Tales of the Horns: Part 1 The Berserk Beast

by R Mountebank

  Chapter 11

  The shop below the streets

  Mac O' Knives pounded on the door, his great maul sending showers of red flaky dust to the floor, until it finally swung open. A tall muscular man smothered in clay stood in the entrance, arms folded and a large cigar hanging from his thick lips. Hair stuck out of the clay giving him a fuzzy comical appearance. Two unnatural red eyes pivoted and swung about drunkenly until they focused on Mac.

  "What's up, Mac?" the newcomer greeted.

  "Got the boy The Old Man wants," replied Mac in his throaty growl. "How are things, Dogsbody?"

  The clay giant shrugged his massive shoulders, flakes of clay crumbled to the ground to mix with the rust. "The usual."

  Mac clapped him on the back, leaving a dent in the brittle clay. Dogsbody seemed nonplussed by the damage. Dogsbody shuffled out of the way and Mac strode through. As Mary followed in his wake she felt a heavy hand grip her by the arm.

  "You look familiar. Have we met?"

  Mary turned to find two beady red eyes rolling madly and uncontrollably several inches from her face. "I don't think so. I've never been here before."

  Dogsbody scrunched his ugly face and rubbed a sausage sized finger over his course chin. "I got it. You're a Horn, ain’tcha? Bunch of stringy little whelps, ain’tcha? What no good business you have with The Old Man?"

  Mary backed away from the uncomfortable stare of Dogsbody, not liking where the conversation was leading.

  "Keep close, lad,” called Mac over his shoulder. “No use arguing with a bugbear. They've got hair for brains."

  Mary turned and trotted to keep up with her slightly more friendly companion. Dogsbody jeered behind her, his deep voice the only sound in the cavernous tunnel. They walked for quite a while down a gentle incline, the tunnel a semicircle of dirty brick and mortar. Suspended lanterns spat a wan light every ten meters or so. Mary stumbled several times in the poor light on uneven bricks and the smooth cart tracks embedded in the ground. As the tunnel evened out, boxes and crates littered the floor. Small-statured creatures ran about, opening and packaging antique wares, checking lists and cargo manifests. Mary stared at each one, astonished. Some were cute and cuddly. Others were hideous, miniature versions of Mac. Each one worked without pause, their little faces set in determination.

  "What are all of these things?" asked Mary in a hushed voice. "Where did they all come from?"

  Mac stopped walking and confronted Mary. "Some were human once. Some are goblins or Fomorian or elves. Take your pick, we're all here. The Old Man's magic has changed them to what you see now. Now stop staring like a slack-jawed yokel; it’s rude."

  Several of the small creatures stopped working to stare back at Mary. One of them poked an extraordinarily long tongue at her. Mary squealed and kept walking.

  Ahead the tunnel opened up to a large round room, its roof obscured in shadow. Rows of tables and shelves spread out in straight lines for as far as the eye could see, their surfaces crowded with exquisite wares and inane bric-a-brac.

  "He's in the centre," rumbled Mac softly.

  "Who is?" replied Mary slowly.

  "Your new lord and master. The Old Man."

  Mary gulped. She was beginning to regret her choice of switching places for her brother, no matter how noble his reason for staying. She really didn't like the idea of being owned. A life of slavery was no life at all, in her opinion. There was also something very sinister about the creatures in the shop – a mystery that Mary would be happy to never get to the bottom of. Snapping to, she realised that Mac was ahead of her, striding towards the heart of the room, his clawed feet clicking on the stone floor in a rhythmic pattern.

  Groaning, Mary followed. Mac led her through the labyrinthine rows of shelving, while her eyes roamed wildly, taking in the strange sights all around her. Abruptly, the shelves stopped, and she came to a wide circular dais dominating the centre of the room. Mary's pulse quickened at the sight of a pale, severe looking man seated in a high wingback chair atop the dais, his hands pressed together and an impatient look in his grey eyes. Mac stopped a respectful distance from the man and dropped to one knee, bowing. Mary stood awkwardly beside him, unsure if she should bow as well.

  "Get down now!" hissed Mac though a clenched jaw.

