apex of the classical mage: deadly, but conventional. His strange grafted arm and summoning prowess might give him an edge, but Valdemar was certain that he couldn’t match his colleagues in a pure contest of strength.

In the end, this magical hierarchy meant little to Valdemar; to a student, all masters were overwhelming foes. If things went south, the summoner doubted either Marianne or he would survive the next five minutes.

Empress Aratra was the first to speak. Anyone else doing so would have been disrespectful to the ruler of all of Azlant. “You veil your thoughts from my gaze behind an alien mind.” She said that with an amused smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “How did you accomplish this?”

Valdemar almost looked at Lord Och for approval to reveal the information, but didn’t move an inch. First, doing so would have infuriated the Empress by implying he gave more credit to his teacher’s opinion than her own; and second, he was done obeying the lich without question.

“I ate a Pleromian’s soul,” Valdemar answered with bluntness. “And I use it as a mental shield.”

“A Pleromian?” Lady Phul chuckled in disbelief, echoed by a few others. Empress Aratra’s expression didn’t waver at all, while Lord Ophiel and Phaleg the Binder observed Valdemar with interest.

“Was that your first time eating a soul?” Ophiel the Mad asked. “It’s a dangerous business. If you do it too often, you’ll start losing sight of yourself.”

“You do it all the time, my friend,” Lord Hagith said while stroking his fat throat. He looked jovial, but Valdemar didn’t miss the calculating gaze hidden behind the veil of friendliness.

“And it did wonders for me,” the body-thief replied playfully. “Though I have never possessed a Pleromian before. I thought they were extinct?”

Valdemar thought Lord Och would speak up, but the lich didn’t even seem to care all that much. His gaze was focused on the other Dark Lords rather than his apprentice, his fingers joined in a wary pose. To see the ever-confident archmage reacting this way made Valdemar shiver.

“So?” Lord Ophiel asked with impatience. “Have you lost your tongue, or must I extract it from your mouth?”

“Why ask him?” Lady Phul raised an eyebrow. “His companion’s mind is unshielded and knows everything.”

“Aw, you ruined my game,” Ophiel complained while Marianne blushed in embarrassment. “I wanted to see him squirm as he fumbled for an answer.”

“The Pleromians still exist in another plane, though they have degraded into monsters,” Valdemar replied. “The Derros opened a portal to it and summoned one. Lord Och will confirm it.”

Phaleg the Binder squinted at his former master. “Will you?”

Lord Och cackled. “My, apprentice, have you forgotten the rules of courtesy? The young shouldn’t ask anything from the old.”

Phaleg sneered, the eyes on his grafted arm glaring at the lich. “I am no longer your apprentice, old man. Today we are peers. Rulers of Domains with armies at our command.”

“As you say, apprentice,” Lord Och replied dismissively.

Are they truly this puerile? Valdemar wondered as the audience’s pettiness astonished him. Empress Aratra echoed his thoughts with anger.

“Enough of this childishness,” she chastised her colleagues before focusing back on Valdemar. “You were summoned here to answer to your actions and nature before my authority. Shielding your mind from my sight is obstruction, and I have had Oldblood patriarchies slain for less. Drop your protection immediately.”

Valdemar hesitated, unwilling to leave his innermost thoughts to the assembly. But to his surprise, Lord Och came to his rescue. “Are you so eager to steal my secrets, Young Aratra?” the lich asked mirthfully. “Young Valdemar is my beloved disciple. If he learned to shield his mind, it was to protect the knowledge I taught him.”

Phaleg the Binder glared at his former master. “Like plans you have against us?”

“There is nothing to hide from me,” the Empress replied with haughtiness.

“Do I go around mindreading your imperial guard?” Lord Och asked but didn’t let the empress answer. “Of course I try, but I don’t do it openly because that would be rude. Now, if I were forced to reveal everything I knew to the loyal members of your court…”

The Empress’ gaze turned deadly. “Are you threatening me, Lord Och?”

“I am defending my property,” the lich replied.

Valdemar gritted his teeth, but wisely kept his mouth shut. He exchanged a silent glance with Marianne as the Dark Lords bickered, his bodyguard looking up. He could see her thoughts written all over her face.

So I’m not the only one to think this woman is Sophia, Valdemar thought. In truth, he had spent a few minutes gathering information on the room through his magical senses. He had detected the presence of spatial magic in the air, but it took him a while to make sense out of what he had learned; Valdemar had quickly come up with a theory.

This place was the Earthmouths’ hub.

Yes, one needed to be a willing martyr to become a portal but Sophia’s role was far more important. She was a keystone stabilizing the entire structure, making sure that space didn’t collapse from the increasing number of rifts knitting the various regions of the empire together. All teleportations through the Earthmouths went through her in some way, allowing the Dark Lords to maintain tight control over the network.

