"The Haunter of the Pit"
May. 11th, 2022 07:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Haunter of the Pit"
12/1217 DR
I.
When Romal struggled up back to awareness, he instinctively held still and gave no outward sign he was conscious. A lifetime spent with all hands against him had given the Mongrel deep-seated caution. He found he was lying on his back, wrapped in heavy furs, next to a source of intense heat that must be a fire. The room was gloomy, but by the flickering light he could make out a high vaulted ceiling and stone block walls hung with ancient tapestries. The floor he lay upon felt hard and cold.
He held still, gathering his strength. Memory came back to him. He last remembered struggling for days through wind and snow that gave no visibility beyond his hand groping in front of him. The cold had sunk deeply into even his toughened body. Romal had been using a staff made from a oak branch he had hewn himself, dragging himself forward as much as walking. There had eventually been a building in front of him, he realized, a low massive structure with a central tower from which a blue pennant whipped in the wind... a Temple of Cirkoth.
Skandor. Yes, he had come to Skandor, seeking the forbidden Temple of Cirkoth that had been built far from the nearest village out in the frozen wasteland. He remembered it all now. Romal gasped and tried to sit up, fighting the tightly wound blankets that held him as if rolled up in a heavy rug.
"He lives," said a mellow voice with a Skandorian accent. Romal swung his head around to see a robed figure bearing a tallow candle in one hand. The man's head was shaven, even the eyebrows had been removed. This made it difficult to judge the man's age and the lack of eyebrows left his expression enigmatic.
Dropping to one knee, holding the candle high, the monk helped Romal loosen the blankets. "When our Abbot saw you collapse before the front gate, he ordered you brought in and placed here by this fireplace. I have been biding my time at your feet, waiting for you to stir."
"The blizzard..." croaked Romal. His throat was sore.
"It still rages outside," the monk answered. "We think it will last at least another day before it weakens. Fear not. Here in the Temple, food and water have been laid in to last a full winter and wood for the fires is abundant. We are as warm and safe here as anywhere in Skandor this winter."
"I must thank you for taking me in," Romal muttered. Sitting up, pulling the blankets away, he was revealed as a tall, powerfully-built man still wearing a long coat with a fleece lining. The Mongrel had a sullen, brooding face with dark blue eyes and shaggy black hair that reached the base of his neck. He reached up to find that his Trom-metal diadem was still in place but that his ears were exposed.
It was those ears, rising to distinct points, that inevitably gave him away among Humans. He normally covered them with his hair.
"Yes, we know who you are," the monk said. "Romal, called by some the Mongrel. The Seven-In-One. Worry not. No hand will be raised against you here in this holy place. My name is Olioff. I am a senior monk, answering only to our Abbot, the venerable Biurn himself."
Sitting up, Romal took in his surroundings. He was next to a fireplace where thick logs crackled energetically and the odor of wood smoke was not unwelcome. In the light of the flames and of the candle which Olioff held, he made out a long plank table flanked by benches and with stools scattered about. A dining hall?
"Allow me to speak my gratitude more fully," Romal said as he pulled away the blankets from his lower body. His boots had been removed. The Mongrel examined his toes, flexing them, pinching, glad to find full sensation and no signs of frostbite. "I must admit that I did not expect that storm to catch me so quickly!" By now, he was wondering where his sword was. The Temples of Cirkoth did not allow bladed weapons within their doors but he wanted to at least know where to find his sword.
"Do not rise," Olioff advised mildly. "I think you are best served by resting. I will have hot beef broth and some hard bread brought to you. But the Abbot will surely ask me, why are you even in this wasteland far from the loneliest town?"
Romal did not answer immediately. "I am a wanderer on the face of the world," he said at last. "Belonging nowhere, welcomed nowhere, I roam as chance guides me. Something drew me here to this Temple."
"It may not be mere chance," said the monk. "The strong hand and the sharp blade of a known warrior are needed in this place..."
II.
Shortly after, two more monks of Cirkoth had come in, lighting torches that were held in wall brackets. They brought Romal the promised broth, along with a slab of hard dark bread layered in butter and a goblet of red wine that had been watered down. He devoured it all, feeling he could easily had eaten something more along the lines of a leg of lamb.
His unusual vitality, the strength of a full-grown Troll condensed into a Humanlike body, had enabled him to quickly shake off the exposure to the storm. Finding his boots drying near the fireplace, he tugged them back on. When he asked for the return of his sword, he was informed that it was being held for him while he stayed at the Temple.
Romal grudgingly accepted this. Hearing the whistling of the winds through the walls gave him no intention of venturing outside again at the moment. The monk Olioff stayed with him, exchanging polite if inconsequential conversation.
Finally, with the Mongrel refreshed and visibly back to normal, Olioff ventured to meekly ask again if there was some reason Romal had made his way through a bitter Skandorian winter to this remote outpost.
"Very well," Romal said. "I have heard unsettling rumors of this monastery. The monks who travel to the town of Braggul for supplies twice a year were said to be acting strangely. One did not seem to know the merchant he had grown up alongside before taking his vows and another one had forgotten what the words for common items like rope or vinegar were."
Olioff glanced around to see if the other monks had indeed left the dining hall. He leaned closer and whispered, "Who sent you here? Was it the Baron? Or perhaps even an minister of the Queen?"
"No one sent me!" growled the Mongrel. "I come and go as I will. You are afraid, monk... there is terror in your voice. Tell me what makes you tremble in the night."
"I have alrady said too much," Olioff replied in a voice barely audible standing next to Romal. The monk held up a robe of the heavy brown material, complete with cowl and long voluminous sleeves.
