The glow of flames in the eyes of the two thousand rats suddenly light ever brighter, grow ever larger, until the walls themselves are coated in the fury of the Rat-King. A raging inferno that could engulf and burn Albezjer in a blink of an eye.
Yet the old rat shows no fear, he simply continues; 'Thus, should I succeed in the service, I most humbly ask you to reward me with vassal hood. Grant me the authority to lord over the area formed from the crater wall, and closed in by the streets; Dragon's Breath and Baker's Demise.'
The mental fury of the hive mind slowly fades until those piercing stares of flaming eyes focus onto the old rat in the centre of it all. 'We find your terms agreeable enough, now begone from our sight. Prepare for your task. We await your death,'
Albezjer makes a small bow with his head, and then the wall behind him shifts and creaks one torn brick at a time to open a passage out. The guards at his side escort him to the edge of the city under the streets, about where he had first stuck his nose out.
Somewhat reluctantly the old rat looks behind to the lights of the city, he listens to the hum of it. Bitterness cleaves his soul, he had not been given a proper chance to enjoy the scenery, to the hear the rumours spoken and passed in passing, or inspect the goods and services both strange and foreign available for trade.
Thus, the old rat decides to give some final words to consider as his gaze turns away from the fortress domain; 'To wait my death will only cost you wealth and time, with no real profit in sight.'
Abezjer knows that each of the competing Rat-Kings are aware of his little mirror shards hidden here and there. Even quite good estimates and guesses on the their rough whereabouts. He thinks to the himself how it is a shame that the current Rat-Kings pay so little heed towards the possibilities of illusion. But their loss is his gain, the old rat speeds to the hole to greet the hidden mirror shard. He grabs a sharp pebble to produce a new drop of blood, and just as he had arrived, he disappears.
The next destination of the nightly journey is to visit an old friend. One of the very few he has left, especially now that that Surtur in turn is alive and scheming for his vengeance. Hence our old rat finds himself behind a line of colourful glass bottles. His whiskers twist and bend from all the different scents filling the room, from the simplest spices to ingredients more than just obscure. The sounds rise from bubbling cauldrons and boiling alchemical vases. A magister's study, a peaceful one as no spirit moans of their unjust imprisonment and bondage.
Carefully the rat begins to move onwards, to lurk and skulk behind the bottles, jars and books that adorn the wooden frame of the shelf itself. And there between the gabs on objects, he sees glances of his old friend. A magister of messy grey hair wearing purple heavy robes, and a fez of same fabric to almost cover the balding spot on his head. The man looks weary, tired, and swallowed into the thick tome he inspects with the greatest care. How he moves an orb above the cryptic text to make some sense out of it.
The old rat stops by the edge of the shelf, to just peer over and observe for a moment. To inspect, if anything had changed in that small tower room since his last visit. Papers had accumulated, shifted, and disappeared from the desk and other shelves. The large runes glowing on the walls themselves remain ever the same. And the somewhat small window is still locked from inside by the simplest of locks; a neatly forged brass arm resting on a nail.
'It has been a while, Albezjer.' The old magister finally says without raising his gaze from his study. A frank question follows shortly after; 'How is my old home?'
'All and more than what I could have ever asked for, my old friend.'
The magister finally sets down the orb, takes up a long black feather pen, and dips it into the glittering black ink. 'Ah, Surtur lives once more. You might want to watch out.' He says almost casually, as if the whole detail was but a statement of how the weather was today.
'Thank you, but I am already aware. It seems that I cannot really trust my sources of information.'
'Have you ever?' He asks back somewhat amused.
'No, I suppose not.'
'About Surtur, how much does he remember of the night?'
The old magister takes off his purple fez and turns to face the shelf. He sees the old rat dangling between two thick tomes. 'I could not possibly know, but given that you are still alive, probably not much of his recent decade. After all, he lost so much, and gained only pain in return.'
'His whole family...'
'Not quite the whole family, some members happened to be away from the city, either by chance or for their own safety out of suspicion towards the council. But I do miss young Erriapus, he had the quickest mind of all my apprentices. It is a shame really.'
