Tales of the Horns: Part 1 The Berserk Beast

by R Mountebank

  Chapter 15

  Trapped in a dungeon

  She lost track of time in the black. She slept when she was tired which was often. When she was awake she had nothing but the slow drip, drip, drip of a leaking pipe against which to measure time. It was frustrating to listen to. Its tempo changed at times, ruining her counting game. One hundred drips. Two hundred.

  Would she sleep again at a thousand?

  How many drips occurred while she slept?

  Where did all the water go?

  Could she see the water perhaps?

  Mary focused on these insignificant details. To think of anything else was too painful, too raw. She didn't want to think about food or warmth or clean clothes or anything else she had taken for granted. She didn't want to think about what she would do for a regular meal and a shower. She didn't want to think about how much she had given up already to be here while her brother and grandfather got to live in their cosy house in boring old Pennysworth. She didn't want to think about the consequences of her actions, about what further deprivations she was expected to endure. But mostly, she didn't want to think about what she had become for those two minutes as she cleaned the floor with an army of trained killers.

  Mary sniffed and restarted her count of the incessant drip.

  A noise startled her. She had definitely heard something. Metal shod boots marching down the corridor towards her. More than one set, from the sounds of things. Mary scrambled to her feet and blinked her eyes open. The faint light hurt her eyes yet it was welcome. Anything was better than nothing.

  The guards were still far away. Their powerful lantern cast its light down the corridor, painting a grimmer picture than Mary had thought possible. Sickly growths clung to every surface of her cell, their textures poxed and slimy. Dark pools of God-only-knew sat in every corner, trickled along every crevice, the liquids too viscous to be simple water. Black mould grew in every space between. If she hadn't contracted several diseases, it would a miracle. The soldiers stopped outside of her cell, faces stern and hands resting on weapons. Mary blinked at the harsh light and shielded her tender eyes.

  "Up," barked a guard through the cell bars. "And no funny business. We'll gut you faster than a feast-day hog and feel less put about."

  Mary pushed herself upright. She winced at the pang of tight muscles that hadn't been used in several days.

  The guard with the lantern unlocked the cell door and pulled it open. "Out you come."

  Mary tottered forward unsteadily. The guards looked her up and down with overt hostility. The guard with the lantern spat and walked back down the corridor.

  "Follow," snarled a guard, pushing her roughly.

  "Where are you taking me?" asked Mary.

  "You have a visitor," answered the guard after a pause.

  Mary’s heart quickened. "Do you know who?"

  "Uncle or some such," replied the guard. "Who knows with you western scum. Probably your cousin and your brother to boot..."

  "But I don't have an uncle," protested Mary weakly.

  "Do you think I give a flying fig? Just shut up and walk, you mongrel."

  Mary stumbled on in silence.

  Perhaps Stephen has come to save me at last! It's about time!

  The guards led her through a labyrinth of tunnels, past cells crammed full of belligerent workers and prisoners garbed in foreigners’ clothing or armour. They emerged at the bottom of an enormous pit. A service ramp spiralled up and up and up. Mary grew dizzy following its winding course up to its zenith.

  Lanterns hung from poles and chains throughout the pit, the lights akin to stars in the night sky. The guards dragged Mary to an open elevator that looked like it had been made several centuries ago. She gladly stood in the middle as the thing jerked to life and bucked and lurched its way up the shaft. There were rooms and tunnels all the way along the service ramp: the soldiers’ living quarters, Mary assumed. The lift ground to a halt and Mary’s guards shoved her back onto solid ground. They were now in a wide tunnel that acted as some kind of training ground.

  Soldiers going about their duties stopped in their tracks to stare at her. Some had looks of fear, others anger and hostility. Some shouted threats at her, promising bitter revenge should the chance ever arise. Mary didn't doubt they would try – it was only a matter of when. The guards did little to protect her; they even seemed to slow so Mary's aggressors would have more opportunity to hurl abuse. Mary walked with her head down, trying to drown the voices out with thoughts of freedom.

