Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  He smiled sardonically, his slit mouth splitting his hawkish face into dark plates of hardened flesh. No one would take this benighted stranger to be Melcor, Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain!

  Heading the yellow waters of the lake, he veered left along its Beak-ward edge until, perilously close to the Realgar band, he angled away from the lake -- glad to leave behind the smoky smell of fish dry-racks.

  Out of sight, he veered slant-wise on a cross-band course, staying the last night in a noisy inn occupied by grain haulers (having to put a pinch of spice powder in his nostrils in the yokel's unwashed presence.)

  Off again at up-light, his was deep in what the natives called the Umber forest.

  Approaching his destination, he slipped from shadow to shadow, keeping to the leeward side of oaks and elms. Close at last, he paused to listen. ... No sound but squirrels scolding from the upper limbs of solitary chestnuts.

  Seeing, hearing nothing to alarm him, Melcor continued to work his way toward that great, unnatural scar hacked into the living forest, the mightiest of Fulgur's temples.

  Above all, Melcor must leave no sign. Everyone must think the shrine to be violated by others, perhaps by bandits or by vengeful men from Malachite or, more likely, by Realgar raiders. Why Fulgur's priests, in the dead and distant past, had built their primary temple this close to the Realgar border, was a mystery. Arrogance, perhaps. False hopes raised by false beliefs in the power of their god.

  The forest thinned!

  Still within a protecting fringe of jumbled trees, he was too far away to see the temple, though he knew it well. Domed. Marbled. Polished. Shining creamy-white below a golden sky.

  In spite of the warmth of full-light, Melcor shuddered in the musty shadows. Not from the wet that never left the woods. Not because he believed either in gods or in the priests of gods. But because the sacrilege he must commit would give pause to any man.

  Around him, the forest smelled of loam and fungus. Above him, birds shrilled from the thinning tops of trees or flew in fluttering lines of red, blue, and green beneath the yellow sky of Stil-de-grain.

  Belying the drowsy heat of middle day, Melcor shuddered once again. Were these tremors the result of the horror he must unleash upon the priests? Or did this inner quaking come from the knowledge that, once more, evil seeped across the land like liquid poison.

  He had begun to suspect the return of iniquity many full-lights ago when he must intensify his daily chant to kept the Azare band in darkness. Why? Why, when, in Pfnaravin's day, so little was required to gain the same effect? Could it be that other Mages had reneged on their pledge to use their share of Mage-Magic to black out Azare?

  For whatever reason, there could be no doubt that the Azare Mage-King, Auro -- curse his name -- was gaining strength. Pfnaravin, Mage of Malachite must be returned! A feat of magic Melcor had attempted. Repeatedly. Come close, perhaps -- but failed.

  The reason Pfnaravin had risked the dangerous journey to the other world was to gain knowledge. (Like the Hero at the world's dawning had gone to that other place, returning with vast learning.) Pfnaravin first causing a quaking of the mountain beneath Hero castle, he had traveled to that other land, no doubt planning to return in the same way, the dropping of his green Crystal preventing his return, Pfnaravin's slavey, to curry favor, taking the Gem to Yarro.)

  A thought crossed Melcor's mind. After Melcor had captured the Etherial, using her force to build a shake-earth bridge between the worlds over which Pfnaravin would return, might not Melcor arrange a lethal accident for the great Pfnaravin? At night. Of course, at night.

  With Pfnaravin eliminated, would not Melcor inherit the green Crystal?

  Melcor smiled his coldest smile. With the power of two Crystals -- their force again doubled by the Etherial -- he would rule all bands!

  Approaching the final fringe of trees bordering the tabernacle courtyard, Melcor stopped. Still well hidden, it was time to devise a strategy for making his way across the yard and into Fulgur's temple.

  The design of the holy place was fresh in his mind, of course -- a thing in his favor. For he had been here recently, accompanying the king. Had been ordered to join the monarch's mission of supplication.

  Melcor smiled grimly, bitterly. The king had ordered up his Mage to show kingly power as the priests had displayed the Etherial to project an answering force. It was as a member of the king's party that Melcor had seen the Etherial -- from the distance of the hall -- giving him the idea of using her to enhance his Crystal-Magic! (He would show both king and priests who was lord in Stil-de-grain!)