So long as they held this fallen messiah in their thrall, they could tune portals at will and transport armies to any cavern while their foes struggled to fight through the tunnels. None could challenge their power; mankind would always keep a strong advantage over rival civilizations.

That was the unspeakable crime the first Dark Lords had committed in ancient times. They had forever bound their old teacher to harvest her power for their own use.

Something felt wrong about the room the Sabbath took place in. It seemed… separate from the rest of Underland, but Valdemar couldn’t clearly explain why. Powerful wards interfered with his magical senses.

“—we do not try to read each other's minds nor ask the others to lower their defenses,” Lord Hagith told Aratra, causing Valdemar to focus back on the discussion. “Two of Lord Och’s apprentices joined this assembly. As a friendly gesture, I say we treat his third disciple like a potential future ally.”

Empress Aratra glanced at her colleagues, but found little support outside Phaleg. “Fine,” she said. “Then we shall debate whether we should destroy him or not.”

Valdemar winced, while Marianne took a deep breath at his side. “Your Dark Majesty,” she said, “if I may—”

“You may not,” the Empress cut her off. “I understand your desire to defend your lover, Lady Reynard, I truly do. But you should remember your place.”

Marianne winced and remained quiet.

“This man,” Empress Aratra nodded at Valdemar, “is the half-breed spawn of a human woman and Ialdabaoth, the god in the flesh and Father of the Blood. He is the result of years of experimentation by the cult behind the rat plague infecting my subjects, and they commit crimes in his name.”

She waved her hand, her magic suffusing the air. Light itself appeared to bend around the Empress’ fingers while the polished gemstone ground began to reflect new images. Valdemar looked down to face pictures of hospitals treating wererats and diseased victims; of knights tossing corpses into open tombs and herding plague victims into ghettos; of dismembered victims of the Verney Cult, their blood used to paint Valdemar’s own names on walls.

The sight disgusted the summoner. “I never wished for this,” Valdemar whispered in protest. “If I could have stopped it, I would have.”

“Then you should have taken your own life for everyone’s sake.” Lord Phaleg looked at Valdemar with a cold gaze. “Lord Och should have destroyed you the moment you fell into our laps, and your family’s cult would have died with you.”

Valdemar thought he could have found an ally in this particular Dark Lord, but he had been mistaken. Phaleg the Binder was so focused on spitting on his former master that he would seize any opportunity to do so, no matter the cost… and no matter who he had to hurt as a casualty.

“You can try to destroy Young Valdemar, but you will be disappointed,” Lord Och said to everyone’s surprise. “My apprentice cannot die.”

Lord Bethor, who had remained silent and uninterested in the debate so far, finally spoke a few laconic words heavy with meaning. “His death is beyond my power.”

A tense silence followed, as all other Dark Lords glanced at the mightiest among them. Even Empress Aratra, who rivaled Bethor’s might, appeared slightly shocked. “You admit your powerlessness?” she asked, her expression unreadable.

“He cannot be killed,” Lord Bethor confirmed to Valdemar’s shock. “He can be sealed or neutralized. But he cannot be destroyed.”

Valdemar himself couldn’t believe his ears. This man, this incarnation of power who ruled atop a tower built on the corpses of his enemies and waged war on the Derros almost single-handedly, couldn’t destroy him?

‘But you cannot die.’

“Young Valdemar is an incarnation of the Blood itself,” Lord Och explained. “An avatar of life itself, in a way. His immaculate soul is connected to all life in Underland, and when the body is torn to shreds, it draws mass from our world’s inhabitants to regenerate him. Nothing short of the world’s destruction would kill my apprentice… and even then I wonder if it would stick.”

To Valdemar’s distaste, Ophiel the Mad sized him up like a piece of meat in a store. His other colleagues were more perplexed. “Fascinating,” Lord Hagith said. “I had the feeling this reunion would prove interesting. He could be the answer to so many secrets of the Blood…”

“Of course, even if my apprentice cannot die, he can still be transformed,” Lord Och added cheerfully. “If he sacrificed his soul out of his own free will he would transform into a functional portal like any other martyr. I’m sure that in his great altruism the thought has already crossed his young mind.”

Valdemar struggled against the urge to glare at his teacher, refusing to give the lich any satisfaction.

But the longer he considered Lord Och’s words, the less he liked them. If the Blood passively recreated his body from nothing, then… would he survive if reduced to a single cell? Would he agonize for weeks as he grew back a foot, a leg, or an arm?

Valdemar had already survived a similar experience in Lord Bethor’s tower, but he had outside resources to draw upon instead of creating them from nothing. A submersion in boiling blood had halted his regeneration.

But it still hadn’t killed him.

