Hundreds of vacant eye sockets peer at him from their final resting place. The bleach skulls gleam in his torchlight, their menacing contorting faces grimacing as he squeezes through the narrow burial chamber. Underfoot, bones as old as kingdoms, crunch under his boots. A steady trickle of water echoes in the land of the dead. It pools under a forgotten ribcage discarded over the muddy stone. The air is hot, acrid and clings to his nostrils. Each step towards his destination contorts his body; it’s a struggle between the mud, the stench, and the low ceiling.
The dripping disappears, vanishing like a nightmare, only to have a cacophony of growling usurp it. The sound, disgruntled and impatient, vibrates the ground under him. It knocks loose dirt from above, and the dust sticks to his sweaty skin. The grumbling rolls over his body, but he fights the trembling crawling up his spine. Clenching his jaw; he steels himself as he approaches the flickering beacon at the end of the passage.
The roar echoes as he enters the rotunda, a place once used by priest to commit the dead to their burial is now crammed with reinforced iron cages. Torches and diminishing fire pits offer enough light to see the beasts but not make it comfortable. The bars rattle, their heavy chains clank, reminding him their prison is only a temporary state of existence. An insertion that they haven’t relinquished their freedom. He dismisses their futile attempts to intimidate, knowing they’ll soon get their wish. But like any master, it’ll be on his terms.
Broken altars and cracked stone tombs crawl up the far wall. Stacks of firewood and other supplies are organized in boxes and neat piles. It’s a sad camp housed under the streets, but the underground provides the cover he needs. The architecture alone, specifically the cramped spaces and narrow tunnels, ensures the beasts stay put. The iron cages climbing to the dome ceiling houses the scrawny golden eyed scarlet dragons.
They slither over the bars with their wings folded. Always watching, waiting for one of them to approach the bars, then it’s a swipe of a claw or a snap of a jaw. They unsettle him the most, if one gets a hold of their prey, the rest swarm. And there’s no chance of escape. The black ones, large and heavy, are quiet, but watchful. Their strength, if there’s space to move, will easily break their cages. Which is why he built their cramped space is cramped into the passageways. With no room to swing the spiked tail or massive wings, they’re immobile. They’re lazy, but he isn’t a fool, they’re merely buying their time.
“Glad to see yer generalship has graced us with his presence.” Sneers a brash voice from the far side of the space. Remo’s patience with his boorish demeanor is dwindling. He’s fortunate, his usefulness keeps him from becoming the beasts next meal.
The ramblings continue between squeals and stopping of cloven hooves, drawing Remo into one of the abandoned rooms off the main chamber. Tyrann with his pants rolled to his knees, stands among the pigs. A crumbling tomb, the lid ajar, sits in the center of the pig kingdom. And Tyrann, a bitter resentful, shepherd. The vibrant bandana keeps his dark locks from his face. The narrow features and thin moustache and goatee give him a dignified appearance. Or it would have it he didn’t slosh through the feces and mud to the door holding a bucket of slop and a ladle.
“What are you rambling about now?” He asks, ignoring the piglets whining against the makeshift gate.
“Don’t yer play dumb now, I heard you. Running through the tunnels, like some madman.” He pours a spoonful of slop into the pigs gaping maws. “I’m not judging, don’t care—but for the love of Ferus stop scaring the pigs!” He points the ladle accusingly. “They rile up the dragons, which scare the pigs more, then they don’t eat and get skinny. No dragon wants a skinny pig.”
“Every time I drag myself down here, you ramble on and on about the damn pigs.”
“You don’t care, but someone got to! And since the fat man out there is chained up, that leaves me! So, if you’re high and mightiness would be so kind, STOP YOUR LOLLYGAGGING IN THE TUNNELS!”
Torches placed at every corner flicker in his bulging eyes. The once calm collected mercenary rants in a whisper to which ever pig gives notice. This is the man the Mad Queen hired? The one who dealt the final blow, ending his predecessor’s life. If Diamond knew the man who killed him sought sympathy from pigs, he would roll over in his grave. No, its best that the dead can’t walk or spy on the living; who knows what shameful secrets they might learn after death.
Spy…
“Wait, which passages did you hear the sound?”
“Which? Those ones back there!”
He points to the less explored tunnels, the direction of the castle, but its not the way he came. Putting a finger to his lips, he listens to the growling from the other rooms. The pigs shuffle and whimper, but if he waits, there’s an echo of brittle bones falling over the stone floor.
“Did any more pigs escape?”
“No, I patched the pen yesterday.”
“Are you certain,”
“Yea, I be certain.”
“Keep the old man quiet, and don’t let anyone else enter the tunnels until I return.”
“Anyone else? Who’s you expecting Zander himself?”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Leaving the murmuring of the pigs behind he follows the abandoned tunnel using the torchlight to look for any evidence of someone else. It’s a maze of bones and cobwebs, each passageway identical to the next. His back and neck aches as the ceiling descend deeper underground. Squeaking and scurrying of tiny feet rush past him. The rats dart in and out of the light, but don’t linger. He’s beginning to think he’s on a goose chase, stomping through the puddles and bones is a waste of his time. There’s no one here. Maybe it is just him and his demons after all.
A splash of a distant puddle tells him otherwise. He pauses when another splash resounds over the stone. He steps lightly over the debris, stalking an echo; it vanishes the moment he turns a corner before starting again. It’s always out of reach, his heart races; pumping hot blood through his veins. A head of him, a figment between bones and rock, a specter dashes into the shadows. He follows, controlling his breathing and keeping the grip on the torch.
