by R Mountebank
Tales of the Horns
Part 1
The Berserk Beast
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogue and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Samuel G. King
All rights reserved.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express written permission of the copyright holder.
Version 1.2
Chapter 1
A forgotten suburb of London August 1914 AD
Thick muck squelched beneath his boots as Stephen Horn strode down the alley, his nose twitching and his mouth downturned all the while. In the back of his mind it registered that he wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion, but then again, was he ever?
He risked a glance at his feet and the slop splattered up both legs. He did not like what he saw.
His new suit was ruined – a poor choice for the back streets of Olde London. Stephen readjusted his cloth cap and tucked his cane beneath the crook of his elbow. It was probably foolish to bring the weapon with him to the shop. It was a necessary precaution when travelling the Semita Mortuis, however, and he was not going to leave it in his automobile where any idiot could find it.
Stephen rounded a corner and stopped in his tracks. Empty crates and shipping containers were stacked in towering piles with only a narrow path in between.
The Old Man’s been busy. Too busy to clean it would appear.
Stephen turned sideways and slithered between the precariously placed boxes. Ahead he could see his goal, the shop.
It was a long squat warehouse firmly nestled between two factories. Made of red brick walls and capped with a dark tile roof, it could be mistaken for a mundane workhouse or storeroom like any of the other hundred similar buildings in the area. Its only discerning feature was a wooden sign that stretched the width of its enormous iron door. Painted in red on a field of pale yellow was a jumble of symbols. To the untrained eye it would appear to be gibberish or the writings of a mad child. To those in Stephen’s particular trade it would read ‘Here Be Dragons’.
Stephen wormed his way clear of the crates and skipped up some low stairs. At the top he struck the foot of his cane against the iron door. It boomed loudly with each blow, fine rust falling where the cane struck. Stephen didn’t care if he woke the whole neighbourhood, so long as it included the guard. He stepped back, neck craning up to the viewing portal. From inside he could hear the faint mutterings and heavy footsteps of the doorkeeper. With a rusted cry the portal slid open. Through a haze of tobacco smoke Stephen could see red eyes the size of grapefruits swivel around lazily. Finally they rested on him.
“You,” a gravelly voice rumbled from beyond the door.
“In the flesh,” replied Stephen, his cane resting at an angle and a hand on one hip. “This time at least.”
The red orbs regarded him closely, their penetrating stare broken only by the excruciatingly slow movement of the eyelids. Finally the doorkeeper spoke.
“Yes. You do seem to be made of flesh. This time…”
Stephen sighed.
I shouldn’t have said that. He’s probably wondering if I have ever come in person before. I can see the cogs spinning in that tiny brain of his…
Seeing the conversation was about to go nowhere fast, Stephen decided to take things in hand.
“Yes. Here I am, as I said: in the flesh. Here at this very time. Which brings us to the matter at hand, the purpose of my business. Here. With you. At this very hour. May I come in?”
Bracing himself for what he assumed would be a long pause, he was shocked with the prompt “No.”
“No? What do you mean? No?”
“We’re closed.”
“Closed for what? Spring cleaning? Let me in. I demand an audience!”
“He said no-one was to bother him. He said that to me, he did.”
Stephen stole a glance at the multitude of boxes and crates around him.
Of course. He’s busy itemising and cataloguing all of his new finds. All the more reason to get in.
“Well, we won’t be letting no-one bother him, will we my old chum? No nobodies will cross this threshold. Not with your brilliant post to prevent them. But I shall be admitted. Yes. Because as you can quite clearly see, I am most certainly a someone. Not a no-one. Now open the door, my good man. Chop-chop.”
It was always a chore gaining entrance to the shop, no matter which entrance you tried, at any hour. The Old Man didn’t hire the smartest of gatekeepers but they were diligent in their duty.
The red eyes behind the portal glared back at Stephen suspiciously. Without another word the doorkeeper slammed shut the cover with a loud clang. Stephen nervously twisted the grip on his cane. All of his plans hinged on being admitted tonight. There was a steam ship leaving tomorrow for Ireland and he intended to be on it. It pained him to think it all rested on a creature with hair for brains. If he failed here, there was nowhere else in Britain that could possibly help him with the equipment he needed.