  Yes. He knew the shrine. And still could not settle on the best way to proceed.

  Had he come either earlier in the day or later, he would have had the protection of the up or down-light mist.

  Could he wait until down-light when fog would curl like a cat around the temple's base? No. Delaying to creep in with the evening mist, escaping through the night-beclouded courtyard, would prevent him from backtracking to the inn before down-light. He would be trapped in the woods at night, his magic useless, even the Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain helpless against the terrors of the dark. He shuddered anew at such a thought!

  Back to ... the difficulty. His passage made more troublesome by not knowing the number of priests he could annihilate before his Crystal-force was spent.

  Perhaps, as a preliminary to his attack, he should wither just the gate guards ....

  His courage fired by the beginning of a plan, with exaggerated caution, Melcor stepped from behind the tree where he had hidden, to ease his way through the final coppice of trees.

  No outlying guards to challenge him, Melcor continued to advance, keeping in deepest shadow to stop behind the last of the pines lining the edge of the open yard.

  Willing the pupil of his eye to see around the tree, almost peering through the bark, Melcor rocked to the side and back with a single motion.

  Strange -- that brief glance showing no sentries.

  He looked again, cautiously, but longer.

  No one. No one at all.

  Turtle like, Melcor pulled his head into the tree's shadow ... to think ........

  Was this not curious? Should there not be priest-guards -- at all times? The sanctorum had certainly not lacked for them when he had accompanied King Yarro here. Many guards -- in cloaks of black, faces hidden in loose cowls, weapons concealed by flowing sleeves. Watching. Their heads rotating. Grimly vigilant.

  No .... guards? In his experienced bones, Melcor knew this lack of defenders to be outside the orthodox!

  Alerted to possible danger, Melcor stroked the hidden crystal beneath his tunic, his lips mumbling the hoary Crystal-chant, the golden jewel responding, humming within his taloned hands, a living thing, thrumming with power, the magic making him sensitive to ... a vast imbalance in the tabernacle. Still ... he did not sense ... confusion .... Nor fear nor hate nor love nor envy. He felt .... nothing.

  Could it be that the temple was ... deserted?

  It was an agitating thought! If the sanctuary was abandoned, where could the priests have gone? More to the point, where could they have taken the Etherial?

  Melcor could wait no longer! Whatever the situation, he must enter the courtyard. Now! If the priest-guards emerged to stop him, he would play the vagabond, lost, asking only for directions. Failing to convince them, wither the defenders where they stood!

  Head bowed low, his greying hair encrusted with the disguise of dirt, bending his back as if scourged by the oppression of long life, Melcor stepped around the tree and onto the flat vastness of the temple courtyard.

  Across the grass, onto the marble paving stones, he followed a wide groove worn into the rock by many feet, his peasant boots scraping like serpents wriggling through old leaves.

  No guards ... as yet.

  Feeling like a bark-bug risking impalement on the ivory beak of a pecking bird, flittering his black eyes from side to side, Melcor forced himself to walk dead slow toward the steps that
slanted steeply to the yawning, shadowed maw of the many-storied place of worship.

  Until ... he stopped before the stairs.

  Looking up, he could no longer see the crowning dome, even the roof line hidden by the towering, frontal wall.

  A step up ... head bowed low ... and still no shouts to halt. Another. And another. And another.

  Eyes on his boots, up and up he climbed, his breathing labored, the air oppressive with its silences. Up and ... finally ... to the portal where he stopped to suck in air.

  It was only then that Melcor raised his head to see the silvered, doubled doors flung wide, as if in invitation to the golden sky!

  Standing still until his breathing slowed, his strength returned, Melcor took a timid step inside the hall.

  His eyes adjusting to the interior shadows, he made out the nearest of the line of lighted torches, their flickering glow reflecting from marble walls and floors. Darkness was never permitted inside a Fulgur sanctuary, the night an offense to Fulgur, god of light. (Only in the quarters of the princess of the night was it eternally dark.)