Two-legged, tall, and stumbling; his prey scurries as fast as it can to safety. He smells the fear emitting from them, the steps are faster; panicked. The thrill bubbles in his chest; the taste of a capture licks his lips. There’s no morality in the catacombs, rich or beggar they’re all bones at his feet. His sins forever hidden among the empty skulls around him.
Silence falls over them, his heartbeat slamming against his temples. Where did his little mouse go? He steadies his breathing, wipes the sweat from his forehead and steps into the connecting chamber. A shaft of light pierces the darkness, illuminating the debris on the ground. The street above is quiet, especially with the beasts, most don’t risk the night. Judging by the decaying stone at his feet, the tiles from the old road above collapsed.
That’s a matter for another night, for as he passes the torch through the room he smiles. A dead end. Methodically, with an eye of a patrol officer, he seeks out his spy. Shelves line the walls extending the rooms entire height, each crammed with torn cloth adorned skeletons. Entire families share one narrow shelf. Their name plates coated in rat feces and dust.
Passing each one, he jolts when the fire reflects against metal. Crammed under a brittle ribcage and discarded limbs, is a tunic with polished copper buttons. Traveling further, his flame catches the glint of watery human eyes. He lunges into the gap as a scream escapes the spy’s lips.
Bones and flailing limbs crash to the ground; kicking dust into the humid air. His fingers wrap around a thin throat, squeezing until the pulse beats against his fingers. The only sounds are their panting and a scurrying rat in the distance. As the debris settles, he stares into the eyes of his intruder. Tears dribble from his brown eyes, leaving streaks in the dirt on his cheeks. His face still has its boyish fat, he’s tall for his age, almost his own height. But he’s not the master spy Remo expects.
“Please,” the teen gasps. His shaking hands cling to Remo’s arms.
There’s no forgiveness or accommodation in the world of the dead. He glances above, wondering if slaying the boy so close to the street will draw attention. Besides, he had a better plan. The captive stumbles as they travel back through the tunnels. When he struggles Remo digs the tip of his sword deeper in his back. What the boy doesn’t realise is that Remo doesn’t need him alive. He’ll let him struggle, allow him to still hope, until the bittersweet moment his faces his mortality.
The chorus of roars greet them and it’s then that the boy truly trembles. His knees give out and Remo finally tosses him to the ground. Tyrann emerges from the pig room, carrying his famous unicorn lance, and adds more logs to the fire pits. The flames explode to life casting the room in frightful shadows. The dragons’ growl, crawling over the bars of their cages with a newfound curiosity. The largest dragons rest their heads on their forearms watching Remo’s entrance with feign interest.
Tossing the squirming teen in the dirt he assesses his garments, the royal colours of green and ivory, now coated in mud and grime. Tyrann threatens him with the tip of the lance, but even he isn’t dumb enough to dismiss the boy’s livery.
“Please sirs, I didn’t mean anything. I found myself here by chance and got lost.”
“Who’s he Remo?”
He scours the youth’s face, he’s seen him around the castle, he must be part of the princess’s household. The giggling youth she surrounds herself with is insufferable. They control themselves when in prayer or in view of dignified nobles. But when they believe they are alone, they laugh and dance and gossip. The Princess has no control over her servants; if she did, he would not be playing adventurer in his catacombs.
“You serve Her Highnesses household, correct?”
“Yes sir, I polish their shoes,”
“The royal shoe polisher!” Tyrann laughs. “Well lad there aren’t shoes down here worth polishing. What brings ye to our humble abode.”
“I found a hole in the wall that led me down here. I bet the castle’s full of them.”
Evacuation routes, he ponders. An anti-siege tactic. He’s right, there’s more likely more throughout the castle. Which ones lead here is a mystery. He curses under his breath. They need to secure the catacombs. The world isn’t ready for his dragons yet.
“Unfortunately for you, you should’ve stuck with shoe shining instead of exploring.”
As if sensing his motives, the scarlet scaled dragons against the cage hiss. Their pink forked tongues lick the air. The youth figure it out, a bit too late, as Remo brandishes his sword. The plea holds on his dusty lips, wide terror fills his eyes as Tyrann’s lance impales the teen. There’s no scream. He’s last words tremble but escape in a whisper choked in blood. It dribbles over his patch chin and drips over his shirt. The crimson tip pokes from the chest, a masterfully clean wound. That’s the power of his blade.
Smelling the kill, the dragons rattle the bars. Without another word Tyrann gets to work, he’s done this before and is no stranger to covering his tracks. The shackles rattle behind him, he turns and remembers his esteemed guest against the wall. His tunic and pants still bare the ash from when his village was set afire. His once plump belly hangs from his skeleton frame, adds to his sorry state. His chain hand stretches to a crumbling altar, where his prized procession rests.
When their eyes meet, his determination withers away. Remo smirks and plucks the scratched glass flute from its resting place. Behind him the gates creak open, Tyrann grunts as he tosses the body inside. He doesn’t need to witness the frenzy; it echoes against the circular room. An unsettling sound of flesh tearing, growling, and claws against iron. He watches the dragon’s feeding in the old man’s bloodshot eyes. His dirty gag keeps him from screaming out, but he protests with the rattling chains at his feet and hands. His swollen and bruised face, the disheveled hair, and soiled clothes are far from a mark of his station.
“You thought that if you had your precious flute, you could stop it?” He chuckles as the dragons celebrate their feast. “Tck tck Lord Rose, you aren’t in control of them anymore. No one is.”