The Mongrel accepted the robe gladly. Even with fires blazing in many rooms, this Temple was chilly. Still better than being outside, he thought as he heard the tortured moaning of the winds beyond those massive walls.
"If you dare not tell me more, I do not see how much use I may be to you," Romal snapped. He had never been diplomatic, and his solitary wanderings had not softened his manner. "Once the storm passes, I will be on my way."
Olioff hesitated. The monk's shaven head was bowed as he struggled with some inner conflict. Finally, he raised his blue eyes to meet those of his guest. "Our venerable Abbot has asked to meet with thee when you rose," he said. "Come. I will take you to him."
Following the monk, Romal wished bitterly for a weapon. He had not seen even a table knife that he might secrete on his person for later use. In his Human-seeming body was the strength of a Troll and the quickness of a Snake man, but he had a sinking certainty that he was in great danger and a blade would be welcome.
They passed along winding narrow corridors, insuffiently lit by wall torches as long intervals. On either side were massive doors tightly shut. Once, when passing such a door, the sound of chanting could be heard.
Romal slowed and listened to the haunting melody. It was a well-known prayer to Cirkoth for protection. He knew its plaintive words. "'Lord of the Sky, Merciful Source of Life/We humble ones of this fallen world/Beg Thee to shield us/From the Horrors that stir in the dark..."
"Come, we must not tarry." Olioff raised his candle in its tin dish and urged Romal on. They descended three long flights of carved stone stairs that ended at a platform which held twin doors marked with the thunderbolt emblem of Cirkoth burned into the wood. Romal sensed they were deep beneath the surface, with the blizzard outside no longer audible and the stone floor beneath their feet freezing cold.
Seeing no one in sight, the monk drew closer to his guest. "Say nothing. What I am about to reveal to thee is forbidden knowledge." He handed the candle to Romal and extended his right arm painfully.
Inexplicably, the coarse material of that sleeve wriggled as if some animal was concealed under it. Olioff tugged back the cuff and showed his arm. Romal drew back with a shocked gasp.
III.
From wrist to elbow, the monk's arm was covered with a slimy pink layer of some substance that twitched and shifted with its own life. As Romal stared open-mouthed, the goo extruded a thin tendril which rose up and pointed directly at him.
The Mongrel stepped back a pace, right hand fumbling by habit at his waist for a sword that was no longer buckled there. "Keep your distance or I will strike you dead with my fist," he rumbled from deep in his chest. "By Jordyn Himself, what has HAPPENED to you?"
"This is Yuginoth," answered the monk, pulling the sleeve down again. "My burden is not so heavy as others here, I regret to say."
"Does...does it pain you?"
"One grows used to any pain," Olioff said. "Be alert, my friend. Beware. The darkest threat from the Corruption on Ulgor has survived. A thousand years and more have passed, yet the Sulla Chun have only grown stronger and more insidous. Remember this when you address Biurn."
As Romal watched, the monk graped the brass handles and pulled both doors outward toward them. Beyond was a chamber lit by the ubiquitous fragrant candles, with two identical doors in the wall facing them. Standing in front of those doors were a pair of Cirkoth monks with the shaven heads and bulky robes. But these men wielded stout shpherd's crooks carved of black wood from the forests of Chujir. In skilled hands, those crooks would be formidable weapons.
From where he stood, Romal suspiciously studied the guards to see if he could detect any unnatural stirrings beneath the material on their robes. Nothing. He was not comforted. Something about the dark eyes of these monks had a mocking leer that troubled him.
Olioff bowed from the waist until his head was almost touching his knees. "As I was summoned, so have I obeyed."
"You do what is right in the eyes of our Order," said one of the guards. "And you bring our guest, as you were bidden also."
Each of the men seized a brazen handle and began to pull open the massive inner doors. They did this with one hand, not relinquishing their grip on the crooks. "Outsider, it is wise for you to measure your words carefully. You will be in the presence of an ancient and learned sage, our venerable Biurn who personally founded the Order of Cirkoth."
The Mongrel made no reply. He followed Olioff through the entryway, with the guards following and pulling the doors shut again behind them. They walked into a dimly-lit high-ceilinged room which was unpleasantly stuffy and warm. Against the far wall, raging flames crackled and popped inside a mantlepiece of black stone. Another wall was occupied by narrow wooden slots from which the round ends of rolled up parchment scrolls protruded.
A thin, almost skeletal form wrapped in an ornate blanet sat on a carved wooden chair with a high back. The Abbot of the Temple sat stiffly upright, head raised, watching them enter with no warmth in his bony face.
But it was the contrivance in front of the Abbot's chair that alarmed Romal the most. Set in the floor was a round disc of gray stone ten feet across, etched with arcane symbols and rimmed with a leather strip. In the center of this disc a strong semi-circle held a thick chain which rose straight up to a pulley in the ceiling high overhead.
With increasing uneasiness, the Mongrel saw that the chain supported a stone cylinder thicker than a man's body, and that a simple lever was all that kept that counterweight from crashing to the floor. He scowled and his fear was replaced by a cold determination to survive. No matter what unholy secrets were kept in this chamber, he silently vowed he would not be victim to them. He was no common Men, but the only one of his kind and his will to survive was ferocious.
His sullen thoughts came to a halt as the ancient Biurn spoke. The Abbot's voice was not the thin reedy tone of an old man, but deep and resonant. "I extend you our greetings," the Abbot said. "My guest, grant me knowledge. The tales of your birth and your deeds seem to be substance of mere folktales. Yet here you stand before me."
