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A Dram of Dweomer
I raced along the forest trail towards the dark altar, seeing the leaves dotted with traces of blood from Laskuthur’s latest victim, hoping I could reach him before he sealed himself away again… But as I broke through the thick brush, I saw the rune-enforced stone slab descending over the altar, with just a hint of the evil one’s claws visible as the gap closed to all mortal effort. I heard his mocking voice in my mind’s ear.
“Again, Jeroum, you’re just a trifle too late, in keeping with all your efforts to annoy me. I am secure now, and you shall not have time to undo the sigils ere I translocate my corpus to a safer and more remote place… Though I shall enjoy watching you fumble about in frustration.”
For my part I spoke nothing, but pulled out a phial I’d prepared earlier. I marked an ancient oak that grew near the altar, gnarled by age and wind but still noble in its solidity. I bowed to the tree, offering it a deep apology, though necessarily a swift one.
Then I reached forward and grasped a low hanging limb. The power flowed in through the tight lingam fibers and I felt deeper into its past. The seasons flowed by like bubbles in a rushing river as I reached through the years and started to pull.
At first, little was visible, the leaves trembled and seemed to flicker, though they flashed so quickly from green to orange to dead brown that they still seemed an autumn jumble for a while. But then the twigs drew back, and limbs shrank towards the trunk, and its height diminished, the lofty top seeming to collapse down towards me.
And still the years poured into my arm and swelled there abuzzing, as the tree shrank to sapling and thence to a thin shoot in the earth that I was able to pull free with a yank. I turned and pressed the dirt-clotted root ball to the solid stone door.
And then, with great relief, I let the weight of those buzzing burdensome years back out of me.
The roots of the tiny sapling curled about, seeking purchase, and then found the tiniest crevices on the door. They squirmed in and burgeoned, swelling with purpose, and flakes of stone started to chip away. The roots gnarled and thickened as the seasons swarmed back through the oak, guiding it into a redirected destiny.
I heard him grunting within the altar, trapped in a coffin of his own design, but he could scarcely have prepared himself to resist an attack that in a sense began a hundred years ago. The bark turned rough and gray, the foliage surrounded me as I kept my grasp upon the rough limbs, and leaves swelled around me and acorns fell to the forest floor in a near constant rain. The ancient tree grew awry, for that it was anchored around an effective tomb, but it grew steadily nonetheless, as the sunshine of past years returned its nourishment to the sap.
And meanwhile the roots of time squirmed into every last crack in the altar, prising between joints sealed with mortar or demonic compact, relentless and implacable with the vegetable patience and persistence that beds the forest within the earth.
“Interesting, Jeroum, Suppose we say that you won this one? I have much to reveal should you choose to be reasonable. Would it surprise you to learn that your daughter still lives, that I can lead you to her? She abides with my agents, who even now hold her as guarantor of my safety… Jeroum, do you not heed me?”
I remembered his earlier promises, and knew beyond the hopes of my heart that there was no substance under his lies. I kept silent, bade the memory of my lovely child farewell and let the years flow as the mighty taproot finally split the slab with shards of granite flying, and pierced deep into the darkness below.
And when the wood sundered the vampire’s breast and entwined his withered ashen heart, that was when I heard the promises turn to pleading, to fear, to the desperate shrieks of a mortally wounded animal. I waited until all fell silent.
Then I knelt, under the spreading foliage of the rerooted oak, once again grown to venerable age. It was bent now by the altar stones and scarred by dark bands of evil enchantments… yet its leaves spread fair and green for all that.
“Again, Jeroum, you’re just a trifle too late, in keeping with all your efforts to annoy me. I am secure now, and you shall not have time to undo the sigils ere I translocate my corpus to a safer and more remote place… Though I shall enjoy watching you fumble about in frustration.”
For my part I spoke nothing, but pulled out a phial I’d prepared earlier. I marked an ancient oak that grew near the altar, gnarled by age and wind but still noble in its solidity. I bowed to the tree, offering it a deep apology, though necessarily a swift one.
Then I reached forward and grasped a low hanging limb. The power flowed in through the tight lingam fibers and I felt deeper into its past. The seasons flowed by like bubbles in a rushing river as I reached through the years and started to pull.
At first, little was visible, the leaves trembled and seemed to flicker, though they flashed so quickly from green to orange to dead brown that they still seemed an autumn jumble for a while. But then the twigs drew back, and limbs shrank towards the trunk, and its height diminished, the lofty top seeming to collapse down towards me.
And still the years poured into my arm and swelled there abuzzing, as the tree shrank to sapling and thence to a thin shoot in the earth that I was able to pull free with a yank. I turned and pressed the dirt-clotted root ball to the solid stone door.
And then, with great relief, I let the weight of those buzzing burdensome years back out of me.
The roots of the tiny sapling curled about, seeking purchase, and then found the tiniest crevices on the door. They squirmed in and burgeoned, swelling with purpose, and flakes of stone started to chip away. The roots gnarled and thickened as the seasons swarmed back through the oak, guiding it into a redirected destiny.
I heard him grunting within the altar, trapped in a coffin of his own design, but he could scarcely have prepared himself to resist an attack that in a sense began a hundred years ago. The bark turned rough and gray, the foliage surrounded me as I kept my grasp upon the rough limbs, and leaves swelled around me and acorns fell to the forest floor in a near constant rain. The ancient tree grew awry, for that it was anchored around an effective tomb, but it grew steadily nonetheless, as the sunshine of past years returned its nourishment to the sap.
And meanwhile the roots of time squirmed into every last crack in the altar, prising between joints sealed with mortar or demonic compact, relentless and implacable with the vegetable patience and persistence that beds the forest within the earth.
“Interesting, Jeroum, Suppose we say that you won this one? I have much to reveal should you choose to be reasonable. Would it surprise you to learn that your daughter still lives, that I can lead you to her? She abides with my agents, who even now hold her as guarantor of my safety… Jeroum, do you not heed me?”
I remembered his earlier promises, and knew beyond the hopes of my heart that there was no substance under his lies. I kept silent, bade the memory of my lovely child farewell and let the years flow as the mighty taproot finally split the slab with shards of granite flying, and pierced deep into the darkness below.
And when the wood sundered the vampire’s breast and entwined his withered ashen heart, that was when I heard the promises turn to pleading, to fear, to the desperate shrieks of a mortally wounded animal. I waited until all fell silent.
Then I knelt, under the spreading foliage of the rerooted oak, once again grown to venerable age. It was bent now by the altar stones and scarred by dark bands of evil enchantments… yet its leaves spread fair and green for all that.