Chapter 21: The Doorway to Nowhere

Chapter 21: The Doorway to Nowhere

The Institutes Hall of Rituals had turned into an art gallery.

When the time came to finally complete the Painted Door project, Hermann decided to have multiple pictomancy works set on the rooms walls; especially pictures associated with death, the Silent King, or doorways. The troglodyte hoped that the presence of so many art pieces in close proximity would somehow enhance the planned ritual.

It took hours for the Institutes golems to transport them all. In total, the exhibition included twenty pictures, from Hermanns cubical, geometric designs to a copy of the famous Pickmans Supper macabre painting. Meanwhile, Valdemar only offered one contribution to the exhibition.

So, if I understand, Valdemar asked his grandfathers portrait, switching from his native Azlantean to English while writing down notes in his notebook. I need to add ed to the end of a verb to speak about the past. Like I goed to the church last month?

Yes, for most verbs, his grandfathers shade replied. The painting looked outwardly the same, but Valdemars true sight identified the countless magical wards protecting it; Lord Och had personally outfitted the artifact with his own protection spells to ensure it would survive whatever may come. But some verbs change entirely if used with the past tense. The past of go is went.

Huh? Why?

Its an irregular verb. There are many others. Like how the past of make is made.

But What is the point? his grandson asked in confusion. If you have a simple rule, why make common verbs abstain from following it? What higher grammar purpose does it serve?

His grandfathers portrait smiled in embarrassed silence.

Valdemar sighed. Is there a way to identify an irregular verb from a law-abiding one?

No, but I remember most of the list.

So Valdemar would have to memorize them all? Damn it. Alright, could you give me the list, grandpa? the summoner asked as he scribbled on his notebook. Go becomes went, make becomes made...

His grandfather listed all the irregular words, or rather the few that he remembered. Valdemar had noticed a few other irregular words in the journal, but when he pointed them out to the animated painting the portrait couldnt identify them.

Curse the inquisitors for interrupting his ritual the first time!

Besides the occasional oddities, mastering the English language had come easily to Valdemar. Contrary to his grandfathers native French tongue, the grammar rules were relatively simple, with only one word for each concept and little reliance on outside context to get the meaning of a sentence across. French had less irregular verbs but harder conjugation, more flexible use of word placement, and differentiated between a formal and informal dialect.

He still had no idea why the British tribe called their language English rather than British though.

The holes in his grandfathers memory unfortunately made identifying specific English words difficult. Valdemar was confident he could decode most of the journals coded pages given time, but not all of them.

I am glad to see you are making progress, my apprentice, Lord Ochs voice suddenly echoed at Valdemars left. By now, the summoner had grown used to his mentor teleporting into his presence without warning. Time is the most precious currency of all. The only one we cannot get back.

Valdemar closed his notebook and offered a nod to his grandfathers portrait. I need to go, grandpa, he said while bowing. Well continue another time.nove(l)bi(n.)com

Be careful, Valdemar, the portrait advised. Dont talk to strangers.

A bit too late for that, Valdemar thought as he glanced at Lord Och. The lich carried the spiral mask his apprentice had recovered in Astaphanos. Are you returning it to me, my teacher? the summoner asked.

It is yours, my apprentice. Though I thank you for bringing it to me for study. The lichs skeletal fingers trailed on the masks spiral design. Your intuition was once again correct. The material making up this artifact comes from the surface.

From the Whitemoon itself? Valdemar had suspected a connection after his dream.

Yes and no. This mask was made from the hide of a powerful creature that traveled to our world with the Whitemoon, and now roams the surface above our heads. I suspect you already heard of it.

Valdemar gritted his teeth. The Nightwalker.

This Stranger was infamous for roaming the desolate, snowy surface above Underland. The entity had attempted to descend underground in the past, only to be repelled by powerful magical wards set by the Dark Lords. Cults worshipping it often attempted to travel to the surface, to be rewarded with transformation into higher beings that could thrive in the eternal night and bitter cold.

Did the mask create a psychic connection with the creature? It would explain Valdemars dream. The summoner had seen the surface through the eyes of another, gaining a glimpse of the horrors that now inhabited the ruins of ancient civilizations.