Beyond the door came the sound of heavy iron cogs turning, though whether the noise meant locking or unlocking, Stephen could not say. As he was about to turn and leave, the doors groaned open and the pungent scent of dirt, tobacco, herbs and burnt hair buffeted him. Then, through a miasma of smoke the portly visage of the doorkeeper appeared.
At seven feet tall, Dogsbody was a giant compared to Stephen, but a dwarf compared to his brothers. Dry, flaking clay clung to him like skin over the matted hair and herb mixture he was woven from. Dogsbody held a cigar tightly in the motley brown teeth that filled his bucket of a mouth. His enchanted eyes swivelled around, assessing Stephen up and down and looking along the passage behind him.
“You had better be alone. He won’t like it if you bring no-one with you.”
Stephen smiled and, doffing his hat, bent in an elegant bow. “I wouldn’t dare dream, my good man.”
Dogsbody’s jaw worked soundlessly as he chewed over the words in his head. With a lurch he turned from Stephen and pulled a large lever on the wall. The iron doors swung closed to the chorus of clanking machinations. “Foowowmuh,” Dogsbody mouthed over a giant cigar as he shambled down a dark corridor. Stephen assumed he was meant to follow.
The path Dogsbody took led down a slight incline which spiralled deeper into to the ground. Gas lamps hung suspended from chains to light the way, Dogsbody expertly dodging them with sparse movements of his enormous head. Stephen stumbled behind his silent guide, his feet slipping on the moist brick.
Before long, the ramp levelled off and became a long, arched corridor. Side corridors split off left and right at regular intervals leading to specialised storage areas. The Old Man’s minions were busy at work shifting boxes, crates, curios and oddities. Curses, shouts, and babble rang out from every nook and cranny whilst a dozen different odours vied for supremacy in Stephen’s nose. Some of the beasts stopped to stare at him as he passed. Stephen grimaced and kept his eyes forwards, wary of drawing any more of the creatures attention.
“Wuhhur,” said Dogsbody as he puffed on his ridiculous cigar. The corridor ended, opening up to a vast circular room with a ceiling that seemed to stretch up and up for ever. Stephen forgot himself and gawked slack-jawed around him.
Just look at all this stuff! I could get lost in here. Again.
It took Stephen a
moment to realise that he was alone. With Dogsbody’s hulking frame disappearing behind a tower of books, Stephen quickened his pace to catch up, giving the marvels around him only a minor glance in the process. They journeyed to the centre of the room, passing avenues of armour, lanes of lexicons and streets of sorcery, everything stacked in orderly rows of head-high shelves. Ahead a circular wooden dais was raised up from the ground, rough stone blocks of different sizes and colour forming stairs to its top. An ornately crafted desk stood in its centre, behind which sat an ominously large wing-backed chair. As Stephen drew closer the chair’s occupant could be seen.
The Old Man wore a black suit with a silk shirt beneath, unbuttoned to show a heavy gold amulet resting on milk white skin. Stephen was hoping to catch him in a congenial mood. The anger plainly written across his hard face caused Stephen to falter a step.
The man seated before Stephen did not look like the nickname that had been invented for him by his clientele. The Old Man’s true name had been forgotten but his deeds stretched back for as long as any could recall. To the casual observer he appeared to be a lean, attractive man in his thirties. His eyes, though, were the telling feature. They were as old and weathered as the mountains, worn and tired by the centuries.
Dogsbody stopped at the foot of the stone steps and removed the cigar from his mouth, hiding it behind his back as though no-one could smell it. Stephen stopped beside him, never presuming for a second to ascend the steps. The Old Man was a stickler for customs and formality at the best of times. Nobody was to approach him without consent, especially when he was perched on his dais. So he waited, his heart beating faster with every moment’s pause, while those cold grey eyes weighed him silently.
Please don’t turn me back. Not now.
“Mister Horn. My, it has been a long time since our last meeting. Too long apparently, for you’ve forgotten all etiquette,” spoke the store owner, his eyes fixed on Stephens cap.
Stephen smiled apologetically and swept the hat from his head. The Old Man’s eyes lowered to the cane under Stephens elbow. Still smiling, Stephen hid the cane behind his back. Dogsbody growled beside him.
Oh dear…
The Old Man raised an eyebrow, prompting him to speak.
“Ah… Business in the East has kept me from these shining shores for some time. Please forgive my rudeness. I forgot myself in my haste,” said Stephen through his teeth.