'Quicker than fabled Surtur?' The old rat cannot help but inject the snide comment, and the old magister remains quiet for a moment long enough to make the rat regret his choice of words.
'What is done is done.' He finally mentions and turns back to the tome to finish etching the final runes on the page. He marvels his work just long enough for the ink to dry enough to turn over the next page. 'Shame on this poor quality ink, always fades and chips away so soon.'
'I...'
'Go on, say what is on your mind. After all, it is why you have come today.'
'I need to destroy the Skull of Oghren.'
'Many have tried, and failed, for thousands of years. Magisters mightier than the orders and collages combined have all failed in that task. Not even in death can anyone crack that stubborn old head of Oghren.'
The rat sighs as the answer did not come out as a surprise. 'But if one were try, even still, what would be the best way?'
The old magister shakes his head towards the tome. 'I would take the boy, and the girl, and simply flee the city.'
'And where should we flee? Is there a place the Rat-Kings cannot reach us sooner or later, is there another place to hide from Surtur's vengeance than under his nose?'
'It still the better option to dying out right.' The magister drips the excess ink back into the bottle.
'But if you were to amuse yourself with the task of sundering the skull, how would you start?'
The old magister notices the hint of desperation in the rat's voice. 'Spirits and gods are fruitless, as is all arcane might against the enchantment on that skull. Perhaps a hammer and chisel crafted from the same bones could do the trick. Yet those bones cannot be shaped or transformed, many have tried for naught, should you even find any of the missing bones.'
'What of a regular hammer and chisel? Enchanted and strengthened time and time again?'
The magister lifts his shoulders. 'I suppose it could work, with the aid of Enchanters' collage and few centuries if not more to do it. It takes time to build a myth even somewhat comparable to the unbreakable Skull of Oghren. And this too, has failed time and time again.'
The old rat bows his head. 'Thank you my friend.'
The old magister just shrugs it off his shoulder. Abezjer tries to find the words to bid farewell for now, but before he can he is interrupted by a question; 'Oh, on your last visit you asked of the dandelion seeds, did you get them from the old bag of bones?'
'Yes, we did. We ended having more troubles finding our way back to the surface. First the usual agitated wights and were-rats, then avoiding the miners the magisters' messengers. I know it is not a permanent solution for the boy, but he seems better...'
'Yes?' The old magister garbed in purple raises his eyebrow even though he is still facing the old tome under his potato like nose.
'The boy seems to learn some things almost instinctively, like...'
'Like he had always know how to do it? Like a fish learning to swim instead of a toddler learning to speak?'
'Exactly.'
'Some souls are just born with more raw talent than others, sometimes even terrifyingly so. But on other cases, it is just the situation and necessity. What is a fish that cannot swim? Yet I have my suspicion that the innate talent was not split evenly between him and the girl.'
'The girl, the books she surrounds herself with, it is almost like she is absorbing the information. The glow, the sound of whispers… It has grown stronger after these months, after she… We talked about what she wanted to do.'
'Hmn... That is interesting.' The magister begins to stroke his fuzzy grey beard with slow movements. 'Very interesting. Do you have an idea what she has been unable to wrap her head around?'
Albezjer goes over the tiny details he picked up while skulking around the house listening to what the children were saying to each other. 'Perhaps the art of Illusions and Restoration.'
'Then I would advise you to encourage the boy to focus on practising Illusions and Restoration. If my old books are no use to him, perhaps you can find a local clergy to provide the needed assistance and guidance in few years time.'
'I will keep that in my mind.' The rat begins to back away, to head back to the mirror shard.
'Ah, before you scurry away, would you like a cup of tea or some other beverage?'
The old rat stares at the old magister before giving his dry answer; 'I'm a rat.'
The old magister finally gets up, stretches his body and pops few bones in the process. He wobbles to pick up the kettle on one of the shelves to shake it around. There is still some water inside. 'Should be enough.' He then simply rests the kettle on his palm as blue strands of fire rise along the tarnished black surface. Not long after steam rises and the old magister pours the boiling water to a mug hidden under several sheets of paper.