"What would you wish to hear?" asked Romal. "I do not deny my origins. Yes, it was Tollinor Kje himself who infused the naked body of a newborn Human with traits of all Seven Races. I bear the marks of the Darthim and the Eldarin, the Trolls and the Trom, the Snake men and the Gelydrim of Ulgor. What use to try to keep these matters secret? Every land knows of me by now."
"And you have wandered every realm," the Abbott observed. "You slay tyrants and strange beasts and think you are doing good work. Yet seldom do you delve deeper. You have learned little of matters dark and arcane."
"Oh Revered One..." began Olioff but he was cut off by an imperious gesture from the Abbot.
"I speak of a sublime being from the Dawn of this Age," began the old man. "When the Sulla Chun deigned to import the deepest knowledge to mortal minds, when Jordyn Himself called upon his brother Halarin to sink Ulgor beneath the waves, and many lesser beings of the spirit escaped into the world."
"Hah. I have already met such a 'sublime being,'" Romal snorted. "In Signarm. The Silver Skull and I confronted a fiend who posed as the Magul Ulstril and together we slew it. They may be imposing but they are made of living flesh and can be killed."
"Much has been forgotten by Humans," said Biurn from his throne. The deep sonorous voice was oddly incongruent from such a fragile thin form. "Before Skandor was settled, before mortal Men built their villages and towns in this snow-burdened land, a refugee from the Fall of Ulgor came here. Wounded by the cataclysm, weak by the standards of its time, the great Yuginoth dug out at pit for itself in the bedrock."
Despite himself, Romal turned his eyes toward the circular stone disc in the floor before him, and he shivered.
"The truth dawns, eh?" mocked the Abbot. "Yes. This Temple was constructed over the pit where Great Yuginoth lay dozing and healing. Generations of ascetics have prayed and mediated over this very spot. They have all been fools. Their pleas to Cirkoth and Jordyn and Eryasha have gone unanswered. Yuginoth lives and grows stronger...and spreads His divine presence."
"These men have been infected by a creature of the Sulla Chun!" snapped Romal as his self-control slipped. "It spreads like a fungus. You must act now to stop this plague, Biurn."
The ancient figure twitched jerkily to its feet and stood swaying. "You fool, Biurn is DEAD!" And it tore open its concealing blanket to reveal a torso made of slimy gelatinous matter that was pulsating from within.
IV.
Despite his resolve to not react, Romal drew back in open alarm. A sudden terror of coming in contact with that hideous mass swept over him. The two guards moved in closer with their shepherd crooks in hand.
"Long has Yuginoth needed an emissary to the world beyond this frozen land," announced the Abbot. "You will be that emnissary. Romal the Mongrel, who wanders wherever he wills. Traveling with you will bring with you the few of my monks who live, bearing the bliss of Yuginoth... and you will introduce them to important Humans of the realms."
"No." Just the one word.
"You have met the King of Signarm, Karina of Myrrwha, Eldar nobles from Elvedal," continued the infected being. "They trust you. Once these leaders are blessed with the presence of Yuginoth, you will move on."
"I said NO!" bellowed Romal. He turned his deepset dark blue eyes on the two guards. "And if you fools threaten me with those staffs, I will break your skulls with them."
Dropping back down onto his throne, pulling his robe shut over the unwholesome mass which covered his body, Biurn chuckled. "Olioff, show our guest that glory which he shall join."
The monk obeyed by turning the lever set in the mechanism. The ponderous counterweight sank to the floor on its creaking rope. As it stretched that rope, the circular stone plug was raised up to reveal the pit in the floor. Lit as if from beneath by cold fire, a seething pool of the pink slime bubbled and churned. From the center of its mass, a thick tentacle rose up. On its extremity, a single dark eye opened and peered around.
"Beauty beyond earthly beauty," sang the Abbot. "Wisdom beyond mortal wisdom. You shall be blessed, Mongrel."
"May Fanedral take me first," Romal growled. He clenched his fists and stepped around to face the two guards who had drawn closer. "Stand where you are. I will not give you fools a second warning."
One of the guards drew back his staff and swung it at the Mongrel. Quicker than they could possibly expect, fast as a Snake man striking, Romal seized the crook by its shaft and swung it around to fling the guard headlong into the pit. The man's shriek as he realized his fate echoed in the chamber. He did not sink instantly into the bubbling pink mass but floated on its surface for a second before being dissolved by it. His flesh fell away from his bones as Yuginoth took him.
Romal had not paused to watch. He lunged for the second guard and seized him by one arm and a leg, hoisted the terrified man overhead and threw him in after the first victim. The guard screamed and struggled as the slime ate away as his body while he was still alive.
"Come, Abbot, allow yourself to be blessed by your demon Yuginoth," Romal shouted as he shook a fist at the pit. "Better you than me."
The seemingly frail form of Biurn rose swaying and took up something that had been propped beside the throne. It was Romal's sword, a straight three-foot blade of Signarm steel. The Abbot stepped down from the dais, swinging the weapon in a circle before him.
Far from being intimidated, the Mongrel rumbled deep in his chest like a Troll. He snatched up the shepherd crook which one of the guards had dropped and swung it into a ready stance. As he settled with feet well apart and weight balance, sudden stinging agony shot through his right calf. Romal was taken by surprise and almost fell. Biurn rushed upon him with the sword drawn back. Even distracted by the pain in his leg, the Mongrel shot the end of the crook forward to crack with murderous force in the center of the Abbot's face.
Biun reeled and dropped to his knees, the sword falling from his grasp. Romal cursed and looked down to stare at the oozing tentacle that was wrapped around his leg. He could feel the skin being corroded away. Despite the rubbery resistance of that extrusion, Romal took two quick steps and grasped the dazed form of the Abbot, tossing him bodily into the pit. Even as Biurn sank into the boiling mass of unearthly flesh, Romal finally got his hand on his sword hilt.