The Old Man waved a hand dismissively at Stephen’s apology.
“Yes. I’m sure. It was Ireland before that. Was it not? Quite the traveller you are.”
How on earth does he know that?
“It runs in the family.”
A mirthless smile crept along The Old Man’s face.
“This is true.”
He glared at Stephen over interlocked fingers as he slouched back in to his chair, seemingly daring him to say more. Dogsbody shuffled nervously, ill at ease in his master’s presence. The Old Man turned from Stephen to the bugbear.
“You may leave. But mark my words, creature. Nobody else is to disturb me again tonight or I’ll fill you with lice. Do you understand me?”
The giant nodded sheepishly in answer before giving Stephen an ugly look that promised retribution. He shuffled off with heavy footsteps, his heady aroma trailing after him. The Old Man sighed and looked to the heavens.
“I need to grow some better help. I’m surrounded by morons.”
Stephen coughed into his fist. The Old Man rounded back onto Stephen with a sly grin.
“Present company excluded of course.”
“Of course,” replied Stephen through a forced smile.
“So, Mr Horn, what brings you to town? Business I assume?”
“Isn’t it always?”
The Old Man leapt from his chair and strode to edge of the dais. “Let us not waste another moment, shall we?”
He hopped down the irregular stone steps with ease to stand before Stephen.
“We have many new acquisitions. Some that will benefit a man in your line of work most handsomely.”
The Old Man swept his arm in a wide arc to encompass his magnificent store.
“So what will it be? The usual order of potions and powders?”
He pointed to the northern side of the dome where row upon row sat bottles, jars and boxes filled with rare and exotic ingredients from around the globe.
“Or something slightly strange?”
The Old Man searched Stephen’s face for a clue. The younger man started to sweat.
Don’t give anything away or he will charge you double...
The Old Man suddenly smiled.
“Follow me,”
Stephen trailed behind as a dark feeling started to overcome him.
“What do you make of this war going on?” The Old Man spoke over his shoulder as he entered an aisle filled with toys and ancient figurines.
Stephen bit his lip.
What is he playing at? Enough of the small talk! Just sell me what I want!
“A horrible thing… They are calling it a ‘World War’ now. Imagine that. It’s hard to see what the purpose is or what they will achieve out of it…”
The Old Man stopped and ran a long sinewy finger over a dusty music box.
“Oh I wouldn’t say it lacked purpose. Originality maybe… Nobody starts a war like they did in our day…”
The Old Man quickly glanced at Stephen and sighed.
“Or rather I should say my day.”
Turning, he continued on, eyes searching everywhere along the cluttered shelves. Stephen followed one step behind.
“Nothing good will come of this feud,” The Old Man said in a hushed voice, “Its outcome will have severe repercussions for us all. This I have seen. It would be best to find a quiet corner of the world and let it pass you by.”
“I have a place in mind,” Stephen replied.
“Good,” said The Old Man with a knowing wink.
They meandered together down several aisles, The Old Man turning left or right at various junctions, his eyes inspecting every item on every shelf. Stephen was growing impatient. He wanted to buy something that would fool the Sidhe and leave, not walk around the shop gossiping.
The Old Man spoke as they walked.
“There is nothing on this earth more detestable than murdering one’s own kin. This war in the west is a doomed affair, and I swear the victor will reap foul rewards. I just pray that they don’t focus their intentions eastwards too soon.”
Stephen shook his head as he mulled over The Old Man’s strange words.
“The war is in the east sir. Germany, France, Russia. It’s already quite convoluted. Almost all of Europe is involved or soon will be. At least they should not find their way into Olde Rome…”
“I’m talking about the real war, you fool boy!” The Old Man snapped at him, an elegant finger jabbing at Stephen’s chest with every word.
“That pathetic pissing contest in Europe is nothing compared to the bloodshed sweeping through the western worlds. The descendants of vile Remus are locked in civil war, his two favourites vying for the Twisted Crown. But no matter who mounts the throne, I can tell you for certain, it will only be a matter of time till they march on Rome and all that stands in their way.”
Stephen stepped back from the onslaught, bumping into a shelf and causing several objects to wobble precariously. He felt the blood drain from his face and sweat began to bead on his forehead. The Old Man loomed over him, mouth down turned and cold eyes boring into his. “Remus is dead…” was all Stephen could stammer.
