Underland

“Valdy,” Liliane’s voice called through the workshop’s door. “Valdy, are you inside?”

Valdemar stared at the ceiling while laying on his mattress. The bed sheet covered his grandfather’s portrait in a corner of the room, hiding it from view.

“He is…” Hermann muttered. “But I… I don’t think now is the time…”

“Nonsense!” Liliane replied. “Valdy, I made a cake. With vanilla mushrooms. Right out of the oven. Come out before it becomes cold!”

Liliane’s words sounded like whispers to his ears, distant and nearly unintelligible. Valdemar’s pots of blood-paints, the unused leftovers of the Silent King project, shook in a corner. Bubbles rose to the surface as if an invisible fire boiled the substance.

“Valdy, talk to me. You can tell me everything, you know that? I swear I won’t judge. It will make you feel better.”

The paint burst out of the pots and climbed on the nearest wall like aggressive moss. Its color changed from red to green and black and yellow, a twisted chaos echoing Valdemar’s own emotion.

“He… he needs time,” Hermann whispered, so low Valdemar barely heard him. “To think. He is wounded...”

“That’s exactly why we can’t leave him alone, Hermann.”

“Sometimes… The only cure for woe… is time, Liliane. He needs time in his lair… to lick his wounds. To figure it out. Only then will he… let us in. When he comes out… we will be here.”

A short silence followed.

“I…” Liliane cleared her throat. “We will come back later, Valdy. Please… don’t do anything stupid, alright? Be safe.”

“Friend?” It was Iren this time. “You’re still in your room?”

Valdemar turned on and stared at the left wall. The paint covered it entirely now, like an infectious growth taking over the room centimeter by centimeter. The chaotic colors had assembled into a stable form; that of a twisted, ghastly tree with eyes for leaves and flesh for bark. His magic had gone wild, letting his subconscious guide the design.

“You know I could unlock this door if I wanted, right? Someone will if you don’t give us a sign. Liliane is worried you’re going to hang yourself or something.”

What would that change? Considering Valdemar’s regeneration, it probably wouldn’t stick.

Iren sighed, too loudly for it to be natural. “Hermann didn’t give me all the details, but enough to figure it out on my own. He thinks you need to be alone for a while to digest what you learned and that we should respect your privacy. I would be tempted to agree, but somehow I think your mood will only get worse the longer you stay alone.”

Valdemar doubted that. He had already hit the well’s bottom, when depression had filled the void anger had left in his heart. He didn’t even struggle to escape in his dreams either.

Iren waited a moment for an answer. Valdemar sensed him—her—looking around beyond the door, checking if anyone listened. “I know what you’re going through,” Iren said. “More than you know.”

No, he didn’t.

“I don’t need telepathy to know what you’re thinking, friend.” Another pause. Hesitation. “You know, when mothers don’t want an unwanted child, they usually go to a biomancer. One spell and they’re purged. Some sorcerers though… don’t take money as payment. Especially when one of the parents isn’t human at all.”

The flesh tree spasmed, the painted yellow eyes looking in all directions. Black pigments gathered on the bloody bark, like the bud of a dreadful flower.

“I was born in a lab, Valdemar,” Iren confessed. “A biomancer extracted my stillborn, half-formed fetus and perfected it into a ‘viable specimen.’ Once he had learned everything of value about shapeshifting by the time I reached maturity, he thanked me for my ‘contribution to science’ and forgot I existed.”

The black paint turned into an armless hand with a yellow eye for a palm. The clawed fingers fidgeted on the wall, as if trying to tear through the invisible barrier between its two-dimensional reality and its creator.

“The reason I’m saying this…” Iren struggled to find his words. “Look, whatever you were born for, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been so many people over the years, I forgot my original appearance. Boy, girl, old, young, I don’t keep a face for long. If being Valdemar Verney is too painful or sorrowful… just become someone else. Someone who feels better.”

The black hand slowly emerged from the wall, its fingers dragging it across the floor.

“I’ve said my piece,” Iren said with a sigh. “You don’t owe your gramps anything, friend. Not even your name.”

The living hand collapsed into a puddle of black paint, and the flesh tree bore another fruit.

By now, the paint covered the ceiling and half the walls. The tree of flesh shared the room with a pitch-black sky full of colorful stars orbiting around a pure blue sphere. The Mask of the Nightwalker faced the ghastly picture on the right wall, like the Whitemoon glaring at the surface of the world. Painted creatures crawled all around the workshop, from shapeless green blobs no larger than a clenched fist to pale white moths with eyes on their wings.

Someone knocked on the door, and Frigga’s voice came through. “My dear Valdemar, I cannot help but notice you are missing our modeling meetings,” she said with a chuckle. “Unless you expect me to complete my portrait myself?”