Whirling about, the Mongrel chopped down with his sword so hard that the blade sliced entirely through the tough tendril and bounced back up off the stone floor. As he was released, his aching leg gave way beneath him and he fell heavily to the floor. Romal was breathing heavily and he was finding it difficult to concentrate.
Another of the tentacles rose up and headed for him. The Mongrel scrambled away, using his sword as a lever to help himself rise again. He felt he had never been in greater peril to his life and his very spirit. The blunt end of the pink tendril reached for him and he slapped it away with the edge of the blade.
Suddenly he knew what to do. He limped frantically over to the rope that held the counterweight and hacked through it with two strokes. Released, the circular plug dropped straight down to close off the pit. Muffled, barely audible, an enraged wailing rose from beneath that plug.
Romal fell to a seated position, propping himself upright with the sword point jammed against the floor. He tried to catch his breath, dreading what he might find when he examined his aching leg.
"I had not dared to hope you would succeed," Olioff said.
The Mongrel glared furiously at the monk. He had completely forgotten Olioff, hiding in the shadows during the action. Forcing himself back onto his feet, Romal took the hilt in both hands. "You.." he spat. "You are infested with Yuginoth as well."
To his surprise, Olioff got down on both knees, palms on the freezing cold floor and offered the back of his neck. "Perhaps in the life beyond this life, all will be explained," he whispered.
Without a word, the Mongrel struck Olioff's head cleanly off just above the shoulders. There was no blood. Dark ichor ooozed out from the stump and the infection on the monk's arm continued to twitch for a long time. Walking with difficulty, Romal picked up a heavy oak bench and smashed it down to crush that arm. He pressed down as if grinding out a scorpion beneath his boot.
Again, he fell and this time he was not sure he could rise again. Every breath stung. Romal managed to sit up and straighten out his legs, The material over his right calf had been eaten away. Wriggling about, digging into his flesh with sharp tendrils, a mass of the pink slime covered his lower leg.
V.
There was no time to waste bemoaning his fate or crying out to the Halarin for aid. He had to act. Crawling since he could not walk, Romal made his way to where a torch flared at head level in its bracket on the wall. He managed to dislodge the torch and catch it as it fell. Romal braced his back against the side of the late Abbot's throne and extended his throbbing leg out. Face more grim than ever, he held the blade of his sword in the torch flame until the metal glowed red.
The Mongrel pushed back against the throne, took as deep a breath as he could manage and pressed the hot blade against the infestation on his leg. The pink mass recoiled and tore itself lose to slither away. It took chunks of his flesh it as it left, sharp tendrils pulling out from within his calf muscle. Romal hissed through his clenched teeth and bore the pain as best he could.
In another moment, he felt some relief. Although his leg still stung with dire agony, it was a more natural sort of pain. This was like combat wounds he had survived before. At least the feeling of being poisoned had eased up and his head was clearer. Romal bent over and examined his bleeding leg suspiciously. He could find no remnants of the Yuginoth mass on him.
How long he remained leaning up against the carved wooden throne as his strength returned, Romal could not say. His unnatural vitality had always enabled him to survive injuries that would kill normal Humans but the touch of that unearthly substance had stung deeply. He felt almost as if he had been bitten by a viper.
Romal looked around finally, saw a piece of material hanging over the edge of the throne and yanked it free. It was a length of white linen interwoven with blue threads in an intricate pattern. Whatever symbolic meaning it had once held for the monks of Cirkoth, he put it to a more pragmatic use by binding it around the open wound on his leg. Some blood seeped through but not much.
As he recovered, the Mongrel came to terms with his situation. As far as he could see, the stone plug fit so tightly that the pit in the floor was closed off. He saw no sign of Yuginoth being able to ooze up from beneath. Into that pit had gone the Abbot and the two guards and by now they had undoubtedly been digested by that horror from the frozen wastes.
The torch he had used had gone out. The chamber was still lit by the dying fire beneath the mantlepiece and by candles which had burned down to mere stubs while he had recovered. A sudden thought alarmed him. Grasping the throne, sword gripped tightly in his free hand, Romal managed to stand. While his leg ached abominably, it supported him now. He wheeled around and spotted the blob that had been attached to his leg creeping up upon him.
"Oh! You think so, heh?" he roared, slapping the horror away with the flat of his blade. The piece of Yuginoth went sliding across the floor. Romal picked up his torch and lit it again with one of the candles. Its wooden fibers had been soaked in pitch and its flared up promptly. Finding the blob of pink flesh in a dark corner, he pinned it down with the point of his sword and destroyed the thing with the torch flame. Frantic thin tentacles of slimy stuff extended upward but could not reach him. Romal took his time and made sure that the piece of Yuginoth was dead before he finally exhaled and wearily went to drop down upon the throne.
After only a few minutes of rest, Romal stirred himself again. He saw the candles were almost used up. He could not stay here. Digging in a cabinet, the Mongrel discovered a wedge of red cheese and a bottle of sweet wine, both of which he devoured. Feeling more like himself, he took the torch and the sword in hand and surveyed the chamber of the pit one more time.
With sinking heart, he realized his tasks were by no means ended. There were other monks of Cirkoth residing in this Temple. He had heard them chanting behind a door earlier. Romal decided he could not simply flee this cursed place as much as he wanted to. He had to find those monks, strip them by force if necessary and determine if any of their bodies were infected. If so, he would do whatever was necessary to end the threat of Yuginoth.
It must be done. He did not relish the prospect, though. Wincing with every step, the Mongrel opened the door and left the chamber of the pit. Behind him, the candles flickered and went out.