  Mary made to curtsey before correcting herself and remembering to bow instead.

  "Whatever you do, don't address him first, don't look at him and don't ever stand on that dais. You understand, lad?"

  Mary nodded her head, looked at the floor and waited.

  Seconds dragged by like minutes. Eventually she heard the scraping of furniture and slow measured footsteps on wooden flooring approaching her. A cold hand gripped her chin firmly and tilted it up. Above her The Old Man stared back, his regal face a grimace of rage. She was partly afraid to look and yet she could not help herself. His dreadful eyes shone with eerie light.

  "Who are you?" he spoke slowly, each word spat with venom.

  Mary faltered under that cruel gaze, forgot how to speak, forgot how to think entirely.

  "Speak, damn you!" roared her captor.

  "Remy," whispered Mary, finding her voice.

  The Old Man shook his head disdainfully and tightened his grip. "Who are you really?"

  "Mary. I'm Mary of the House of Horn," she wheezed as The Old Man choked her.

  With a roar The Old Man flung her backwards onto the stone floor, her head bouncing on the hard surface. Mary lay there in a daze, too scared to move again.

  The Old Man rounded on Mac, his rage well and truly started.

  "Are there still any forces inside the house? Did you leave anyone behind? Are the wards still down?"

  Mac grimaced and bowed his head further. "I don't know, sire. I took the lad and flew off. Ferule was in charge of the boys. They were about to leave when I took off."

  The Old Man struck Mac in the side of the head with his fist. "She's not a boy, you idiot! She's a girl! A useless little girl! What am I meant to do with her? Remus's lot are a male-dominated society. I needed the prince! Not the princess!"

  He began to pace backwards and forwards in front of them, one hand punching the other.

  "I’ll probably never find the place again! Do you know how long I’ve waited for this? How bloody important this is!?” screamed The Old Man.

  Mac bowed further until his head touched the floor. The Old Man rubbed his temples, his anger still simmering.

  “The prophecy was very plain,” he said. “The union of royal wolf and fairy changeling, mortal heir of Horn, shall rouse the sleepers upon far Avalon, and turn foul Ragnarök. I had everything worked out and you've gone ahead and ruined everything. My whole plan is ruined. No prince. No leverage. Mark my words when I say I'm going to make things very difficult for you."

  Mary lay on the floor, her head too painful to move. She hoped The Old Man wouldn’t direct his anger at her. Looking over at Mac, she saw a spiteful cast in the Fomorian's eyes. "I'm going to kill you," he mouthed silently in her direction. Mary shuddered at the knowledge that, with her deception, she had made a bitter enemy out of Mac.

  Suddenly The Old Man was gripping her hair. Mary screamed and tried to fight him off.

  “Stop it girl, or I will feed you to the dogs,” he yelled as he pulled Mary to her feet.

  He let go of her and began to circle around her, looking up at the dark ceiling.

  “Hear me all greater and lesser spirits, and deliver your judgement. Eighty years ago a bargain was made. This girl’s grandsire bargained for the hand of Nuada. Payment was an object of my choice after the birth of the third generation of his kin. I demanded the Prince of both the Western reaches and the Sidhe. I have been deceived with this wretched girl instead. I entreat thee! Help grant me my true desire or strike down Stephen Horn. What say you?”

  The air shifted, became heavy, deathly cold. Another presence joined the room. Mary looked about but couldn’t see anything tangible. Something tickled her ear. A dis
embodied voice came from nowhere.

  …Denied… The girl may fulfil your desire… Watch and wait young falconer…..

  The room sighed and the dark presence departed. The Old Man gritted his teeth and growled. Mary tumbled back to the floor. The horrible memory of the shade was unravelling itself from her fragile mind.

  “Dammit!” roared The Old Man, his body constricted with rage.

  He started to pace. "That ruddy Horn! I didn't think he had it in him. Man was always a bit blind to the obvious... too hell-bent on his little vendettas. He must be laughing his miserable black heart out right now... Thinks he's got the better of me, does he? I'll show him... Precious baby Horn is mine now... my true desire…" His voice trailed off, as unspoken thoughts took shape. He turned and looked down at Mary, supine on the cold stone, the trace of a smile on his lips.