The painted creatures lived short lives, but each new generation lasted longer than the previous one. One survived for half an hour before collapsing into lifeless pigments.

“Fine, if you won’t do me the courtesy of answering, I shan’t be polite either.” The dark elf dropped her mask of playfulness. “I don’t like you. You have a certain talent for painting and sorcery, but frankly, I don’t find you particularly interesting. You’re bland and forgettable.”

A moth landed on the painted Earth, tainting its blue waters with thick black blood.

“However, your petulant behavior saddens my dear Liliane. She worries for you more than everyone else in this Institute combined, and I believe her pity is wasted on you. I am truly tempted to enter your dreams and put back some positivity in that empty skull of yours.”

It would cost her if she tried. All Valdemar dreamed of last night was of the well and the hungry maw waiting at the bottom. When the nightmares came, he hadn’t fought them back.

“Your new defenses won’t stop me if I try to get in,” she said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re doing in your sleep. I don’t know what you intend to do with that trap of yours, but it won’t ensnare me.”

Good. It wasn’t meant for her anyway.

“In any case, get out of that room before I drag you off from it. Your petty nightmares will look like childish fantasies compared to what I shall show you.”

The paint had claimed every inch of the room, except the right wall.

The Mask of the Nightwalker exercised a counterforce and channeled a power that rivaled Valdemar’s own. Painted landscapes of alien worlds, magical glyphs, and chaotic maelstroms stopped at a circle of nothingness around the Stranger artifact, unable to cross the invisible barrier. Even the moth swarm flying around the room couldn’t touch the mask.

Valdemar sensed a connection forming through the Blood between the stone floor beneath the paint and the world outside. A surge of magic, powerful and yet nearly imperceptible, created a bridge between the workshop and another place. Valdemar couldn’t sense the point of origin, but he did detect the undead sorcerer traveling through it.

His painted field waited for the last moment and then pushed back.

Valdemar expected Lord Och to force his way through the magical cocoon, but he instead redirected his spell through the right wall, teleporting right in front of the Mask of the Nightwalker. The switch took less than a second, so swiftly that the Dark Lord’s apprentice was convinced he had planned it from the start.

“Nice try,” Lord Och said with satisfaction. “If I were a few centuries younger, I might have fallen for it. Still, what kind of unruly student attempts to prank their teacher?”

“You intended to teleport behind me without warning, Lord Och,” Valdemar said as he rose from his mattress to salute the Dark Lord. “I strongly suspect that you enjoy startling people.”

“And you would be correct.” The lich glanced at the painted landscapes all around the room, and the artificial moths flying in the air. He raised his hand, with one of the insects landing on his index finger. “And here I thought you were wallowing in self-pity, doing nothing all day.”

“I work or paint when I feel down,” Valdemar admitted. “It distracts me.”

“A productive way to deal with loss, albeit not the healthiest one,” Lord Och said, the painted moth dissipating into colored smoke. “What a curious innovation, this room...”

His reaction surprised Valdemar. “You have never seen anything like this?”

“I have my suspicions about what you did, but I admit I never saw pictomancy used this way.” Lord Och smirked, baleful light shining through his skeletal eyeholes. “You attempted to emulate the Nahemoths by creating your own demiplane.”

Valdemar nodded. Truthfully, he was pleased with the lich’s response. Considering his age, surprising him was a victory in itself. “When I saw Hermann create painted creatures during our fight with the derros, I immediately thought of the Nahemoths.”

These creatures gave birth to lesser Qlippoths by shaping their essence through their demiplane. Since Valdemar had mixed his own blood with the pigments used to create the Painted Door, he had quickly realized that he could use them to turn an area of space into an extension of himself. He had let his subconscious direct the growth of this ‘painted field’ inch by inch.

The more space he had claimed, the easier it had been to manifest magical constructs from the paint. They were extensions of his subconscious, paint and sorcery granted a simulacrum of physical form; they weren’t meant to exist in the physical reality, making them fragile. Rather than force reality to accept these constructs, Valdemar had turned a small corner of the world into an extension of himself, making his creations more ‘real’ inside it.

The mere fact that Hermann hadn’t needed this infrastructure to generate a tide of painted snakes spoke volumes about his talent.

Valdemar also hoped that this Painted Field could serve as an external dreamscape since oneiromancy didn’t come easily to him. Since he failed to create one in his dreams, he would build one in the physical world instead. Frigga could boast as much as she wanted, her reaction had shown Valdemar that he was on the right track.

Valdemar once thought the nightmares plaguing him were mere repressed memories. The Silent King’s visions had shown him that something far more sinister was at work, and he needed to improve his defenses.

Were his nightmares even his own?

Lord Och sounded very pleased with his apprentice’s progress. “I knew introducing you to Hermann would yield excellent results. And of course, since the Painted Door could open rifts between two dimensions, I suppose you intended to experiment with summoning next? Maybe open a path to Earth?”

