Whispers of the horned beast

From outside the tiny window of the cellar, Scrios could hear a man retching after puking up what could easily be guessed as a whole roast dinner. The new foul stench was a wild new ingredient being added to the full aromatic mixture that made the alleyway near Sesson’s inn the foulest smelling corner of the city.

 

It was week’s end, and many of the common folk where throwing away the cares of their working lives, indulging in as much debauchery as they could afford or dared to steal. All night, Scrios had had to endure atrocious drunken singing, screeches and shouts from people arguing over nothing, and the exaggerated moans and groans from people choosing the same alleyway that was filled with their peers vomit as a place to make love. Maybe there was an erotic quality to the smell, but stars be damned if Scrios would ever understand it.

 

The man finished after a full minute of vomiting, then his footsteps could be heard ambling back into the night. It was three hours past midnight, which meant that mercifully, the incessant revelry would soon cease, and Scrios could finally get some kind of peace.

 

He turned the page of his book, gritting his teeth as the singing drunks outside started a poor rendition of “ Shine me stars, shine!”. He had begrudgingly become adjusted to such distractions to his concentration, and as his ambitions had become closer and closer to becoming reality, he found he could take comfort in knowing that soon, he would never have to suffer indignity at the hands of anyone ever again.

 

The tome was on reported last resting places of Comlach, a man thought by many of the ignorant to be a simple folk hero, but who Scrios now knew to be far more than that. He had been the greatest swordsman of his age, and his sword was said to be the finest weapon ever forged.

 

The sword, yes, that was the key. Nine of the eleven items needed had been acquired, and had been stored in the designated safe-houses until the time was right. As far as the last report from his agents had indicated, utter secrecy was still being maintained. Still, if any of them had been dishonest with him, Scrios knew he was more than capable of making them regret it.

 

He looked up to take in his surroundings. As neat and organized as he’d made it, as rat-free as his charm spells had kept the place, a hovel was still a hovel. The bed still creaked at night, the mould stayed on the walls, the damp still ate at his bones. His magic energy was too vital to waste with fixing these trivial matters, so like everything else, he had learned to endure these things.

 

Still, he took comfort in having been able to acquire from his former associates a strong and sturdy desk, with enough spaces within it to secure all the writing material he could need. With the aid of his reliable contacts among the city’s various criminal elements ( Detestably vulgar as some of them where), he’d been able to take from those fools at the Wizards collegiate a full desk, over a hundred volumes from the deepest archives, and all the alchemical components he ever needed.

 

There where times when he pitied those misguided souls who still studied at the collegiate, always being led astray by those narrow minded old codgers at their head. Some of them where intelligent, sure, and one or two could even be called innovative in their thinking.

 

But those few bright lights where sadly dulled by being surrounded by dullards, rote learning the rudiments of higher magics, without ever truly pausing to think of the true meaning behind them, and what one could really achieve with the right inclination. For some, it was enough that they could cast a powerful fireball, amusing themselves like children as they smouldered training dummies. Others simply felt like pontificating on their responsibility to the kingdom and it’s people, preaching the hollow virtues of altruistic uses of spells.

 

Of course, he’d not truly belonged in such company. Scrios smiled as he remembered that first chance encounter with the old tome that had begun the path that he now followed to glory. He’d been different then, more like one of the good sheep.

 

He was kindly helping old master Kelse sort through the old books in the lower library, as he did every midweek night. The dear old man couldn’t walk ten feet without having to catch his breath, much less climb the ladders and reach behind shelves. So it was Scrios who kindly did the more strenuous tasks, while Kelse napped at his desk.

 

The old man had been especially tired that night, and he informed Scrios that the College master had wanted the secret archives of the library sorted through, as it had been a long interlude since anyone had ventured there. Apparently, Kelse was under strict instructions to complete this task without any help from Scrios, and to finish the job that night.

 

But Kelse had no intention of risking his failing health for the college’s sake, and besides, it was his nephews birthday party that night. So to that end, he handed Scrios a black key, and whispered the four watchwords that the young student would need to bypass the enchantments that protected the archives. He promised Scrios that if he was caught, he’d protect him from all blame.

 

It shamed Scrios now how nervous he’d been, how timid. He’d protested, but to no avail, as the old man was as insistent as ever. In the end, he relented, and made his way down the flight of stairs that lead to the place he’d heard so many rumours about: The secret archives. Older students would tease their juniors about the evils that lurked down there.

 

Vampire skeletons, demon skulls, and books that could swallow your soul just by being opened, that was but a small part of what was rumoured to await him. Yet, as he finished reciting the watchwords and turned the key, he found naught but dusty shelves. No display cases, no legendary weapons on the walls, just three nondescript rows of books. All of them where padlocked shut of course, these where meant to be forbidden tomes. Only masters could make a request to withdraw one of them, and only then was a key given out.

 

A short time passed, as Scrios set about his work. It was mostly dusting that needed doing, and he was sure he’d soon be finished. Still, a part of him was a little disappointed at just how mundane the archives seemed to be. He’d not believed the fanciful tales of course, but for a place known to secure some of the darkest secrets known to the realm itself, it was pitifully dull.

 

Then he saw it. On one of the bottom shelves, tucked away in a corner, a book lay with it’s padlock broken. Scrios could see no title or symbol on the brown leather cover, so he was unsure as to what he should do. Of course, looking inside it was out of the question, he knew that much. It was in the secret archives for a reason, and he had no desire to taint himself with forbidden knowledge.