  "Get up, Horn," he snapped.

  Mary stirred and rose to her feet shakily, eager to avoid further punishment for the slightest transgression.

  The Old Man looked at her thoughtfully, taking in every inch of her face. Finally he waved a glowing hand in front of her face. Mary felt a ripple of heat wash over her. The shadow magic dissolved, exposing her true form.

  "Pretty," he sighed, "for a wolf. Even with a bad haircut."

  He walked around and her inspected her further. Mary felt herself redden under the scrutiny of the stranger.

  "Yes. You will stay. It will break his heart I'm sure, knowing that you're mine. You may even have a use yet. In the meantime though..."

  A kick to the back of her legs dropped Mary to her knees. The Old Man loomed above her, one hand raised to the sky, the other cupped over her heart. Horrid light swirled in his hands, orange, brown, black and blue. Mary’s skin prickled at the proximity to the magic and a bad taste developed in the back of her throat.

  The Old Man smiled, his eyes shining with their own evil light.

  "I mark you mine for the dereliction of your sire’s debt, his lawful agreement broken in bad faith. You are hereby the property of this shop, the chattel of my will. Here you shall remain till the original agreement is fulfilled or a new bargain is reached.” The Old Man leaned closer, until Mary could feel the heat of his breath. “Or death," he pronounced.

  The corrupt light spilled out of his hand and drove into Mary's chest. She shrieked as it coursed through her veins, poisoning the fibres of her being, tainting her very soul. Every part of her wanted to run away from the corruption, to cut it out and purge it from her system. But it was everywhere. It was now part of her.

  The putrid light died in The Old Man's hand, easing Mary's discomfort a margin. He spoke without emotion down to her. "You are mine now, little Horn. If you try to escape, you will die. If you try to harm me, you will die. If you disobey me, you will die. Do I make myself clear?"

  Mary nodded weakly, too scared and discomforted to speak.

  The Old Man turned his back to her. "Mac! Show her to her Petri. Get the girl a job."

  Without another look he strode back to his enormous dais and slumped down in his chair. Mac's clawed hand hauled Mary to her feet by the scruff of her neck and dragged her away. Shelves stacked with countless treasures streamed past as she was led deeper into the store. Her feet barely touched the ground all the while, Mac's painful grip the only thing keeping her upright. They entered another tunnel, this one narrower than the one they had first come through. The brick appeared much older than the rest of the building but was much cleaner. Rusted pipes with slow leaks ran along the ceiling, steam and unidentified liquids puffing or dribbling down. Oil lamps burned in wall sconces to light the way.

  Mary began to feel rather claustrophobic and in need of fresh air and sunshine. Somehow she knew that was out of the question.

  "Where are you taking me?" she stammered.

  "The quartermaster," replied Mac curtly.

  "I'm sorry I tricked you, Mac," whispered Mary guiltily.

  Mac snarled. "Shove your apology."

  "I didn't mean to get you in trouble. I was only trying to help my brother."

  "Look, girlie, you may be one of us now. But you'll never be one of us. What you did made me and the boys look really stupid. A smart woman would watch her back around the warrior caste and you done made them all angry."

  Mary felt a chill down her spine and her weak legs buckled further. Mac dragged her on without pause.

  Mac turned down a branch off the tunnel, a wooden door with dark iron banding blocked their path. He rapped sharply on the door with a huge fist.

  "Enter!" a trill voice screamed from the other side.

  Mac swung the heavy door open. The room beyond was tightly crammed with more oddities and treasures. A low wooden table was in the centre of the room, a little slimy green-skinned creature sat behind it on a simple chair. The creature had wide pointed ears and a long jaw filled with needle-sharp teeth. Parts of its skin were made of stone, unmoving and at odds with the rest of the bright green body. The right hand had been replaced with an iron cudgel, its weighty form resting upon some papers on the table.

  "Who is this?" the creature hissed in a high-pitched voice.

  "Mary Horn," grumbled Mac. "She's new property of our lordship."

  The small creature eyed her with disgust. "What am I to do with her? She looks like a typical human from the mundane world, a good for nothing weakling."

