Alone. Dim was alone. He reminded himself that this was necessary, for the sake of his companions and this wasn’t a decision that he’d made lightly. It weighed on him now as he made his way down the moist, slick passages, a series of switchbacks that descended deeper into the mine. The magical horror was oppressive now, but somehow Dim resisted. When Dim reached the bottom of the passage, he turned, expecting to find yet another switchback passage leading down, but emerged into an open space instead.

There was a shaft leading straight down, along with a rickety lift that Dim didn’t trust, not in the slightest. Who knew what the local construction standards were. The shaft was a well of darkness that for all Dim knew, might go down forever. Yet, that was where he had to go, because there were answers down there. After studying the lift for a moment, he realised that whomever was down below hadn’t taken the lift down—or they had sent it back up—perhaps for him.

It seemed as though he was expected.

Tired, weary, knowing that his magical reserves were barely enough to conjure a sneeze, Dim eyeballed the lift. He could use magic to fall like a feather down the shaft, and if the rickety lift failed, feather falling might still be a necessity, but he needed to conserve his strength. With a sigh, he chose the lift; what did it matter? He was likely going to his death anyway. If Grogar’s agents were down there, he doubted that he could beat them. Yet, he had to go and his face contorted into a grim grimace of acceptance.

Water poured down the rough-hewn edges of the shaft but no sounds of splashing could be heard below. This place was damp—too damp—and Dim was struggling to even draw breath. Having suffered long enough, and no longer caring, Dim pulled out his silver stem, a slim rolled joint infused with cloves, and decided to have himself a good smoke while he lowered himself down to his inevitable death.

The walls… there was something dreadfully wrong with the walls. Dim had trouble figuring out what it was until he ignited his horn, and then he sincerely wished he hadn’t. The walls were covered in strange spiderwebby construction—made of meat. Glistening flesh reflected the light from his horn and tiny translucent spiders could be seen scurrying along the strands of twisted, braided meat.

Walls needed paintings, tapestries, walls needed art, not spiderwebs made of meat.

This grotesquery was just plain tacky and whomever was responsible for this interiour decorating scheme was in need of a good lashing. Perhaps Dim might even do it himself if he ran into whomever was responsible. As the lift continued to descend, more meaty webbing could be seen, vast networks of it, and nestled among the strands of tissue, glowing, pulsating egg sacs could be seen. If ever there was a place that needed a good, thorough purging with fire, this was it.

And the smell… the stench would haunt Dim all his days for certain.

It occured to Dim that the lack of bodies topside might just be because the poor, unfortunate souls posted here might’ve become just so much meat webbing. He was glad that his friends, his companions had not seen this, and that he had spared them this nightmarish sight. Puffing away on his joint, he realised that he rather prefered smoking a pipe, all things considered. At least he could breathe a little easier, and the concentrated clove essence numbed the terrible tickle in his lungs.

As the lift went lower, the meat webbing grew thicker, and the spiders increased in size. Some of them had abdomens the size of cantaloupe melons. He saw a body in the webbing, a pony. It was swarmed with spiders, who were pulling strands of meat from it in the same way that yarn could be pulled from a sweater, and Dim felt a curious magic at work. So, the webbing it seemed, was made from pony meat, and maybe griffon too. Perhaps anything, really.

One of the spiders turned to face Dim, waved a foreleg, and waved its pedipalps in some unknown spidery way. “You are expected, Dark One. The Spider Queen entertains visitors down below… rude visitors. Rid her of them and she will owe you a favour, Dark One. Blech, these visitors are demanding jerks.”

“Rude visitors, you say? There is nothing worse than rude visitors who show up uninvited.” Dim poured on as much charisma as he dared without sounding patronising. The silver stem bobbed in the corner of his mouth and smoke curled up from his joint. “My apologies for showing up unannounced.”

“Oh, you were expected. The Spider Queen has watched you for quite some time, and she is amused by your antics.” There was a curious sound, like a sigh, and the spider waved his hairy legs in an all-encompassing gesture. “The rude guests killed those who sought to free the Spider Queen, and now they bully her to make her beholden to them.”