I’m like the Pleromians, Valdemar thought. He wanted to be surprised, but a part of him had already guessed his regeneration might have no true counter. There was no way Ialdabaoth would let its prince, the very means by which it sought to achieve freedom, be so easy to destroy. The Father of All had created the perfect tool, a vulnerable mind in an immortal body.

And yet, for all of his incredible resilience, Valdemar was still capable of aging.

Am I going to outlive Marianne? Valdemar wondered as he glanced at his companion. Age without dying, growing ever more feeble but never reaching the point of death? He wasn’t eager to perish anytime soon, but the implications terrified him.

“And you kept it for yourself, Och?” Lady Phul smiled at Valdemar, examining him with renewed interest. “You should have shared.”

“Lord Och knows nothing of generosity,” Lord Phaleg declared. “And this is all the more reason to get rid of this abomination. His mere existence is a threat to us all, as his ability to summon a Stranger proves.”

The man waved his grafted hand, and Ktulu was suddenly teleported out of his bag and onto the floor. The familiar glanced around as it fell on its butt in surprise. “Ktulu?” it asked as it looked up at Valdemar. “Ktululhu?”

I didn’t sense anything, Valdemar thought.Though he could detect Lord Och’s teleportation attempts, Lord Phaleg’s spell hadn’t even registered on his magical senses. I was wrong… he may be the least of them in raw power, but his summoning prowesses surpass even his old teacher’s.

Thankfully, the other Dark Lords seemed more amused by Ktulu than threatened by him. “He could open a daycare for Strangers, how frightening,” Ophiel the Mad mocked while Ktulu glared back at him. “Are you scared of half-breeds and children, Phaleg? If so, I should pay your Domain a visit someday. The Light knows it is in dire need of renovation.”

“None of us could summon a Stranger as a familiar,” Lord Phaleg replied with stoicism while ignoring the blatant threat. “If this abomination can do it while untrained, imagine if he fell under his cult’s influence? If we cannot destroy him, we should exile him to another world or seal him in a coffin of stone where none will find him.”

Marianne tensed up at the edge of Valdemar’s gaze, while Lady Phul offered an even more terrible alternative. “He is a conduit for Ialdabaoth,” she said. “Which is why the cultists want him. Instead of exile or sealing him, I say we make productive use of him.”

“How so?” Lord Hagith asked with curiosity.

“Let us use him as a magical battery,” Ophiel the Mad proposed before his colleague could answer. “We can turn him into a conduit to the Blood to increase our own power tenfold.”

“As always Ophiel, you lack perspective,” Lady Phul mocked him with a condescending smile. “I have a more imaginative proposal. Namely, we could turn him into a lock to seal the Outer Darkness away.”

Though Valdemar would have been all for it, her proposal turned out to be even worse than Ophiel’s. “We can put him here alongside her,” Lady Phul explained as she glanced at the stone woman in the ceiling. “His body will fossilize while his soul shall keep the worlds apart. Maybe we could even strengthen the wards binding our progenitor.”

Valdemar couldn’t help but glance at the stone corpse above his head. How long would it be before he went mad and then empty inside? Years? Centuries?

To Valdemar’s surprise, Empress Aratra seemed strangely ambivalent about the idea. Her blank expression turned into a frown of disapproval, but she said nothing as the other Dark Lords argued.

Lord Hagith, who had watched the debate with caution, turned to Och. “And what do you have to say about this? You have been strangely passive, Lord Och. We are discussing your apprentice’s fate and yet you seem oddly unconcerned.”

Phaleg the Binder glared at his former mentor. “What is your plan?”

“It is a surprise I will keep for later,” the lich replied before turning to Empress Aratra. “I am waiting for Her Majesty’s fair judgment.”

The Empress seemed pleasantly surprised, locking eyes with Valdemar. “And what do you have to say for yourself, child?”

Valdemar gathered his breath. “Before I answer,” he began noticing Marianne smiling at him as his only moral support. Ktulu also moved closer to his legs, as if to protect him. “I would like to ask Her Majesty… no, this entire assembly, a single question.”

“Ask away,” the Empress replied gracefully.

“Do you care?” Valdemar asked.

Empress Aratra raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“The world is threatened with destruction,” Valdemar pointed out, clenching his fists in silent anger. “A god is rising from the Blood. A plague devours your citizens and cultists murder them. But so far you have discussed my eventual fate rather than these issues, which happen as we speak. Almost as if you found them banal.”

“Yes, of course they are,” Ophiel replied with a dismissive shrug. “We have survived more Strangers than you can count.”

“Ialdabaoth has been threatening to wake up for centuries,” Lady Phul added. “It still hasn’t. The rat plague is a hassle, I will grant you, but it is nothing we haven’t dealt with in the past.”