 

In his hovel, Scrios chuckled as he reflected on his timid former self. What a fool that naive boy had been, what a-

 

“ Athcor, open up! Rents due, you little weasel!”

 

From his reverie, Scrios was ripped back to the indignity that was his present reality. Looking at his hourglass, he saw it to be three past midnight. So of course, his most generous landlord was choosing this time to pound his fat fist on the door of his only tenant.

 

Scrios sighed, and got up to unlock the door. Upon opening it, a foul waft of ale-marked breath greeted him, as he gazed upon the bulky sight of Madan, in his regular week’s end state of being so drunk he could barely stand. His shabby clothes where hanging off his ample frame, and he swayed slightly as he placed his hand on the wall by Scrios’s door, leaning in at an attempt at intimidation.

 

“ Iz rent day, you puny shit!” He slurred out, brow furrowing as he struggled to form sentences.

 

Scrios looked behind his bulky frame, and he was not surprised to see a young woman, red haired of course, wearing a low cut cheap dress and wearing a copious level of make up. Another prostitute, of course. Once again, Madan didn’t have the money to pay her on his person, so he had decided once again to acquire the funds for his lust by bullying the meek clerk who lived in his Cellar room.

 

Scrios took a second to calm himself, lest he set Madan on fire right here and now. In these times, it was important he maintain the character of Athcor, poor clerk and amateur scholar, who wanted no trouble with anybody, and was happy to just have a place to stay.

 

“ Re-rents not due till next week, if you don’t mind me saying so Madan sir.” ‘Athcor’ conjectured, his voice wavering in apparent fear

 

Madan Growled at this affront “ Now listen here you maggot, rents due when I say its due. I know you’ve got the money, hold out on me and I’ll toss you out of here faster than you can piss!”

 

It was necessary for Madan’s ego that ‘Athcor’ put up this token show of resistance. He had found this out to his cost one night when he had given him the money straight away, and had been struck with a powerful right hook. Madan had failed to join both the regular kings army and the city watch, and the latter seemed to accept anybody. So he’d taken a job as a bouncer at Sesson’s, which was convenient seeing how close the inn was to the house he’d inherited from his grandmother.

 

Still, his lack of restraint in indulging his tastes, coupled with a poor understanding of finances, had forced Madan to open up the cellar room for rent. ‘Athcor’ had asked once how many tenants had come before him, and Madan had used his fingers to count five. Most likely had left due to being unable to tolerate behaviour like that of tonight, but to give the brute some credit, he never bothered his cellar tenant for anything but rent, and was otherwise content to leave the shy clerk be.

 

‘Athcor’ cowered slightly, putting his hands up to guard his face.

 

“ All right Madan, all right” said ‘Athcor’ with a whimper. He reached into his shirt pocket, and produced three paper bills. “ Here’s thirty king’s, that’s enough right?”

 

Madan snatched the bills out of ‘Athcor’s’ hand, triggering a flinch from the smaller man. His narrow eyes examined the bills for a moment, then he gave a grunt that seemed to indicate satisfaction.

 

“ Cheers Athcor, always can rely on Soyuz cantz I!” Bellowed Madan with evident self-satisfaction.

 

‘ Athcor’ nodded. “ Of course you can Madan sir. Anything else I can do for you?”

 

Madan slowly shook his head “ Nope, yer good for tonight. Now iffan ye don’t mind, me an my friend are gunna go to my room.”

 

He winked at this last, as if he where being subtle about his intentions with this young woman. Scrios could see her give a weak smile his way, her eyes betraying sympathy for the poor young fellow. She dropped it the moment Madan turned back to her, returning to her pose of second rate seductress.

 

With a final grunt, Madan Left his put upon tenant alone, leading his red-haired rented lover along the corridor and up the stairs leading to the main floor. Scrios could hear them muttering to each other and giggling as they went, likely at Athcor’s expense. The satisfaction of being able to bully a weak willed clerk into giving him a meagre sum of money would likely spur Madan into a spirited performance in the bedroom. Scrios was grateful that Madan’s room was in the attic, so he never had to hear the sounds of coupling that surely came weekly.

 

He sighed, and closed the cellar door. It was late, and he did feel weary after yet another performance. At times like these, he wondered if he could venture a career in the theatre, seeing how easily he could adopt the mask of such a mild man.

 

But then, he always remembered that the Athcor persona was simply a mirror of his former self, the punctual student with round spectacles who would trip over and drop his books. It wasn’t difficult to become Athcor, as a part of him still was Scrios the good student.

 

But soon, Athcor would be dead, and Scrios would be free to be himself again. No, more than himself, far greater than himself or anyone could have foreseen he could be. It was all coming together now, the final pieces where falling into place. He felt like a child awaiting his birthday, for in a way it would be. A rebirth, as it where, and it was coming ever closer.

 

He walked toward his small bed, and laid down under the sheets. With a click of his fingers, the candle on his desk went dark, and with that he put his head upon the pillow. He knew that he had a busy day tomorrow, as it would be the day that one of the final stages of his grand plan, which had taken over two years to reach this point, would begin. He knew that the four individuals upon whom this plan depended where in the city by now, and that they knew nothing of the true purpose as to their being hired. One more simple stage, and it would be nearly time for the glorious end.

 

As his eyelids drooped and the bliss of sleep began to overcome him, Scrios gave voice to the object of his desire, like a lovesick youth speaking the name of the girl he fancied,

 

“ Tarrasque”