  Leaving the soldiers’ quarters they entered the main tunnel. Thankfully it was quiet and there weren't too many of The Old Man's workers about to stare and comment. Mary wished she was as small as a bug and felt herself shrink an inch or two as a result. Taking a deep breath she calmed herself before it got any worse. She didn't want a repeat of the mess-room brawl, not now.

  The guards hustled her into the store’s central dome. They passed through rows of ancient books and scrolls. Men and women perusing the wares barely glanced at her, their attention more focused on their next purchase to notice the plight of a teenage girl. The rows of books ended, The Old Man's circular dais before them dominating the vista. He stood, hands clasped behind his back glaring at a stranger at the edge of the dais. The Old Man wore a dark expression, though Mary assumed that was his default setting – much like her grandfather.

  The stranger whom Mary assumed to be her uncle was a tall imposing man. He had a lithe, muscular frame and wore a tight-fitting leather suit trimmed in white fur. The man's wild hair was swept back from his proud face with a cord festooned with sharp teeth and black and white beads.

  He was certainly nobody Mary had met before but he shared many features with herself and Remy. Her mystery uncle looked bored, taking in the sights of The Old Man’s wares without the faintest flicker of emotion. The guards stopped at a respectful distance from their leader and bowed. One guard growled when Mary didn't. Mary dropped to one knee, too tired to stand or bow like some courtesan fop. The Old Man gestured at Mary with an outstretched hand, his patience at a breaking point.

  "Here she is. She's in one piece, just like I said."

  Her uncle turned to look at her properly then. He looked her up and down with that same look of boredom. "I can see," he said in a throaty growl.

  Stepping closer, he sniffed at the nape of Mary's neck, then sighing, he stepped back.

  "The fairy blood is strong in this one... too much so."

  The stranger turned and confronted The Old Man. "What did you expect to get out of this meeting exactly? Our arms and unfettered access to our lands? Perhaps the positions and strengths of our armies? In exchange for this... girl, this... thing?"

  Her uncle snarled, exposing his oversized canines. "We proud Sons of Remus cannot be blackmailed. We will not be coerced."

  His voice rose in timber, conviction and emotion till it bordered on a shout.

  “We are resolute. We are unified. As one, the mighty host of Remus shall march and it will be war we bring to the East!"

  Her uncle glared at The Old Man with fists clenched, his vicious teeth gleaming in the lamplight of the cavernous shop.

  "Nothing will stay our path. Certainly no half-blood mongrel!" He spat at Mary’s feet for emphasis. “And certainly no peddler of pretty baubles and trinkets!"

  The stranger’s words fired the anger in her breast. A small part of her wanted to strike this man down. The better half knew better. Mary bowed her head and focused on calming her thoughts.

  The guards behind Mary drew their swords at her uncle’s insult. The Old Man dismissed them with a curt wave of his hand.

  "What of your brother? Does he not care about the welfare of his offspring?"

  Mary's uncle shrugged, his fury still simmering. "My brother’s wellspring of love ran dry long ago. Not a day goes by when he doesn't curse his union with the fairy woman. As to his children? I bet he pays them no thought, for his full resources are bent on the destr
uction of Rome and all of her allies."

  The Old Man's jaw tightened. "Is she not second in line for the Twisted Crown? What should happen if he falls in battle?"

  "He is only first among equals. Our father sired many strong Sons during his reign. We are legion in number. One from our ranks will take up the mantle should brother Themus fall. The throne will be upheld by a Son of pure blood and none other."

  Her uncle looked down at Mary with a look of disdain. She returned his gaze with a level stare. Mary didn't really care what he thought of her. She didn't even mind that her father had no love for her. Stephen’s cold shoulder style of parenting had left her immune to sentimental feelings. She was more upset at the lack of respect anybody had for her. No-one cared about her thoughts or feelings, had never cared, even from an early age. Her parents didn't care about raising her. The people of Pennysworth didn't care when they taunted and hurt her. The chauvinistic brutes here just wanted to pinch her and pull her into their laps.

  Mary’s uncle sneered back at her. "Did your master not teach you to not stare at your better's girl?"