”We can win a hundred battles but only lose one,” Lord Bethor declared with wisdom. “Let us destroy the vermin hiding in Ariouth and be done with it, as Phaleg should have.”

“Yes, your inactivity has been noticed,” Lord Ophiel complained as he glanced at Phaleg the Binder. “These rats trouble my artistic endeavors and sully my beautiful population. If you want them to infest your Domain, be my guest, but I ask that you keep them inside your frontiers.”

Lord Phaleg bristled. “I have ordered a strike against their temple before this meeting.”

“And you took your sweet time, my old apprentice,” Lord Och mocked him. “But I guess it is better late than never. Did you let them fester in your Domain to embarrass me?”

“You do not factor so much in my thoughts, traitor,” Lord Phaleg lied through his teeth.

“The safety of our citizens is our foremost concern,” Empress Aratra answered Valdemar with a tone that implied the opposite. “But you will agree that you are a special oddity. Your fate does matter more than a few commoners perishing, as it may affect all of mankind.”

“If people’s safety is your concern,” Valdemar said, “then we share a goal. I am forever on mankind’s side.”

“That remains to be seen,” Lord Phaleg replied.

“Then let me prove it!” Valdemar put a hand on his chest. “Yes, my family is responsible for the crimes happening around the empire, but I will atone for them. I didn’t ask to be born a tool for monsters, but I can choose to become something else.”

“And how would you do that?” Lady Phul asked. “According to my information, your very dreams summon a Nahemoth to our reality. Do you intend to stay awake forever?”

“I intend to seal the Nahemoth, destroy what little remains of my family’s cult until nothing remains, and destroy the Qlippoths they summoned,” Valdemar argued. “And, if I can achieve it… I will save our dead from the Outer Darkness.”

Ophiel chuckled, but Empress Aratra’s cold gaze made him go silent. Though Lord Bethor challenged her in power, her authority remained strong.

“I have a plan to do all of them,” Valdemar said with firm dedication. “I cannot guarantee success. But I believe in my odds.”

“You ask us to trust you?” Empress Aratra asked with skepticism.

“No,” Valdemar replied. “I ask you for a chance. A chance to prove that I am human, and that this world can be made a better place.”

A short silence followed, quickly broken by laughter. Ophiel the Mad held their chest as both male and female voices came out of their throat. The other reactions were more subdued, from Lord Hagith’s friendly but skeptical smile, to Lady Phul’s undisguised amusement. Phaleg the Binder scoffed in scorn, while Empress Aratra’s face was utterly unreadable.

Valdemar’s words had hit a wall of cynicism.

None of them believed in making Underland a better place. Maybe they had once, but they no longer cared.

But Valdemar didn’t falter. He stood up strongly, facing Empress Aratra’s gaze with determination. He had had his flesh flensed from his bones, his mind ripped apart; he had fought the Derros’ madness and Lord Och’s cruel tricks. And he had refused to give in.

He wouldn’t falter today.

Empress Aratra’s gaze seemed to pierce through even his mental defenses to peer into his soul. Valdemar sensed her magic brush against his shielded mind for any hint of weakness or hesitation. And when she found none, she turned to Lord Och. “What do you have to say about this?”

“Honestly?” The lich shifted on his throne. “I care little for this discussion. I mostly came to announce my upcoming retirement.”

Ophiel’s laughter died in his throat.

The entire assembly, from the Dark Lords to Marianne, glanced in the lich’s direction with surprise and confusion. Even Lord Bethor, who clearly considered this meeting a waste of time, had turned his gaze at his old master in surprise.

“Your retirement?” Empress Aratra asked while squinting, stretching each word.

“I am old and feeble, Young Aratra,” Lord Och said with a trembling voice. He played the senile elder quite well, though obviously nobody bought into his game. “I had many happy memories with this brotherhood, but I believe it is time I retire to tend to mushrooms in my backyard.”

What is he playing at? Valdemar thought, finding the scene surreal.

He wasn’t the only one. “You are retiring?” Lord Phaleg repeated in disbelief. “From being a Dark Lord?”

“It was amusing the first few centuries, but I feel my unlife has become quite banal,” Lord Och replied. “All I do is push paper and hear complaints nowadays. I need a change and a breath of fresh air, perhaps find time to write my memoir for posterity. As such, I will take some time to settle my affairs and mentor my successor until they can fully take over my duties.”

What is his endgame? Valdemar wondered as his mind furiously tried to figure it out. He knew Lord Och enough to know that he would never, ever surrender all the accumulated power and influence he had gathered across the centuries.

Unless…

Unless he was aiming for something higher and no longer needed his old assets.

“Who?” Valdemar dared to ask. “Who will succeed you, my teacher?”

“My,” the lich smiled maliciously before raising a bony finger at his apprentice. “But you, of course.”