“How crass,” Dim replied, his words forming an exclamation mark of smoke for emphasis.

“The Spider Queen guarantees your safety, because she feels that you are like-minded individuals.” Scurrying back, the spider-speaker made way for a worker spider who dragged a strand of meat-yarn behind it. “You’re not a bad guy, quadruped. See ya around.”

“Why, thank you, octoped.” Dim went to tip his hat, but it no longer existed.

The lift continued its slow, creaky descent.

There was water down here, quite a lot of it, and there was only one way to go, one option available. Dim silenced himself so that his hooves would make not a sound. The meat-webbing hung around the entrance like a grotesque curtain, a veil made from spun meat. After stepping through the doorway, Dim found himself in the most horrific room.

It was an abattoir with a sacrificial altar up against one wall. The altar was spider shaped, of course it was, and bodies could be seen around it. As for the blood, it poured down channels in the spider’s legs and collected in a blood pool, whose contents had long since congealed into something that resembled reddish-brown curdled milk. Blood pools were so inviting and festive, Dim felt, and more lairs should have them. It really sent a clear message to visitors. Teeny, tiny spiders swarmed the altar, itty-bitty spider babies.

In but a few seconds, Dim connected the dots. Duc Truffe must have been working with the Ascendancy, and the Ascendancy must have been operating down here. No doubt to free the Spider Queen in return for some kind of favour. The mine shaft had probably mistakenly bored right into an ancient prison or a vault of some kind. As for the altar and the bodies, Dim’s best guess told him that blood was needed to free whatever was trapped in here—blood or souls enough to give them the power required to escape.

Even the lingering horror supported his theory; he was dealing with some kind of eldritch entity who had been sealed away long ago. The miners, having found this place, probably went a bit mad or whatever, and the powers that be sealed it up, closed it off, and redirected a river to flow over it, flooding the mine so that the evil held within could be contained.

Of course, he could be wrong.

Green witchfire blazed around the altar and a ghastly, glowing spectral spider formed. In silence, it gesticulated at the doorway in an impatient gesture, as if to say, ‘hurry up.’ The very wrongness of the magic here was no mere unicorn trick, no. This was primordial magic, eldritch thaumaturgy. Dim took a moment to read it, he unbarred his mind and allowed it to come in, as risky as it was, so that he might understand better.

Shaking his head to be rid of the psychic echos, Dim pulled the Spear of Chantico free from his saddlebag strap and made his way towards the door, stepping over assorted lopped-off body parts. Poor fools. Poor, poor fools. They had signed on for looting and pillaging, or maybe valour and glory, the promise of being the new lords after the revolt—but as it turned out, they were just meat for the sacrificial altar. A fool and his life were soon parted.

This corridor was rough-carved and the walls bore testament to recent boring, revealing that this passage wasn’t all that old. Beneath Dim, the floor was rough, uneven, and treacherous enough to turn a fetlock the wrong way if great care was not taken. Ahead, he could hear laughter, faint mad laughter that was both familiar and strange. Hearing it caused the fine hairs along Dim’s spine to stand up.

Ahead, faint light danced, throwing shadows recklessly about the walls. Dim peered ahead, cautious, making not a sound while he crept along, a shadow taking refuge among shadows. The corridor opened into a large room with perfect, smooth walls, and this room appeared to have been converted into a laboratory. A lone figure paced about, going from book to book, his eyes wide, mad, and he was clearly celebrating whatever it was that he had found.

In the corner, there was a cage with two dragons, and above the cage, there was a hanging lamp that emitted a witchfire green glow. The dragons were in poor shape, their scales were dull, some were missing, as if they had been cruelly ripped away, and neither of the dragons were moving. Remembering the freezer on the Black Talon ship, Dim suspected that these dragons were being stripped of useful alchemical ingredients one piece at a time.

Essences swirled in collection tanks and some kind of alchemical experiment still bubbled on the bench. Dim studied the crazed figure and it was like staring into a mirror, as Dim saw himself, more or less, only older, much, much older. Dreadful Dark, for surely it had to be Dreadful Dark, was just beside himself with glee.