Why are you giving it back to me, knowing the danger this artifact represents? Valdemar asked his teacher. Iren couldnt find any receipt or transaction papertrail in the shops registers. The mask found its way to the shop on its own.

Of course it did. It was a gift, Valdemar. His reluctance amused Lord Och. How ungrateful of you to spite anothers generosity.

I am not fond of poisoned gifts. For all Valdemar knew, the mask could give the Nightwalker a foothold into his mind.

All gifts are poisoned, young Valdemar, because they are never free. They always come with a subtle string called the law of reciprocity. I give you this ring, but in exchange, you must share your life with me. I offer my friendship, but you must help me in return when I need it. Together, all these obligations form a web that we call society.

What about selflessness? Helping someone because its the right thing to do, without expecting anything in return?

Oh, but help is never truly free, Lord Och replied, his ghostly eyes flickering like candles. Sometimes, the reward is ones own gratification, the addictive drug we call self-righteousness.

That is a very cynical vision of the world, my teacher, the summoner replied with a frown. Somehow, the discussion had become a philosophical debate. I hope that I never come to share it.

Navet is the privilege of the young, my apprentice.

And cynicism is the last refuge of the old?

The lich chuckled. I should remove your tongue for your insolence, but I will indulge you for now. Age, and the world we live in, will teach you wisdom soon enough.

Wisdom? Where was wisdom to be found in such nihilism? The world was not a fine place, true. Valdemar couldnt deny it. But someone seeing only the bad parts of it was just as blind as those who only wished to see the good ones.

Lord Och gave Valdemar an indecipherable gaze. The lichs skull was an expressionless mask, but for a moment his apprentice saw the light in them vacillate; as if his very thought had struck a chord with the Dark Lord.

How old, the ancient undead rasped, do you think I am?

Valdemar considered the question thoughtfully. Lord Och predated the empires foundation, and was probably a lich already by then. Some said that the undead warlock was older than the Descent itself, though his apprentice doubted it; humans only discovered the Blood and undeath after fleeing into Underlands depths. Between eight and six hundred years old?

Eight or six or ten, I had learned all I needed to know about our species by the first two, Lord Och replied coldly. Some philosophers in my youth said that peace would be achieved when everyone lived in comfort, that we should give all citizens a voice in the government. Ive listened to rulers making speeches about how, if they were granted ultimate power, they could bring eternal order and prosperity to mankind. I have survived more wars than you had years, watched nations turn to dust. And across the long centuries, I have seen our kind make the same mistakes over, and over, and over again.

Valdemar listened in respectful silence, trying to see where the lich was getting at.

Human natureno, the very nature of sentient lifeis unchanging like gravity, the ancient Dark Lord explained. It always pulls us down. The ancients complain about the good old times, while the young believe they can do anything. The weak envy the powerful, and the strong sow the seeds of their own demise through their willful indulgence. Empires rise and fall apart as easily as republics and democracies. The system we Dark Lords have created is the stablest one yet because we understand human ambition and keep it tightly leashed. But even so, for all of our efforts, this great undying pyramid is always one slip, one mistake away from collapsing.

By now, Valdemar couldnt keep his mouth shut. So what?

So what, he asks, Lord Och replied with a laugh. You are working under the delusion that bringing the sun back to our fellow humans will make them happier. You are wrong. It will make their lives more comfortable, yes. They will swear to make it right this time, to change their ways because they feel regrets about the sacrifices they had to make until they do not. They will fight for resources, for glory, for the color of their skin or for a useless patch of land. You could give our people everything, and they would still be unsatisfied.

I do not have the benefit of your age, sir, so I will trust your expertise, Valdemar replied calmly. But if we abandon hope for a brighter tomorrow for our kind whats left to believe in?

Power, the lich replied immediately. Knowledge. And yourself.

So, giving up on everyone and everything else? Thats a lonely path to walk. And not one Valdemar wanted for himself.

Perhaps, but it is a less painful path than the one you are treading on. Only bitterness and disappointment lie ahead of you, my apprentice.

With all due respect, my teacher, I believe my beliefs and magical potential are unrelated, Valdemar argued. Whether I face success or disappointment, I will carry on regardless.