Valdemar glared at his mentor. “You knew,” he spat.

“Of course I did.”

“Then why am I still alive?” Valdemar asked with a frown. “Why didn’t you sacrifice me, like my own grandfather wanted to?”

Lord Och gave him a curious look. “You believed the Stranger’s words?”

“I didn’t want to, but... I had to check.” And when he confronted his grandfather’s portrait, the echo inside entered another cognitive loop. Maybe it had forgotten the original memories, or the truth was too difficult to bear. “I created this room to understand myself, to try to figure out if the Painted Door would have worked if my blood hadn’t been used as fuel. But now it’s all around me, I can notice the Orgone in the air. Only summoned creatures produce such an amount, and I belong to two worlds through my mother.”

“Partly,” Lord Och said before glancing at the blackened Earth painted on the ceiling. “Your lineage does bind our two planes together, but other factors are at play in your peculiar abilities.”

ABOMINATION.

The Silent King’s condemnation flared inside Valdemar’s mind alongside the vision that came with it. The summoner glanced at his veins, and the red blood flowing through them.

He had always suspected his paternal grandfather’s cult had experimented on him. He had mistaken his regeneration for a mere body enhancement, instead of the symptom of something far more sinister.

Had this obliviousness just been mere naïveté? Valdemar had always brushed off questions about his past, even his own. Maybe he had known the truth all along, but refused to accept it. It had taken a Stranger’s mental assault to finally make him reexamine his life.

Or perhaps his thoughts weren’t fully his own. Maybe his two grandfathers had set instructions in his mind while he was in the womb, to ensure he would fulfill their ultimate goal when the time came.

Thick black blood poured out of his veins, while eyes and mouths tore out his skin to reveal the inhuman face underneath.

Whatever that goal was.

“Lord Och,” he asked feebly, “am I a monster?”

“Do you remember what I told you, apprentice, when you asked me who you were?”

Valdemar’s jaw clenched. “That I was the only one who could tell who I was.”

“Young Iren spoke with wisdom,” the lich said, blatantly admitting to spying on his apprentice from afar. “Whether you are a monster is up to you, young man. You are who you choose to be.”

A man or an Earthmouth then, Valdemar thought grimly. He had asked the Silent King how he could lead mankind to Earth, and the Stranger had answered his question literally. The summoner should have also added that he wanted to survive the experience and see that world for himself.

“If you want to sacrifice yourself, I will not stop you,” Lord Och said. “Though it will be a waste and many will weep. Your grandfather didn’t use an Earthmouth to enter our world, so why should we need one to reach his own?”

Because that method would work for certain. Valdemar had been bred for this purpose since the moment he was born.

“Why would I sacrifice you, when I know we shall eventually succeed with another method that won’t cost you your life?” Lord Och asked mirthfully. “If I still needed to eat, I would say that I intend to have my cake and eat it too. The long-term benefits of your survival will outweigh the short-term gains of an interdimensional Earthmouth.”

Valdemar shivered at his cold, brutal logic… but somehow he couldn’t help but feel relieved. It might have sounded selfish, but he wanted to see Earth with his own eyes too.

His grandfather… Pierre had brainwashed him since his childhood with stories about his homeworld, the way a farmer fattened a snail for the slaughter. He had sown the seeds of Valdemar’s devotion, hoping to reap it in the form of a sacrifice for his own rotten selfishness.

But… even if the dreamer wasn’t a good person, did that invalidate the dream?

Mankind needed to see the light again. To gaze at the stars and the sun as Valdemar did in the Silent King’s realm. The universe was a strange and dangerous place; but also beautiful beyond words. His people, his friends, deserved better than a stone ceiling.

Valdemar glanced with shame at his workshop’s door, remembering the individuals who knocked on it. In truth, while he was thankful for their support... he didn’t know how to deal with it.

In his childhood, Valdemar usually ran back to his grandfather for protection whenever he felt sad. Now the mere memory soured his mood, and he had long grown used to isolation anyway. What was he supposed to do, share his dark thoughts and foul mood with others? Spread the pain around? Rant about how his grandfather, the person he dedicated his entire life to fulfilling the dream of returning to Earth, had raised him as a mere tool?

Above all things, Valdemar hated being pitied.

What he needed was time to process everything, to strengthen his mind. Sorrow and anger could only affect him if he let them be.

“I suggest that you embrace undeath,” Lord Och happily suggested. “It did wonders for my good mood, and it will certainly improve your looks.”

Valdemar ignored his mentor’s jab. “You could clone me,” he suggested. Biomancers often used that procedure for rich patrons, to cultivate fresh organs and replace the original’s aging parts. “Create a soulless sacrifice.”