12/14/2017
12/1217 DR
I.
When Romal struggled up back to awareness, he instinctively held still and gave no outward sign he was conscious. A lifetime spent with all hands against him had given the Mongrel deep-seated caution. He found he was lying on his back, wrapped in heavy furs, next to a source of intense heat that must be a fire. The room was gloomy, but by the flickering light he could make out a high vaulted ceiling and stone block walls hung with ancient tapestries. The floor he lay upon felt hard and cold.
He held still, gathering his strength. Memory came back to him. He last remembered struggling for days through wind and snow that gave no visibility beyond his hand groping in front of him. The cold had sunk deeply into even his toughened body. Romal had been using a staff made from a oak branch he had hewn himself, dragging himself forward as much as walking. There had eventually been a building in front of him, he realized, a low massive structure with a central tower from which a blue pennant whipped in the wind... a Temple of Cirkoth.
Skandor. Yes, he had come to Skandor, seeking the forbidden Temple of Cirkoth that had been built far from the nearest village out in the frozen wasteland. He remembered it all now. Romal gasped and tried to sit up, fighting the tightly wound blankets that held him as if rolled up in a heavy rug.
"He lives," said a mellow voice with a Skandorian accent. Romal swung his head around to see a robed figure bearing a tallow candle in one hand. The man's head was shaven, even the eyebrows had been removed. This made it difficult to judge the man's age and the lack of eyebrows left his expression enigmatic.
Dropping to one knee, holding the candle high, the monk helped Romal loosen the blankets. "When our Abbot saw you collapse before the front gate, he ordered you brought in and placed here by this fireplace. I have been biding my time at your feet, waiting for you to stir."
"The blizzard..." croaked Romal. His throat was sore.
"It still rages outside," the monk answered. "We think it will last at least another day before it weakens. Fear not. Here in the Temple, food and water have been laid in to last a full winter and wood for the fires is abundant. We are as warm and safe here as anywhere in Skandor this winter."
"I must thank you for taking me in," Romal muttered. Sitting up, pulling the blankets away, he was revealed as a tall, powerfully-built man still wearing a long coat with a fleece lining. The Mongrel had a sullen, brooding face with dark blue eyes and shaggy black hair that reached the base of his neck. He reached up to find that his Trom-metal diadem was still in place but that his ears were exposed.
It was those ears, rising to distinct points, that inevitably gave him away among Humans. He normally covered them with his hair.
"Yes, we know who you are," the monk said. "Romal, called by some the Mongrel. The Seven-In-One. Worry not. No hand will be raised against you here in this holy place. My name is Olioff. I am a senior monk, answering only to our Abbot, the venerable Biurn himself."
Sitting up, Romal took in his surroundings. He was next to a fireplace where thick logs crackled energetically and the odor of wood smoke was not unwelcome. In the light of the flames and of the candle which Olioff held, he made out a long plank table flanked by benches and with stools scattered about. A dining hall?
"Allow me to speak my gratitude more fully," Romal said as he pulled away the blankets from his lower body. His boots had been removed. The Mongrel examined his toes, flexing them, pinching, glad to find full sensation and no signs of frostbite. "I must admit that I did not expect that storm to catch me so quickly!" By now, he was wondering where his sword was. The Temples of Cirkoth did not allow bladed weapons within their doors but he wanted to at least know where to find his sword.
"Do not rise," Olioff advised mildly. "I think you are best served by resting. I will have hot beef broth and some hard bread brought to you. But the Abbot will surely ask me, why are you even in this wasteland far from the loneliest town?"
Romal did not answer immediately. "I am a wanderer on the face of the world," he said at last. "Belonging nowhere, welcomed nowhere, I roam as chance guides me. Something drew me here to this Temple."
"It may not be mere chance," said the monk. "The strong hand and the sharp blade of a known warrior are needed in this place..."
II.
Shortly after, two more monks of Cirkoth had come in, lighting torches that were held in wall brackets. They brought Romal the promised broth, along with a slab of hard dark bread layered in butter and a goblet of red wine that had been watered down. He devoured it all, feeling he could easily had eaten something more along the lines of a leg of lamb.
His unusual vitality, the strength of a full-grown Troll condensed into a Humanlike body, had enabled him to quickly shake off the exposure to the storm. Finding his boots drying near the fireplace, he tugged them back on. When he asked for the return of his sword, he was informed that it was being held for him while he stayed at the Temple.
Romal grudgingly accepted this. Hearing the whistling of the winds through the walls gave him no intention of venturing outside again at the moment. The monk Olioff stayed with him, exchanging polite if inconsequential conversation.
Finally, with the Mongrel refreshed and visibly back to normal, Olioff ventured to meekly ask again if there was some reason Romal had made his way through a bitter Skandorian winter to this remote outpost.
"Very well," Romal said. "I have heard unsettling rumors of this monastery. The monks who travel to the town of Braggul for supplies twice a year were said to be acting strangely. One did not seem to know the merchant he had grown up alongside before taking his vows and another one had forgotten what the words for common items like rope or vinegar were."
Olioff glanced around to see if the other monks had indeed left the dining hall. He leaned closer and whispered, "Who sent you here? Was it the Baron? Or perhaps even an minister of the Queen?"
"No one sent me!" growled the Mongrel. "I come and go as I will. You are afraid, monk... there is terror in your voice. Tell me what makes you tremble in the night."
"I have alrady said too much," Olioff replied in a voice barely audible standing next to Romal. The monk held up a robe of the heavy brown material, complete with cowl and long voluminous sleeves.
