The stable-hand was not the only one to shit himself as he lay eyes on Logan’s mask. In fact, the boys suspected at least a dozen others had done it as they walked down the long stairs leading into the farms.
Logan, a stranger to the town, was immediately captivated by the cave opening’s beauty - the vast surfaces for condensation acting like funnels to form streams that ran deeper into the cavern on ditches dug into the stone on either side of the stairs. In the early morning air, the trickle of the massive network reminded him of a rainstorm - of hiding beneath a rock with his trusted companion, fighting for space in the shelter. For a moment, despite being a good hundred meters below the surface of the mountain, he felt free again - freedom like beyond those oppressive walls.
In the darkness he saw just how debilitating the flashing of the lights were to the workers. A long power-line hung to the central ceiling, lighting the wide, dusty halls with a bright yellow. The flicker was definitively a problem, as he saw no other modes of finding the way out unless one knew the networks like the back of one’s hands - not a high ask for the ones who had spent a life rummaging around in the dark.
Already, they had passed by numerous grow-beds - all placed in the shade beyond the light’s reach. The beds were tall, wooden and filled with what appeared to be woodchips and, digging around for a moment, one quickly found the thick networks of roots with the bulbous mushrooms protruding wherever a pocket of air had formed in the mush.
The boys were silent for the most part, staring at his long back, holding their breaths for when Logan would make some acrobatic move and move his coat to flash the blades at them. Michael had never felt taller, wiser and stronger than when he led the legendary warrior into the depths, asking questions that seemed to bemuse the stranger.
With their footsteps echoing between the walls, Abraham finally picked up the courage to ask his most direct question to date - albeit awkwardly directly.
“S-Sir… C-can I ask… do you know him?” The Ghast stopped, turning the mask to look over his shoulder and question in turn: “You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that, honorable Priest. I don’t know too many people.” Abraham swallowed the contents of his dry mouth and watched his brethren urge him to continue.
“I… We’ve r-read the newsletters… from during the Purge… have you ever met Commander Behemoth-bane?” The Ghast froze. For a moment, they held their breath in expectance he’d lash out at him for asking his insolent question, only for him to chuckle his commonplace, mask-muffled laughter.
“Those newsletters were interesting. Fantastical tales, most of them - corruptions of the truth. They’re meant to motivate and inspire, not to be taken at face-value.” There was a shared sigh of despair and disappointment from the three, but Marcel seemed intent on pressing the issue: “So it’s not true? How about Sergeant Strider-Slayer? Or Horus the Hound?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t true, necessarily… but let me ask you this, warrior. Those letters spoke volumes of the Ghast and the rank, but they never really mentioned the man beneath the mask, did they?” Marcel rubbed his chin curiously, as if understanding the profound question. All present company knew that the only one with the wisdom to absorb and understand the statement was the young priest-in-training, who said: “Are you saying they weren’t good people, Sir?”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
The Ghast nodded once. “Spend your life killing monsters, you’ll inevitably turn into one. Between us, the masks are as much to inspire as they are to allow us to hide - even from ourselves. I believe the idea was to take them off and with it, shed the murderous beasts that we are at the end of our duties.” They could scarcely believe their fortune - the privilege. To be told a secret by a Ghast and to learn something of the mysterious order was an honor unlike anything any of them had received. But their joy quickly faded as their dark visitor spoke low - barely louder than a whisper: “What, then, if you take the mask off and see nothing but another monster? Be careful what you wish for, men. And be careful who you idolize.”
The procession finally arrived at the bottom of the descent, where the floor flattened out into a larger cavern. There, dozens of people scuttled between the boxes carrying tall sacks of mushrooms. The interior was warm - too warm, by Logan’s summations, to grow mushrooms.
The people were sweating profusely, drinking water from a small, filthy stream leading down a crack in the floor; not a bad idea, he surmised, being as they lived above any threats of contamination, save from one-another.
The flickering made it seem as if they flashed in and out of existence as they made their way across the floor, carrying their fat sacks of food - passing by the unnerving quartet as they made their way up towards the sunlight. Several of them yelped - some screamed when they finally became aware of the tall, black coat and the white mask at the end of the hall, to which Logan turned to look at Abraham and the twins before realizing it was, in fact, he who had frightened them.
“Mister Logan!” A voice shouted from down the hall. It was a woman’s voice a - a familiar woman. He turned to look at her to see the widow Wellwater approach him, her eyes puffy and her mouth forced from a frown to a shallow smile. In the flickering yellow of the lights, she seemed sickly and ill - still clad in the same dress from the day before.
“Mrs. Wellwater - you really should not be down here.” He spoke as she approached. She stopped, bowed and carefully stepped towards him again. He was amazed at her composure - no less than twenty-four hours had passed since he delivered his melancholic message, yet she was still busy at work. He understood that tendency all too well, the need to be busy - to be occupied when the mind sought to seek out the melancholic.
“S-Sir? We need to reach our quota. With the fans failing, the beds need to be moved further up when the mushrooms are awake - they won’t grow if we don’t.” He raised a flat palm in her direction before pointing down at her abdomen.
“Then I’ll do it in your stead. I am here to watch and learn, after all. Warriors, please escort her out of here.” She looked confused beyond measure - being commanded around by the same monster that had killed her husband only a day before. The boys mirrored her confusion, but would be mad to disagree with her.
“S-Sir… Please, I… I want to-” Logan sighed a mask-muffled lungful and offered: “If you need something to do, it’s best to do it on the surface. There’s a hound in the stable. He’s a picky bastard, so I’m pretty sure the… the simple… stable hand has his hands full. If you could comb his ears, I’ll do your duties for you.” She seemed alarmed, rather than charmed nor honored. In fact, he was beginning to see the outline of an objection on her lips, at least until Marcel grabbed her tactically just above her buttock and began to lead her out with a whisper: “So lucky… the hound’s beautiful - c’mon, you’ll love him.”
Now, with the entire population of the town watching the unnerving man by the entrance to the hall, he cracked his knuckles and let his voice be heard by the departing quartet.
“Let’s get to work.”