Saying nothing, Dim lifted Chantico’s spear, glanced at the obsidian tip, thought a silent prayer to Chantico, and then he hurled said spear at his uncle, launching a sneak attack from the shadows like a common sneak thief. The spear flew true, blazing with pink and black flames, and it struck the maniacal unicorn in the side, just behind the ribs, slid through his torso, and the obsidian tip protruded out just beneath Dreadful’s neck. Needless to say, Dreadful had quite a surprised look upon his face when he looked down and saw the protruding spearpoint.

“Oh drat and buggery,” the impaled unicorn gasped whilst he collapsed to the floor. “I’ve done been cornholed. Would you look at that? Dry gulched from behind. Blast and damnation. Desire told me to keep my guard up, but I didn’t listen.”

Cautious, Dim crept forward, having learned a long time ago that he was a fragile creature in a world full of dangerous enemies. Dreadful was squirming, and Dim found that he delighted in witnessing his uncle’s pain. Blood formed a rapidly expanding pool around Dreadful’s fallen body and his hind legs made feeble, ineffectual little kicks.

“Dim Dark… my how you’ve grown. Nice bit of treachery. With but one unspeakably cruel act, you’ve proven that you’re still worthy of the Dark name. I’m impressed.”

“Shut up,” Dim hissed.

“I wanted to have a go with you when you were little, but your sweet mother said you were meant for something greater. Not sure what’s greater than some little asshole stretched tight around my dick, but I digress. Don’t mind me, I’m just biding my time.”

Sick of his uncle’s words, Dim reached out with his telekinesis, grabbed his uncle’s jaw, and with a fantastically cruel yank, tore it right off, tongue and all. Dreadful’s eyes went wide with shock, but something told Dim that his uncle wasn’t feeling much in the way of pain. Thoughts racing, he realised that his uncle was probably transforming into a lich, just like his mother had. This of course, presented a dreadful problem of what to do with Uncle Dreadful Dark.

Dim tossed the severed jaw to the floor and snorted in disgust.

For Dim, cruelty was something like a rough beast that he kept in a cage, and in severing his uncle’s jaw, the beast had been set free. Now, Dim struggled to put it back, he fought to contain himself, to rise above his base instincts to dismember and torture his uncle. Nothing good would come of it and if Blackbird found out somehow, she would be upset. She would be upset and that would bother him. For Blackbird’s sake, if not his own, he forced the beast back into its cage and secured the door.

The Spear of Chantico, which protruded from Dreadful on both ends was now making a humming sound. Stepping back, Dim shielded his eyes from the fires which now burned bright, and a second later, Uncle Dreadful immolated. Hearthfire intermingled with vivid, glowing black flames—void-flames—though Dim had no idea how or why he knew this. Uncle Dreadful began to wither and shrivel, as if consumed from within, as if all of his moisture was somehow evapourated. His eyes widened, revealing pain, real pain, as well as shock, surprise, and terror.

Uncle Dreadful began shrinking, desiccating, he withered like an unwatered plant left in the scorching sun. His eyes wrinkled like raisins in their sockets, his ears shriveled until they looked like autumn leaves in winter, and then the flames began to erupt from splits in his body that tore open wide. This void-fire, it seemed to work in harmony with hearthfire, and Uncle Dreadful was being purged, consumed from within by the ravaging flames. Even his ripped-away jaw was undergoing the hideous-but-satisfying transformation and Dim watched with dispassionate, stoic interest.

Curiously enough, Dim felt stronger as his uncle wasted away. His weakness, his fatigue, his weariness, it retreated from him a bit and he knew why, though he could not explain how he knew. By striking down an abomination, he had been replenished, for such was the nature of void-magic. It was a curious thing, something of much fascination, but he didn’t have time for contemplation, as there was much to do.

Revitalised a bit, Dim turned his attention to the two dragons, and pity flooded his heart…

Author's Notes:

Next: a centennial chapter.