I hope so for you, but I have seen too many promising sorcerers wallowing in self-pity. The only way to become powerful, truly powerful, is to stand above the petty squabbles of mankind. The sooner you free yourself from others expectations, the better. The lich chuckled. Except mine, of course. Do not disappoint them.

After a short silence, Lord Och waved his hand. A bubble of crimson mist formed around him and Loctis, and when the lichs mouth moved, no sound came out of it. None that Valdemar could hear.

Whatever they discussed, they didnt want their students to learn it. Maybe it was a state secret about the Derro Kingdoms ambitions.

Well, in the end, it didnt matter. Valdemar shrugged and examined Hermanns painting supplies. Is everything ready?

Yes The troglodytes tail waved behind him uncontrollably as he handed Valdemar his palette. Im Im nervous and yet excited too.

Same. Valdemar glanced at the pigments. His blood mixed with that of his fellow pictomancer, for the red; Colophryar extracts for the blue; and the Collectors blood for the yellow. Hermann had mixed various combinations to create other colors, from green to orange, even a deep shade of purple. Im taking a risk by bringing my grandfathers portrait to this gathering. Frankly, if Lord Och hadnt warded it himself

I swear it it will not be in vain. It will improve our odds I know that. Hermann glanced at the exhibition. Where is... Friggas portrait?

I barely started it, Valdemar admitted while shuddering. Frigga had proven to be a wonderful model, aesthetically speaking but the more he painted for her, the more she asked for ghoulish alterations. She wants me to represent her with half her body rotting now. To show lifes fragility. Between us,I would rather paint Liliane or Marianne. Frigga just rubs me the wrong way.

You know some of my kindred eat dark elves. Hermann handed him a piece of charcoal, so they could make a sketch of the painting before starting with the paint job. I frown on these practices

But you wouldnt mind making an exception for Frigga? Valdemar chuckled. I wouldnt recommend it. She probably tastes bitter and rancid.

Its not about the taste. Hermanns lips pursed to reveal the fangs beneath. Its about pleasure.

By now, the two pictomancers didnt even need to argue about the sketch. They acted as one, drawing a charcoal picture of a wide gate opening into a foreign world of sand dunes with a black sun in the skies. The wood panel was two meters seventy centimeters tall, with a width of two meters; large enough to let both humans and troglodytes through.

You know Hermann cleared his throat. The harvested poplar tree we used was recreated from a fossil. There is no other support... like this one.

We gathered materials worthy of a god, Valdemar agreed. If the Silent King snubs us, I will be mad.

His remark made Hermann thoughtful. I I hope it will work. I researched I researched him for years. If we fail if we fail, Im considering an an alternative.

Create a painted world?

Yes. Create a world for my kind piece by piece. Hermann hesitated. But I I will need help. To bind the creatures to use as fuel.

Say no more, I will help you depopulate the Outer Darkness, Valdemar vowed with a smile. Each Qlippoth piece will have its place.

Thank you Hermanns inhuman lips morphed into a smile. Maybe we could link the painted place to your grandfathers portrait. Let you touch him.

Valdemars heart skipped a beat. Its possible?

I do not know but we can try.

Their respective masters finished their conversation, with Lord Och canceling his spell to oversee the sketch. Are you ready to begin? he asked, both Valdemar and Hermann nodding at once. Then proceed.

Both pictomancers grabbed their paintbrushes and began to work.

Their blood mixed with the pigments as they applied the first coat of paint. Valdemar sensed the gaze of his teacher on his back, the invisible pressure of his expectations. But his arm remained steady, as did Hermanns. Their paint brushes followed the outline sketch, creating sharp colored lines.

Then, once they had completed the outline, they started filling in the various shapes. A halo of blue for the door; a pale hue of yellow for the endless desert beyond; a dark shade of red for the sky above it. They mixed the colors with expert care, choosing the right composition for the most vivid result.

At this point, they should have let the painting dry before moving on to the next phase of the composition but the pigments seemed to do it on their own. Fumes came out of the black sun at the compositions center.

Hermanns hand approached the dark star without touching it. I sense heat.