“It will not work.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I already tried the day we met.” Lord Och chuckled as his apprentice gave him an offended glare. “My apprentice, you leave your genetic material everywhere, what did you expect? Between us, I always like to have a spare apprentice or two.”

Valdemar shuddered, as he remembered the Dark Lord’s attempts to duplicate the Pleromians. “Why didn’t it work then?”

“Two reasons.” The lich joined his hands. “First, Earthmouths need the soul of a willing martyr to function. This is why it is such an honor and we do not use, say, prisoners and political enemies for it. The creation ritual does not function if the sacrifice does not consent to it, whether out of despair or altruism.”

Valdemar thought about the vision he had, and the dead look in his illusory double’s eyes. Despair, he thought, born of betrayal.

“Second, your peculiar biology makes cloning you a hazardous prospect, as testing can attest. When I tried to duplicate you, your clone’s regeneration went…” Lord Och hesitated. “Haywire.”

ABOMINATION.

“It mutated?” Valdemar asked, although he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know.

“All I will say is, if you ever lose a body part, I strongly suggest that you reattach it as quickly as you can. Or throw it at your nearest foe.” Lord Och chuckled to himself. “Come to think of it, we should explore this idea in the future.”

Valdemar crossed his arms. “Speaking of the future, where do we go from now Lord Och? You asked me to help Hermann with the Painted Door project and we completed it.”

“And the experience proved highly pertinent for all parties involved,” Lord Och mused. “You are a Scholar of Pleroma, Young Valdemar. You are free to take your research wherever you want, and I suspect you already know your next destination.”

Yes, he did. The Silent King had shown him the path.

“In my visions, I saw a derro with a crown building a portal,” Valdemar admitted. “Probably King Otto Blutang. From what we gathered so far, it’s highly probable that the derros summoned my grandfather’s unit to Underland with their technology.”

“Do you intend to ask the derro king to share his discoveries with us?” Lord Och asked mirthfully. “Considering the troubles in Astaphanos, I’m sure the empress would agree to a diplomatic mission.”

In all likelihood, it would end with Valdemar’s brain in a jar and his skin used as a disguise by some mad dwarf infiltrator. “Maybe the English parts of the diary hold information about the tunnels where my grandfather landed,” said the summoner. “You could examine them. Maybe the derros left hints.”

The Dark Lord scoffed. “I could examine them? Are you offloading your duties to me, apprentice? Or have you given up on fulfilling your dream?”

Was that dream even his own?

Valdemar still thought mankind deserved a world with an open sky, but he wasn’t certain if he was the best person to find it anymore.

His family’s cult had worked for a bloodthirsty Stranger. If they wanted to reach Earth so desperately and created Valdemar to achieve their goal, then it served their patron’s goals somehow. Maybe the Stranger wanted to access Earth for its foul purposes.

Valdemar was afraid. Afraid not to be in control, or worse, to accidentally poison the perfect world he had dreamed of. “Lord Och, is my mind compromised? Do I want to reach Earth because I want it, or because an instinct embedded in my blood is pushing me to?”

The lich remained eerily silent.

Valdemar sighed. “I’m the only one who can answer that question, is that it?”

“Keep building that Painted Dreamscape,” the Dark Lord replied without really answering. “It will help you figure out the truth.”

A pointer was better than nothing.

“Locating the site where your grandsire appeared is a good idea,” the Dark Lord said. “But as I warned you before, the tunnels in question are dangerous. Even more so now that your family’s cult is active once more and that the derros are on the offensive again. Thankfully, the combat-magic teacher I had in mind has agreed to take you under his wing.”

“Which Master will it be?” Valdemar asked, banishing his darker thoughts from his mind. Edwin and Loctis appeared to be the most talented battle mages in the Institute from what he had seen.

“My chosen instructor does not serve me, or anyone else for that matter,” Lord Och replied. “You will have to travel to the Domain of Sabaoth to meet with him.”

Sabaoth? It made sense. This Domain was the Empire’s bulwark against derro invasions and monsters wandering out of the unexplored depths of Underland, a fortress of stone, steel, and magma pits.

However…

“Wasn’t I supposed to stay at the Institute until the wererat was apprehended or slain?” Valdemar asked with a frown.

Lord Och brushed off his worries. “You will travel to the safest place in the Empire under good escort. Young Marianne is making her way back to us as we speak, albeit short a retainer. I believe a stay in Sabaoth will also help her sharpen her blade.”

Marianne is returning? Valdemar was eager to see her. She had investigated the Verney family far enough to detect a hidden cultist, so maybe she had found something interesting. I need to know the truth, Valdemar thought. The full truth. About who I am, and my purpose. “Who is this instructor?”

The lich’s ghastly smile sent shivers down his spine.

“It is time,” the Dark Lord said, “that I introduce you to my previous apprentice.”