“And his wolves will march,” snarled The Old Man.
“Life beyond! And you’re certain they will attack Rome? What about the Porta Caeli?” asked Stephen, his voice rising.
“It has always been their intention to seek revenge on Quirinus. Remus was far too feeble in his old age. His sons, however, have supped on his poisonous words for centuries. As for the Porta Caeli, I have no idea. The
New Order have made no friends this side of Paradise. With Quirinus gone, it would be easy pickings…” replied The Old Man, shrugging.
“This is not good. This is no good at all,” said Stephen. “We need to do something about it!”
“We? What do you propose, Mr Horn? Do tell…” replied The Old Man with a grin.
Stephen clicked his fingers as he thought. “We should assemble an army of our own, one to rival the wolves!” he blurted.
“Think before you speak, Stephen,” replied The Old Man snidely. “An army to rival the Western Hordes, you say? Who would fight for Rome and the New Order? The magical races are dying if you hadn’t noticed. They will not flock to defend the very order which has doomed them.”
“But surely they must see it affects us all? Without Quirinus or the Porta Caeli, mortal life is threatened…” pleaded Stephen.
“And that matters to the likes of the Dökkálfar or the Ljósálfar? The Sidhe or the Fomori? The goblins, sprites and spirits of the earthly realms? The immortals are angry, Horn. Don’t you see it? How can they fight for Life, when Life has betrayed them?” replied The Old Man.
Stephen wilted. The implications of a sacked Rome spelled disaster for all. With the Porta Caeli destroyed, there would be no new Life on the mortal plane. No Life…
Stephen thought of his pregnant wife, lost to him within the Sidhe mounds. Could he bring a child into the world with such a bleak future?
Yes. He could and he would. It was too late to back out now. Stephen would find a way. He just had to rescue them first. Stephen was roused from his thoughts. The Old Man was smiling back at him knowingly.
“Of course, I cannot speak for everyone, Horn. There may be another way… I hear the Sidhe plan to leave this plane for good, setting sail over their twilight ocean for the realms beyond. Maybe if a union was created between the Sidhe and Hordes, they would abandon their vendetta and leave us all alone,” purred The Old Man, his eyes glowing.
Stephen stared at the pale man, transfixed. The idea of a joining Remus’s lot with the Sidhe branded itself in his mind.
Yes… a union…that would work…
The Old Man snapped his fingers and Stephen blinked.
“Yes?” asked Stephen.
“I was talking about the Sidhe. I guess you would know all about them though, wouldn’t you?” said The Old Man.
“What? How did you know about that?” replied Stephen as his pulse started to race.
“Oh, I know all about you, Horn. I know what you have done. More importantly, I know what you want.” The Old Man spread his arms wide, gesturing to the dark dome above and the laden shelves around them. “I have many things that you desire. All but one.”
With a wolfish grin and a nasty gleam to his eye, The Old Man leaned in closer. “And you shall never have her.”
Ice gripped at Stephen’s heart as The Old Man’s words sank in. Stephen could only blink in reply.
She is lost to me. They both are…
With numb hands he fretted feebly with his cane, turning and clasping at the ivory ornament. “How… How do you know?” Stephen asked hoarsely.
“I trade in more than just the material, Mr Horn. To some, information is just as important.”
Stephen felt the stirrings of anger as he noticed the man in front of him smiling at his misfortune. “But how? What do you know? Tell me!”
The Old Man casually picked up a wooden box and blew on the lid sending up a cloud of dust. He inspected the lid before answering. “No mortal can enter the realms of the Sidhe uninvited, and you, Stephen, are most certainly unwelcome.”
Stephen shook his head and wiped away the perspiration. The Old Man hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know but hearing it aloud brought back bad memories and roused old feelings.
A cold friendless night lashed with rain. The hillside slick with mud and his own blood. Broken finger nails scrabbling through the rocky ground. Laughter ringing through the trees.
Stephen licked his lips nervously as he tried to push the images out of his mind.
“But there must be a way in. There must. A back door or something…”
“Better men than you have tried and failed,” said The Old Man through a sneer. “Give up this foolish quest for love. Fight for Rome if it distracts you…”
“And abandon the woman I love? The child too? What would you know of love anyway?” Stephen said in a rasped voice. “A love of money and dust?”