  Mary opened her mouth to protest but Mac let go of his hold and she fell to a heap on the floor.

  "Huh! You see? Fat lot of good this one will be," whined the quartermaster.

  "I don't care," spat Mac. "Just give her somewhere to sleep and a job. Master’s orders."

  The quartermaster jumped down from his chair and hobbled over to Mary’s side. One of his legs was completely made of stone from the knee down, forcing him to drag it behind him uselessly. "What can you do, girl?" he asked leaning down. "Know any magic?"

  Mary shook her head.

  The quartermaster sighed. "Can you fight?"

  Mary shrugged. "I can fence."

  "What about hand to hand?"

  "No."

  "Shoot?"

  "Never tried."

  The quartermaster shot an ugly look at Mac. The Fomorian just shrugged and picked his teeth.

  "You any good with numbers?"

  "Does it involve trigonometry?"

  "I'll take that as a no..." The quartermaster stroked his long chin. "It's looking like the kitchens or the duster for you. Like we need another good-for-nothing cleaner..."

  Mary eyed the dirty room but decided to bite her tongue.

  Puffing out his scrawny chest, the little green man tried to sound regal and commanding, but it missed the mark entirely with his high voice. "I'll give you the run down since I'm sure our exalted leader undoubtedly deigned to inform you. He has cast a spell on you. You do anything wrong and we'll know about it. We can punish you as we see fit – and we will do so immediately."

  He paused to let his words sink in.

  "I am your direct superior. You may call me master, sir or lord. Do not ever think to call me Petri as some of the lesser-minded do."

  Mac snorted and suppressed a burst of laughter. Petri shuddered angrily and looked at the much larger warrior with contempt. Mac wasn't fazed by the shorter beast’s unspoken threat.

  "As I was saying," he rattled on. "You will work for as long and as hard as I tell you to. You will rest only when advised. Displease me and I will punish you."

  Mary gave him a deflated nod. This whole situation was getting worse by the second. She had traded her boring life in Pennysworth for one of slavery in the damp dark recesses of a shop run by monsters. "Be careful what you wish for..." she muttered.

  "What did you say?" huffed Petri.

  "Nothing, sir. I'm just excited by the prospect of work," offered Mary.

  Petri’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Show her to the kitchens, Knives. I've got important work to do."

  "What do I look like? The butle
r?" growled Mac.

  Petri raised a stone crusted eyebrow. "Do I need to have a word with him?"

  "No. No need," Mac muttered. "Find me a broom and I'll sweep while I walk. Come on, girlie, I'm fierce hungry."

  Mac spun on his heel and strode out of the room, Mary clinging closely behind.

  Petri stroked his long chin thoughtfully. "Brooms? Yes... why didn't I think of that before."

  They were back in the main tunnel, walking further into the recesses of the store. Mary assumed that they must be at least half a kilometre away from its centre. Dozens of tunnels branched away, some bringing cool breezes, others glowed with orange light and furnace heat. Most were dark and gloomy. Mac strode ahead, stopping only briefly to let Mary catch up on shaky legs. The aroma of roasting meat and boiling broths announced the kitchen before she saw it. The temperature increased by a number of degrees to an unpleasant level. Mary groaned when she thought of working in this heat day in and out.

  The kitchen was set just off the main tunnel through a wide open arch. Inside, the walls and floor were tiled in a mosaic of random colours and hues. Twin hearths blazed at the far end with carcasses spit roasting on the open flames at different levels. The room was divided into three by long preparation tables. A multitude of minions in stained white smocks bent over their surfaces, chopping, peeling, dicing and splicing. On the right-hand side were a bank of gas-fired cook tops laden with frying pans and pots. On the left, copper washing tubs were filled with crockery and saucepans. A lanky man who seemed stretched out of proportion stalked the aisles screaming profanities and waving a ladle like a sword. He wore a chef’s uniform and an admiral’s bicorn hat; he was obviously the appointed master of the kitchen. Mac made his way towards the enraged man as he struck several cooks squarely on the head after sampling their soup.

  "Rubbish! Not fit for the pigs!" roared the chef in a commanding voice.

  "It is pig..." muttered a cook rubbing his scalp.