  Light against Dark.

  Man opposing woman.

  Death confronting life.

  Pleasure balanced against pain.

  Such were the simpleminded dichotomies that formed the spine of the religion of the deluded worshipers of Fulgur! And so the torches flamed.

  Halted again, the Mage strained to hear in the enormous quiet of the long hall beyond, feeling the flowing coolness of the stone-chilled inner air.

  It was only after anguished moments that Melcor's eyes had darkened enough for him to make out .... lumps ... here and there on the floor, scattered down the ceremonial hallway as far as his eyes would let him see. Looking closer at the nearest ... hunk ... bending down, he saw that whatever it was was thick and draped in a black cloth, near it, a ... hand, fingers curled into a too-white fist! Against the wall ... an arm. Down the opposite wall, a head, sitting on its severed neck, fixed eyes open ....

  Then Melcor knew! These ... pieces ... were the priests.

  Blood was splashed about; smeared high upon the walls ... painted there with fingers ... thinned, drying to black below the torch light!

  Stunned, Melcor's mind refused to name what his eyes saw. It was as if ... someone ... had bathed in the blood of priests.

  But ... who would do that? And why? Who hated priests enough to ....? No one. No one Melcor knew. Priests were not loved, but ....

  One thing was clear. The clergy had not left their temple; had not abandoned their god. By the evidence of their remains, it was Fulgur who had deserted them ....

  Melcor sniffed the air. Delicately.

  This murder of clerics had been recent ... or there would have been more ... smell.

  Suddenly, Melcor felt fear, his black eyes darting here and there! Were the destroyers of the priests still in the temple? Hiding, poised to strike? Was he, himself, in mortal danger!? ......... No. No one would ravage like this and stay.

  Melcor exhaled sharply at that thought; inhaled slowly to take a calming breath. Armed as he was with deadly magic, he almost hoped a lingering assassin would attempt to take the life of the dangerous Mage of Stil-de-grain!

  But ... who would slaughter priests in this fashion? Melcor's mind would not surround that question. He, himself, had been prepared to destroy priests, as many as he must. But to mutilate .....?

  Fulgur's faithful also committed outrages, but generally only to Etherials who represented darkness, evil, death.

  The Etherial! Had she been massacred with the rest!? At that thought, sweat streamed down Melcor's neck. He did not care for gods. He did not care for priests or for the parts of priests. But for the Etherial, he had been prepared to risk his life!

  Needing to know the girl's fate, Melcor set out to walk the temple's silent corridors, searching for the creature of his heart's desire, his eyes flashing in the torch-light, his body alive to any motion in the lifeless tomb. Here ... there ... he bent to prod the blood soaked priest-pieces, looking for women's parts.

  And they were there, scattered among the severed limbs and heads of priests -- old women's hands, serving woman feet, breasts torn off in unseemly ways.

  He found small arms, legs, and heads of girls raised in the tabernacle, one to be selected as the new Etherial after the ritual-slaughter of the old.

  What he did not discover were the dismembered parts of the Etherial. He found her room and torture table. The restraints. But not the girl. Not the young and pretty woman he had seen in golden chains.

  Failing to find her, a suspicion grew. That she was the meaning of this slaughter. Someone, other than himself, had lusted for her power. ......... But who? ..........

  The evil Mage? Fear racked Melcor at that thought, so that his thin limbs shook! The Etherial! To double the power of the evil Auro! If she were in the hands of the Dark one, they were doomed, all to be driven from their bands. To Cinnabar and beyond. To down-land and off the edges of the world!

  Reason came back slowly, tired as he was. Not ....... the dark, Mage-King. Auro would waste no time in gutting priests. If the Dark Lord had stolen the Etherial, he would have no need of manufactured terror!

  No. Someone else had wanted the Etherial ... enough to murder for her. As he, himself, had wanted to possess her. (Surely, this savage mangling ... this quartering of bodies had ... some other, lesser meaning.)

  Finished with his grizzly search, Melcor strode over the broken forms as he retraced his steps to the ceremonial hall.