The Old Man took his eyes off Stephen and regarded the floor, jaw working as he ground his teeth. “I know more about love and heart break than you think, Mr Horn. I have lived a long life. I’ve seen it all and lived it all: centuries of betrayal, scorn, tortured pride and unrequited desire. You mortals are just learning what I’m trying to forget.”
Stephen’s hands balled into fists. He wanted to rage. He wanted blood and broken bone and singed flesh. He wanted to tear the vaulted ceiling down with his hands, right on top of the petty creature in front of him.
But most of all he wanted her.
Stephen would sell his soul to have her back.
“So if you understand my predicament wholly, surely you must see that I will do anything to be reunited with her. Anything…”
A dangerous gleam flashed across The Old Man’s eyes too fast for Stephen to notice. “Anything, you say?”
“I will do anything,” Stephen said evenly, without hesitation.
The room went dark. Stephen felt a weight pressing at him from all sides, holding him in place. Desperate, and confined in the one spot, he tried to wiggle free. The weight increased steadily until he thought he would burst. He fell to his knees, the force of the impact magnified by the crushing pressure. Stephen cried out. A cold hand gripped his chin, jerking it upwards.
The Old Man looked down at him. His eyes shone dimly in the darkness.
“Three times you agreed to the exchange without stipulating payment. Three times you will be cursed if you should break the agreement. Do you deny this?”
Stephen shook his head slowly in reply, his rising horror choking at his wits.
“Good. In return for my services I set the following payment. After the birth of the third generation of your kin I will take my due. Know that it shall be very important to you. You will be greatly saddened by the loss. You must not hinder me in any way.”
Stephen sobbed loudly in a confusion of pain and regret. The Old Man snarled and, grabbing a fistful of hair, pulled Stephen painfully to his feet.
“Lastly, you are banned for life from my establishment. Set foot in here again and I will destroy you. Utterly. Do you understand me?”
Tears streamed down Stephen’s face. He looked into the leering grin of The Old Man.
“I… I…” Stephen stammered, unsure of the course he was plotting.
On one hand, he got an object which would guarantee the return of his family. However if he took the item, he would be in debt to The Old Man for an undisclosed price.
“Answer me, man. Yes or no?”
I can’t give up now…
“I agree to your terms,” Stephen whispered.
The Old Man clapped his hands and laughed manically. Sparks flew when his hands met. The pressure relented and Stephen collapsed on the ground.
“You really are an idiot, Horn! I thought you would have learned to stay clear of magic after that debacle in Ireland! In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say,” laughed The Old Man. He threw the wooden box he had been holding at Stephen. It landed inches from his nose. From where Stephen lay, he could read the crude Ogham script which had been chiselled on its outside. His eyes widened with each word deciphered.
“That was far too easy,” said The Old Man as he turned to leave. “Escort him out will you?” Still chuckling, he started to walk away. He stopped after a few paces.
“And say hello to Bodb for me! Ha!” yelled The Old Man over his shoulder.
Stephen stared daggers at T
he Old Man’s back. For a moment he entertained the thought of chasing him down and spitting him on the end of his cane. Two burly guards appeared from behind a row of shelving however, dashing his dreams of revenge. Stephen groaned and gathered his belongings from where he had dropped them, carefully cradling the wooden box to his chest.
“Move it,” hissed a serpentine guard as he nudged Stephen in the ribs.
Stephen plodded forwards as more laughter sprung up from the shadows.
Clenching his jaw, he tried to piece together what had just happened.
He had bargained for what he wanted, but at what cost? The Old Man had tricked him, that was for certain. The talk of war had distracted Stephen, The Old Man touching on nerves he knew would disarm him. Then he had changed the topic so quickly back to himself, baiting Stephen with the Sidhe. The Old Man knew far too much about him than was reasonable. He had obviously planned this exchange.
After the birth of the third generation of your kin I will take my due…
Stephen felt sick.
The Old Man had planned on giving away the object from the beginning. It was all a ploy to make Stephen give away something in the future without putting up a fight.
And what did that comment about Bodb mean?
Did The Old Man tell the fairy King where to find Stephen and Muadhnait?
Was he responsible for this whole mess?
Numb and emotionally drained, Stephen stumbled through the shop towards the exit. Hideous monsters jeered and catcalled at him as he passed. He had the seed of a plan to save his wife and child. Now he needed one to safeguard against The Old Man and the impending war.