The Mongrel accepted the robe gladly. Even with fires blazing in many rooms, this Temple was chilly. Still better than being outside, he thought as he heard the tortured moaning of the winds beyond those massive walls.
"If you dare not tell me more, I do not see how much use I may be to you," Romal snapped. He had never been diplomatic, and his solitary wanderings had not softened his manner. "Once the storm passes, I will be on my way."
Olioff hesitated. The monk's shaven head was bowed as he struggled with some inner conflict. Finally, he raised his blue eyes to meet those of his guest. "Our venerable Abbot has asked to meet with thee when you rose," he said. "Come. I will take you to him."
Following the monk, Romal wished bitterly for a weapon. He had not seen even a table knife that he might secrete on his person for later use. In his Human-seeming body was the strength of a Troll and the quickness of a Snake man, but he had a sinking certainty that he was in great danger and a blade would be welcome.
They passed along winding narrow corridors, insuffiently lit by wall torches as long intervals. On either side were massive doors tightly shut. Once, when passing such a door, the sound of chanting could be heard.
Romal slowed and listened to the haunting melody. It was a well-known prayer to Cirkoth for protection. He knew its plaintive words. "'Lord of the Sky, Merciful Source of Life/We humble ones of this fallen world/Beg Thee to shield us/From the Horrors that stir in the dark..."
"Come, we must not tarry." Olioff raised his candle in its tin dish and urged Romal on. They descended three long flights of carved stone stairs that ended at a platform which held twin doors marked with the thunderbolt emblem of Cirkoth burned into the wood. Romal sensed they were deep beneath the surface, with the blizzard outside no longer audible and the stone floor beneath their feet freezing cold.
Seeing no one in sight, the monk drew closer to his guest. "Say nothing. What I am about to reveal to thee is forbidden knowledge." He handed the candle to Romal and extended his right arm painfully.
Inexplicably, the coarse material of that sleeve wriggled as if some animal was concealed under it. Olioff tugged back the cuff and showed his arm. Romal drew back with a shocked gasp.
III.
From wrist to elbow, the monk's arm was covered with a slimy pink layer of some substance that twitched and shifted with its own life. As Romal stared open-mouthed, the goo extruded a thin tendril which rose up and pointed directly at him.
The Mongrel stepped back a pace, right hand fumbling by habit at his waist for a sword that was no longer buckled there. "Keep your distance or I will strike you dead with my fist," he rumbled from deep in his chest. "By Jordyn Himself, what has HAPPENED to you?"
"This is Yuginoth," answered the monk, pulling the sleeve down again. "My burden is not so heavy as others here, I regret to say."
"Does...does it pain you?"
"One grows used to any pain," Olioff said. "Be alert, my friend. Beware. The darkest threat from the Corruption on Ulgor has survived. A thousand years and more have passed, yet the Sulla Chun have only grown stronger and more insidous. Remember this when you address Biurn."
As Romal watched, the monk graped the brass handles and pulled both doors outward toward them. Beyond was a chamber lit by the ubiquitous fragrant candles, with two identical doors in the wall facing them. Standing in front of those doors were a pair of Cirkoth monks with the shaven heads and bulky robes. But these men wielded stout shpherd's crooks carved of black wood from the forests of Chujir. In skilled hands, those crooks would be formidable weapons.
From where he stood, Romal suspiciously studied the guards to see if he could detect any unnatural stirrings beneath the material on their robes. Nothing. He was not comforted. Something about the dark eyes of these monks had a mocking leer that troubled him.
Olioff bowed from the waist until his head was almost touching his knees. "As I was summoned, so have I obeyed."
"You do what is right in the eyes of our Order," said one of the guards. "And you bring our guest, as you were bidden also."
Each of the men seized a brazen handle and began to pull open the massive inner doors. They did this with one hand, not relinquishing their grip on the crooks. "Outsider, it is wise for you to measure your words carefully. You will be in the presence of an ancient and learned sage, our venerable Biurn who personally founded the Order of Cirkoth."
The Mongrel made no reply. He followed Olioff through the entryway, with the guards following and pulling the doors shut again behind them. They walked into a dimly-lit high-ceilinged room which was unpleasantly stuffy and warm. Against the far wall, raging flames crackled and popped inside a mantlepiece of black stone. Another wall was occupied by narrow wooden slots from which the round ends of rolled up parchment scrolls protruded.
A thin, almost skeletal form wrapped in an ornate blanet sat on a carved wooden chair with a high back. The Abbot of the Temple sat stiffly upright, head raised, watching them enter with no warmth in his bony face.
But it was the contrivance in front of the Abbot's chair that alarmed Romal the most. Set in the floor was a round disc of gray stone ten feet across, etched with arcane symbols and rimmed with a leather strip. In the center of this disc a strong semi-circle held a thick chain which rose straight up to a pulley in the ceiling high overhead.
With increasing uneasiness, the Mongrel saw that the chain supported a stone cylinder thicker than a man's body, and that a simple lever was all that kept that counterweight from crashing to the floor. He scowled and his fear was replaced by a cold determination to survive. No matter what unholy secrets were kept in this chamber, he silently vowed he would not be victim to them. He was no common Men, but the only one of his kind and his will to survive was ferocious.
His sullen thoughts came to a halt as the ancient Biurn spoke. The Abbot's voice was not the thin reedy tone of an old man, but deep and resonant. "I extend you our greetings," the Abbot said. "My guest, grant me knowledge. The tales of your birth and your deeds seem to be substance of mere folktales. Yet here you stand before me."
"What would you wish to hear?" asked Romal. "I do not deny my origins. Yes, it was Tollinor Kje himself who infused the naked body of a newborn Human with traits of all Seven Races. I bear the marks of the Darthim and the Eldarin, the Trolls and the Trom, the Snake men and the Gelydrim of Ulgor. What use to try to keep these matters secret? Every land knows of me by now."