  "Not fit for the dogs then!" retorted the chef.

  One of the cooks raised a hand but the chef rapped him on the knuckles with a flick of his ladle. "I don't care if there's dog in it either. It's bad. Simple as that."

  Mac shouldered his way past several waiting cooking staff earning him frosty stares and bitter threats. "Barnabas. I've brought you a new underling."

  The chef turned on Mac, ladle ready to strike. "What's this? Mac O'Knives in my kitchen? And he brings help? My, aren't I fortunate."

  Mac snarled. "Can the sarcasm, you glorified potato peeler. I'm not in the mood. The girl is yours to use as you see fit. Boil her for all I care."

  Mac spun on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen, his wings twitching and fists clenching.

  Barnabas watched him go, murder in his eyes, his hands wringing the ladle like a chickens neck. His eyes dropped down to Mary.

  "Come here, girl."

  Mary sighed inwardly and approached. Up close she could see his skin was scarred with a network of red puckered stretch marks. The admiral’s hat looked old and battered with a bullet hole in its centre, a relic from another age. The chef’s uniform he wore was grossly undersized for his elongated body.

  Never trust a skinny chef.

  Barnabas leaned closer, sniffing at the nape of Mary's neck. Suddenly he plucked a hair from her head and inspected it in the light. Opening his long jaw he dropped the hair in his mouth and chewed.

  "Dishes," he commanded and walked away. Mary looked about her uncertainly. Around her the cooks laboured on in their duties. A cat-faced creature wearing a white bandana caught her eye.

  "Better do what he says, lass. Not unless you want those pretty features disfigured quicker. If you catch my meaning."

  Mary nodded and smiled wanly. Threading her way past the cooks, she found an unmanned sink and got started. She was hungry, deathly tired and worst of all, scared.

  "Worst idea ever," she said to herself as a solitary tear streaked down her cheek.

  Time bled by in haze of stacked dishes and tears. The more pots and pans she cleaned the more she found waiting, an endless cycle of dirty water and elbow grease. Mary swayed on her feet, half asleep with only the cruel comfort of an aching back and feet to remind her that this wasn't a nightmare.

  She had long since given up her pride and had resorted to eating the scraps and wastes in an effort to rid her hunger pains. None of the other kitchen staff spoke to her, either in encouragement or direction. They simply dropped off crates laden with dirty pots and took the clean ones away. She could feel their eyes on her as she scrubbed, some curious, others malicious. Slowly the chaotic noise of the kitchen died down as the last of the meals were cooked. Cooks downed their knives and spoons and left for bed. Soon only Mary and a handful of other cleaners remained. Reaching for what felt like the thousandth item to clean, Mary's hand caught nothing but air. She stared blankly around and realised that her job was done. Now able to let her body and mind think of sleep she pulled the plug from the bottom of the filthy sink and let the miasma of dishwater drain away.

  The other cleaners were all starting to leave. She decided to follow the least threatening-looking one away from the kitchen, hoping he was heading for the sleeping quarters.

  The cleaner looked over his shoulder at Mary once it became apparent she was tailing him through the warren of tunnels. "Can I help you?" he asked curtly.

  "Where do I sleep?" replied Mary timidly.

  "They didn't show you?"

  Mary shook her head and bit her lip as another wave of tears threatened to fall.

  The cleaner sighed. "Follow me then. I suppose there might be room. I suppose..."

  He led her down a damp tunnel and through a small rickety door. Inside was a dark room filled with bunks and hammocks. Creatures of every stature and design slept where they could. The room reverberated with the sounds of sleep. Every second creature snored a rasping song, and every third farted in counterpoint. The room stank of body-odour, dirt, and digesting food.

  How am I meant to sleep through all of this?

  Mary grimaced and looked around for an unoccupied bed. She spied an empty hammock and tiptoed towards it. The small cleaner she had been following darted past her and leapt into its folds. Swinging side to side as he settled, he cast her a dirty look and blew a raspberry.

  Sobbing silently, Mary found a space on the floor beside a large furry beast with protruding horns and a snake with thin little arms and legs. Praying to an unnamed god, she hoped nothing would eat her during the night.