  Marching along the gallery, the old man exited the mausoleum, pleased to see that the light of day still covered the sky dome.

  He walked boldly now (and why not?) down the temple steps.

  At the bottom, stalking across the flagstone court, he plunged into the forest, determined to discover, on the woods' soft floor, a meaning for the nameless terror that had come to steal and to butcher priests. He must know where "it" had taken the Etherial.

  Entering the enfolding trees at some depth, circling right, Melcor soon found (sooner than he should?) what he was seeking: a path trod by many men, broken branches, bushes twisted to one side, weeds crushed by feet of iron...... leading ...... toward the Realgar border! A raiding party from Realgar?

  There in the forest, distractedly brushing at hovering insects, Melcor forced his mind to examine his limited knowledge of Realgar's people. Discarding them, at last, as the perpetrators of this crime. It was not a likely thing for them to do, if for no other reason than, crossing into Stil-de-grain, they would lose their strength to band-sickness. The Realgar way was poison, not dismemberment.

  Unsatisfied, Melcor set out once more, this time with exaggerated care, circling, head bowed low, eyes to the ground, looking for a disguised trail. And ... found it ... leading ... down-band ... toward ... the river Tartrazine! Across which, lay the port of Canarin. Most ships destination -- Xanthin island.

  Yarro!

  Certain, now, that the raiders slaughtered at the command of his own king, Melcor smiled. So -- Yarro, seeing the priest's prized Etherial, had also devised a way to steal her. And why? To enhance his pleasure, surely.

  Anything besides?

  No. Yarro would think only of his women. And of food. Steal the Etherial for his private purposes.

  Hidden in the forest, standing beside the disguised trail, Melcor knew what he must do. First, make the long trip back to Hero Castle, once there, try again to retrieve Pfnaravin. (Powerful as Melcor was, a Mage should commit no treason lightly.) If, in spite of Melcor's best attempts, Pfnaravin could not be returned, Melcor would have no choice but to steal the stolen from his king!

  That settled, the Mage set out, hurrying, needing to make the distant inn by down-light.

  Lengthening his stride on the spongy, leaf-lined forest floor, Melcor kept watch for woodsman or lonely trappers, secrecy more vital, now, than ever. Too soon, some supplicant, some giver of important gifts would approach the shrine; marvel at the lack of san
ctuary guards; climb the temple steps to find .......

  And when the outrage was discovered, Melcor -- peddler, merchant, sailor, farmer, Mage of Stil-de-grain -- must be anywhere but here!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 4

  The dinner two weeks ago at the Hamilton's had been enjoyable. (The fix-up date had not. But, then, John hadn't figured it would be.) And this evening's "return" meal had also been a success. As much as canned corn, pre-cooked turkey roll, and Mrs. Smith's pie could make it.

  The fireplace logs beginning to catch, Paul and Ellen were settling themselves on the nubby cloth sofa against the living room wall.

  John's immediate duties at gracious host at an end, he pulled the old, carved chair close to the coffee table where he'd put the wine bottle and the too-thick, supermarket glasses.

  Ellen, in her semi-formal "bun-in-the-oven dress" (her description) looked elegant as usual, her short, blond hair shining in the firelight.

  It was Paul who'd provided the evening's mystery. Looking his rumpled best in a brown corduroy jacket over a blue flowered shirt and purple spotted tie, Paul had been ... distant .... Could it be he had another of his sinus headaches? Fall "things" were blowing in the wind, the weather threatening to bluster into a cold, October night.

  Taking a hesitant taste of the wine, John was ready to ask the foremost question on his (and he also thought on Ellen's) mind.

  "So, Paul. What's wrong?"

  "Wrong?" Paul growled. "Why, nothing!" Paul ducked his head to take a long, slow sip of wine, his circled hand hiding much of his face.

  "Something, I think."

  "Yes, Paul," Ellen said softly, looking sideways at her husband, reaching over to take her husband's big hand in both of hers.

  "I haven't been good company? That's what you're trying to say?" he asked, pretending injured feelings.

  "It's not that," John countered. "It's that I'm worried about you when you get this way. Not feeling well? A headache?"