"And you have wandered every realm," the Abbott observed. "You slay tyrants and strange beasts and think you are doing good work. Yet seldom do you delve deeper. You have learned little of matters dark and arcane."
"Oh Revered One..." began Olioff but he was cut off by an imperious gesture from the Abbot.
"I speak of a sublime being from the Dawn of this Age," began the old man. "When the Sulla Chun deigned to import the deepest knowledge to mortal minds, when Jordyn Himself called upon his brother Halarin to sink Ulgor beneath the waves, and many lesser beings of the spirit escaped into the world."
"Hah. I have already met such a 'sublime being,'" Romal snorted. "In Signarm. The Silver Skull and I confronted a fiend who posed as the Magul Ulstril and together we slew it. They may be imposing but they are made of living flesh and can be killed."
"Much has been forgotten by Humans," said Biurn from his throne. The deep sonorous voice was oddly incongruent from such a fragile thin form. "Before Skandor was settled, before mortal Men built their villages and towns in this snow-burdened land, a refugee from the Fall of Ulgor came here. Wounded by the cataclysm, weak by the standards of its time, the great Yuginoth dug out at pit for itself in the bedrock."
Despite himself, Romal turned his eyes toward the circular stone disc in the floor before him, and he shivered.
"The truth dawns, eh?" mocked the Abbot. "Yes. This Temple was constructed over the pit where Great Yuginoth lay dozing and healing. Generations of ascetics have prayed and mediated over this very spot. They have all been fools. Their pleas to Cirkoth and Jordyn and Eryasha have gone unanswered. Yuginoth lives and grows stronger...and spreads His divine presence."
"These men have been infected by a creature of the Sulla Chun!" snapped Romal as his self-control slipped. "It spreads like a fungus. You must act now to stop this plague, Biurn."
The ancient figure twitched jerkily to its feet and stood swaying. "You fool, Biurn is DEAD!" And it tore open its concealing blanket to reveal a torso made of slimy gelatinous matter that was pulsating from within.
IV.
Despite his resolve to not react, Romal drew back in open alarm. A sudden terror of coming in contact with that hideous mass swept over him. The two guards moved in closer with their shepherd crooks in hand.
"Long has Yuginoth needed an emissary to the world beyond this frozen land," announced the Abbot. "You will be that emnissary. Romal the Mongrel, who wanders wherever he wills. Traveling with you will bring with you the few of my monks who live, bearing the bliss of Yuginoth... and you will introduce them to important Humans of the realms."
"No." Just the one word.
"You have met the King of Signarm, Karina of Myrrwha, Eldar nobles from Elvedal," continued the infected being. "They trust you. Once these leaders are blessed with the presence of Yuginoth, you will move on."
"I said NO!" bellowed Romal. He turned his deepset dark blue eyes on the two guards. "And if you fools threaten me with those staffs, I will break your skulls with them."
Dropping back down onto his throne, pulling his robe shut over the unwholesome mass which covered his body, Biurn chuckled. "Olioff, show our guest that glory which he shall join."
The monk obeyed by turning the lever set in the mechanism. The ponderous counterweight sank to the floor on its creaking rope. As it stretched that rope, the circular stone plug was raised up to reveal the pit in the floor. Lit as if from beneath by cold fire, a seething pool of the pink slime bubbled and churned. From the center of its mass, a thick tentacle rose up. On its extremity, a single dark eye opened and peered around.
"Beauty beyond earthly beauty," sang the Abbot. "Wisdom beyond mortal wisdom. You shall be blessed, Mongrel."
"May Fanedral take me first," Romal growled. He clenched his fists and stepped around to face the two guards who had drawn closer. "Stand where you are. I will not give you fools a second warning."
One of the guards drew back his staff and swung it at the Mongrel. Quicker than they could possibly expect, fast as a Snake man striking, Romal seized the crook by its shaft and swung it around to fling the guard headlong into the pit. The man's shriek as he realized his fate echoed in the chamber. He did not sink instantly into the bubbling pink mass but floated on its surface for a second before being dissolved by it. His flesh fell away from his bones as Yuginoth took him.
Romal had not paused to watch. He lunged for the second guard and seized him by one arm and a leg, hoisted the terrified man overhead and threw him in after the first victim. The guard screamed and struggled as the slime ate away as his body while he was still alive.
"Come, Abbot, allow yourself to be blessed by your demon Yuginoth," Romal shouted as he shook a fist at the pit. "Better you than me."
The seemingly frail form of Biurn rose swaying and took up something that had been propped beside the throne. It was Romal's sword, a straight three-foot blade of Signarm steel. The Abbot stepped down from the dais, swinging the weapon in a circle before him.
Far from being intimidated, the Mongrel rumbled deep in his chest like a Troll. He snatched up the shepherd crook which one of the guards had dropped and swung it into a ready stance. As he settled with feet well apart and weight balance, sudden stinging agony shot through his right calf. Romal was taken by surprise and almost fell. Biurn rushed upon him with the sword drawn back. Even distracted by the pain in his leg, the Mongrel shot the end of the crook forward to crack with murderous force in the center of the Abbot's face.
Biun reeled and dropped to his knees, the sword falling from his grasp. Romal cursed and looked down to stare at the oozing tentacle that was wrapped around his leg. He could feel the skin being corroded away. Despite the rubbery resistance of that extrusion, Romal took two quick steps and grasped the dazed form of the Abbot, tossing him bodily into the pit. Even as Biurn sank into the boiling mass of unearthly flesh, Romal finally got his hand on his sword hilt.