  And nobody had the decency to use her bloody name.

  "He said betters. Not yapping curs," spat Mary in his face. "And I have a name, or has father forgotten that as well?"

  He uncle snarled and raised a hand to slap her. Mary’s anger spiked at the thought that he would dare hurt her.

  …Hurt him first… came a voice within her head. She agreed with the voice and fed on the anger, changing from a girl to a berserk creature.

  Her uncle saw her odd smile and struck. Mary raised a hand lightning-fast to block the blow. Her uncle grunted in pain at the contact. Recoiling briefly, he swivelled his hips and aimed a kick at her head. Mary exploded in a rush of movement and transformation, breaking the manacles that bound her. She grabbed his clumsy outstretched leg, hurling him backwards. Her uncle flipped head over heel to land on his surprised face.

  Still growing, Mary got to her feet and bent over to pick the groaning man up. Blood poured from a broken nose and a split lip. Eyes wide he stared back at her, seemingly seeing her for the first time. She bought him close to her face, her breathe hot and steaming in the cold air. Voices cried out in alarm behind her but she paid them no heed. All of her attention was focused on the tiny man dangling in her mammoth grip.

  "Tell my father that if we ever meet face-to-face there will be an almighty reckoning. Can you remember that?"

  Her uncle nodded. Licked his lips nervously.

  "Do you remember my name?"

  "Mary. Your name is Mary."

  "Good. Now run along home and tell him what I said."

  Mary dropped her squirming uncle. He landed on his feet and without further ado bolted for the nearest exit. Laughing Mary turned around. Two dozen armed soldiers had formed a half circle around her. "Round two?" asked the Mary-thing with a coarse laugh.

  The Old Man stepped in front of her, his face a thunderhead. "That is quite enough damage for one day, Miss Horn. If they don't burn my store down in retaliation within the month then I'll eat my hat."

  For a moment she thought of crushing the life from her master and jumping on the corpse. A sickening wave of nausea overcame her and she banished the idea. What were they talking about? "You don't have a hat," said Mary scratching her chin.

  "I own a room full of hats, you stupid fairy!" roared her master. "You have more to worry about than my current lack of headwear. Your antics have put me in a right pickle. In the space of a week you've crushed my captain of the guards into mincemeat, broken two dozen of my best fighters and tarnished the only real value you had to me!" The Old Man shook his fists at her, his pale skin flushed red and veined. "You could have been free in a week's time, but no! You had to beat the ambassador, a brother to the prince I might add, to a bloody pulp. They're never going to negotiate now."

  Mary shook her head slowly. Didn't he say she was some mongrel half breed? Didn't he say her father didn't want her?

  "I don't understand. He said they didn't want me."

  "He was trying to play down your value, you fool," shouted The Old Man. "It's a little thing called bartering. This is a shop, you know?" He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the ceiling.

  Mary’s heart sank. She could have been free if only she'd controlled her temper. But now she was stuck here until her debt was paid. That probably meant forever. She shrank back down to her normal size and found herself sobbing. "What am I going to do?" she moaned through her crying. "I can't wash dishes or wait tables until I'm old and grey. I can't work in that mad house."

  "Oh quit your crying," snapped The Old Man. "You're not working in the kitchens any longer. You've proved you can't handle that without going berserk and making a mess."

  Mary wiped her dirty sleeve over her face. "Then what will I do?"

  The Old Man looked back at her, his teeth grinding, eyes tight.

  "Sir," Mary added.

  He looked at her for a long time. Finally he turned and strode back to his desk atop the dais. "I don't care at the moment. Go clean yourself up and report to Petri."

  The soldiers formed a ring around the dais, swords held point down, eyes forward.

  Still sobbing, Mary rose to her feet and started towards the main service tunnel.

  "Oh. One more thing, Mary," called her master. "I had almost forgotten."

  Mary turned to face him slowly. "Yes?"

  "Your punishment."

  At a gesture the pain took her. Mercifully she blacked out before she hit the floor and started to convulse.