Yes. The center of the painting radiated warmth, drying the paint by itself. A fount of magic erupted from the black sun like a fountain; a power similar to the Blood, and yet subtly different.

A spell that neither Hermann nor Valdemar had cast. They glanced over their shoulders, Lord Och giving them a nod while Loctis swarm remained unnervingly silent.

The pictomancers switched from coating the wood to adding texture, depths and thickness. They added layers to the gateway and to the sun, filled the skies with blood, and gave shape to each grain of sand. The portraits lines shifted on their own, the magic of both sorcerers suffusing every shade, every hue. Valdemar noticed his grandfathers portrait fidgeting at the edge of his eye, alongside the other pieces exhibited. They sensed an invisible pull, something that the painters could barely perceive.

The Silent King walked on the painted dunes, beyond the doors threshold.

He was small, so small that Valdemar could barely see him. His robes were a shade of dark green, tattered rags fluttering in the wind. A mass of multicolored tentacles squirmed beneath his hood, obscuring the light of his eyes. The creature took a step, and then another.

The Silent King was moving closer.

By now, Valdemar painted entirely on instinct. His hand was no longer his own. Something other than his will guided it, as gentle as a parents hand, as cold and alien as an otherworldly outsider. An invisible bond connected the summoner to the creature on the other side, using the painting as a medium; the same way Valdemar used a circle to bind Qlippoths to his will. Hermann was as transfixed as his colleague. The rest of the world no longer mattered. Only this painted door, this perfect magnum opus, deserved their full attention.

Even when the ground started shaking beneath their feet.

A deep rumble echoed through the Hall of Rituals, and dust fell on Valdemars shoulders. The walls trembled, but he didnt care, didnt let that interfere. His hand turned into festering flesh and sick pale eyes opened all over his arm, but he didnt care.

He only had eyes for the alien world before him. The ruins of an ancient city rose from beneath the painted dunes, alongside floating structures of stone rising in a cloudless sky and spiraling staircases that no man had ever seen. Statues of alien, defaced giants appeared all over the horizon, all of them in awe of the black suns radiance. The Silent King walked closer and closer, his open eyes revealing stars and a glimpse at forgotten cosmic secrets. Beckoning the painters to take a step into this brand new and terrifying world.

An alien howl echoed across the hall, and Valdemars paintbrush snapped between his fingers.

Only then did the summoner regain awareness of his reality, to see it blurring with a nightmare. His hand had turned into the same festering flesh and eyes as the walls beyond the Institute, and a fanged mouth snapped its jaws inside his palm. The Hall of Rituals had gained new colors, reality blurring like a chaotic canvas. The other paintings in the exhibit appeared like islands in a sea of fresh paint.

Lord Ochs voice cut through the noise, as sharp as a sword.

Carry on.

The lich remained imperturbable, while Loctis cast spells at his side. Though he appeared an eternity away from Valdemar, Lord Ochs voice reached his students ears just fine.

Carry on, he repeated.

And Valdemar returned to work. His paintbrush broken, he used the same technique as the blood bullet to solidify his bodys fluids into a crystalized wand to carry on. Hermann had switched from using his brush to his tail, while his eyes shone with feverish madness. They added shadows on the city, highlighted the black suns dark radiance, and worked all the disparate details into a single, unified whole.

An invisible force pushed against his face as he gazed into the painted door, small grains of sand hitting his cheek.

Wind, Valdemar thought in his creative fever. Not the cold, howling blizzard that his mask had shown him, but a dry, warm breeze.

The Silent King looked tall beyond the threshold, so close he was but one step away from crossing it. And yet, he did not. The Stranger stood on the other side, gazing through the portrait as he did with countless others.

The Silent King didnt say a word, nor did he need to. His meaning was clear as springwater, as all pieces fell into place. His visits to painters and madmen had never been a call to summon him to the material plane. Silent or not, a true king did not visit foreign courtiers.

Come.

A true king invited.

Hermann and Valdemar werent the summoners.

They were the ones being summoned.

And so the two pictomancers answered the call. They couldnt resist, even if they had wanted to. They had poured their blood and soul into this masterpiece, and it wouldnt come to life without this final commitment.

They stepped through the painted door and into another world.