Whirling about, the Mongrel chopped down with his sword so hard that the blade sliced entirely through the tough tendril and bounced back up off the stone floor. As he was released, his aching leg gave way beneath him and he fell heavily to the floor. Romal was breathing heavily and he was finding it difficult to concentrate.
Another of the tentacles rose up and headed for him. The Mongrel scrambled away, using his sword as a lever to help himself rise again. He felt he had never been in greater peril to his life and his very spirit. The blunt end of the pink tendril reached for him and he slapped it away with the edge of the blade.
Suddenly he knew what to do. He limped frantically over to the rope that held the counterweight and hacked through it with two strokes. Released, the circular plug dropped straight down to close off the pit. Muffled, barely audible, an enraged wailing rose from beneath that plug.
Romal fell to a seated position, propping himself upright with the sword point jammed against the floor. He tried to catch his breath, dreading what he might find when he examined his aching leg.
"I had not dared to hope you would succeed," Olioff said.
The Mongrel glared furiously at the monk. He had completely forgotten Olioff, hiding in the shadows during the action. Forcing himself back onto his feet, Romal took the hilt in both hands. "You.." he spat. "You are infested with Yuginoth as well."
To his surprise, Olioff got down on both knees, palms on the freezing cold floor and offered the back of his neck. "Perhaps in the life beyond this life, all will be explained," he whispered.
Without a word, the Mongrel struck Olioff's head cleanly off just above the shoulders. There was no blood. Dark ichor ooozed out from the stump and the infection on the monk's arm continued to twitch for a long time. Walking with difficulty, Romal picked up a heavy oak bench and smashed it down to crush that arm. He pressed down as if grinding out a scorpion beneath his boot.
Again, he fell and this time he was not sure he could rise again. Every breath stung. Romal managed to sit up and straighten out his legs, The material over his right calf had been eaten away. Wriggling about, digging into his flesh with sharp tendrils, a mass of the pink slime covered his lower leg.
V.
There was no time to waste bemoaning his fate or crying out to the Halarin for aid. He had to act. Crawling since he could not walk, Romal made his way to where a torch flared at head level in its bracket on the wall. He managed to dislodge the torch and catch it as it fell. Romal braced his back against the side of the late Abbot's throne and extended his throbbing leg out. Face more grim than ever, he held the blade of his sword in the torch flame until the metal glowed red.
The Mongrel pushed back against the throne, took as deep a breath as he could manage and pressed the hot blade against the infestation on his leg. The pink mass recoiled and tore itself lose to slither away. It took chunks of his flesh it as it left, sharp tendrils pulling out from within his calf muscle. Romal hissed through his clenched teeth and bore the pain as best he could.
In another moment, he felt some relief. Although his leg still stung with dire agony, it was a more natural sort of pain. This was like combat wounds he had survived before. At least the feeling of being poisoned had eased up and his head was clearer. Romal bent over and examined his bleeding leg suspiciously. He could find no remnants of the Yuginoth mass on him.
How long he remained leaning up against the carved wooden throne as his strength returned, Romal could not say. His unnatural vitality had always enabled him to survive injuries that would kill normal Humans but the touch of that unearthly substance had stung deeply. He felt almost as if he had been bitten by a viper.
Romal looked around finally, saw a piece of material hanging over the edge of the throne and yanked it free. It was a length of white linen interwoven with blue threads in an intricate pattern. Whatever symbolic meaning it had once held for the monks of Cirkoth, he put it to a more pragmatic use by binding it around the open wound on his leg. Some blood seeped through but not much.
As he recovered, the Mongrel came to terms with his situation. As far as he could see, the stone plug fit so tightly that the pit in the floor was closed off. He saw no sign of Yuginoth being able to ooze up from beneath. Into that pit had gone the Abbot and the two guards and by now they had undoubtedly been digested by that horror from the frozen wastes.
The torch he had used had gone out. The chamber was still lit by the dying fire beneath the mantlepiece and by candles which had burned down to mere stubs while he had recovered. A sudden thought alarmed him. Grasping the throne, sword gripped tightly in his free hand, Romal managed to stand. While his leg ached abominably, it supported him now. He wheeled around and spotted the blob that had been attached to his leg creeping up upon him.
"Oh! You think so, heh?" he roared, slapping the horror away with the flat of his blade. The piece of Yuginoth went sliding across the floor. Romal picked up his torch and lit it again with one of the candles. Its wooden fibers had been soaked in pitch and its flared up promptly. Finding the blob of pink flesh in a dark corner, he pinned it down with the point of his sword and destroyed the thing with the torch flame. Frantic thin tentacles of slimy stuff extended upward but could not reach him. Romal took his time and made sure that the piece of Yuginoth was dead before he finally exhaled and wearily went to drop down upon the throne.
After only a few minutes of rest, Romal stirred himself again. He saw the candles were almost used up. He could not stay here. Digging in a cabinet, the Mongrel discovered a wedge of red cheese and a bottle of sweet wine, both of which he devoured. Feeling more like himself, he took the torch and the sword in hand and surveyed the chamber of the pit one more time.
With sinking heart, he realized his tasks were by no means ended. There were other monks of Cirkoth residing in this Temple. He had heard them chanting behind a door earlier. Romal decided he could not simply flee this cursed place as much as he wanted to. He had to find those monks, strip them by force if necessary and determine if any of their bodies were infected. If so, he would do whatever was necessary to end the threat of Yuginoth.
It must be done. He did not relish the prospect, though. Wincing with every step, the Mongrel opened the door and left the chamber of the pit. Behind him, the candles flickered and went out.
12/14/2017