The rat somewhat flinches from the sight, as he has no idea how long ago that tea leaf shrapnel had lingered inside the unwashed mug. 'Take care my old friend.' The rat utters and the old magister in turn mumbles something back as he slurps down his tea.
Albezjer vanishes behind the books, bottles and jars, wondering if the old magister would like to teach either Loge or Pan in the art of magic. After all, because he prefers to remain far away from the inner politics of the magisters, it also means he has sat for centuries at the end of the bucket list when it comes to selecting promising new apprentices. Those young and hopeful often used as little tools of war for the games of favours and vendettas the magisters wage upon each other to pass their time.
Once facing the mirror, Albezjer simply slams his paw against his stomach to reopen the wound for the one last drop of blood. While the old rat clenches his teeth together he draws the circle on the glass and leaps back to the old house. It is time for him to wake up the boy, before he goes out on his own to appease Sus, the Rat-King currently rules where they reside.
...
The old magister puts down the half-full cup of the tea. He looks at the thin liquid, and just sticks out his own tongue in disgust. But since it would be a waste, he drinks the cup empty regardless of the protests and delays send forth from his own gut.
He takes a moment to play with the mug in his hands by slowly turning the round edge before his eyes. His mind wonders to his youth, to one of his very first lessons with his own master. Someone so distant and forgotten that his name has even escaped his own mind. But he still remembers the worlds she once said to him, and so he repeats those exact words; 'Some say the passage of time is linear in its nature, how it continues to move on regardless of the total might of the mightiest wizards, sorcerers, witches, mages, and even gods combined. Thus if there exists a rule, it is that an earlier event in time cannot be ever changed. But if you are blessed, or cursed, with a life beyond your peers; perhaps you will begin to see how events have tendency to repeat in cycles. Some are small, almost insignificant, like waking up and going to sleep. Others are bigger, like the cycles of violence. Wars and the time needed to rebuild, to forget the cost of the last one, and what it took to reopen ancient wounds as the excuse for more bloodshed. There are many more cycles in our lives, and you could imagine each and every one of them as a golden gear of its own, some bigger, some smaller. Some spinning fast, and others taking centuries to turn. Gears that are forever interlocked and pushing against one and another. Thus, it only takes a spin of the tiniest gear to put them all into motion. These gears are what forms the entirety what you know as the Golden Ring of Life. If you are clever; perhaps you can one day see it in your dreams. If you are lucky; perhaps you will gain the chance to enter the Book of End and see it for yourself. Perhaps you could even gain an audience with the beings that are said to guard it in the realm beyond ours, the realm of stars, the realm of our dreams, the realm where time both stands forever still and forever in motion.'
He rubs his eyes, the wrinkly skin of his eyelids. He really feels the centuries upon centuries of life on his weary old bones. He sighs on how meaningless it all seems to be, just repetition of the same cycles over and over again. The same lecture he gives to the young new apprentices before their selection.
What interrupts his silent stare to the distance. What startles him, and makes his whole body shiver is the bang on his door. A big heavy fist by sounds of it. Knocking like a hammer against the old oak door. 'Visitors...' He grumbles as he gets up and slowly works his way to the door. A door without any magical protections, just a simple lock.
On the other side stands Surtur. A tall large man wearing blood red robes etched and decorated in runes of golden string. His light brown beard covers his neck and upper torso, his long hair has been braided together to one long knot. Hist stern face and pitch black eyes stare into the aged and old face of his once mentor and master. He does not say a word, as the old magister simply yawns casually and swipes his own fingers to the side of his purple robe.
'Ah, Surtur, it really has been a while since you last sought out my counsel.'
'I am not here for counsel or guidance.'
'You never are, but it is what you will hear regardless. Come in, come in, sit down. Let me hear out your worries.'
The old magister turns around and wobbles to clear out a stool from a pile of books for Surtur to sit on, but instead Surtur just steps in and heads to the old man's chair by his own desk. The chair appears small against his large imposing body. ' Sit down.' He instructs, and the old magister can do nothing but sit on the tiny stool.
'I heard you were pivotal in my resurrection.'
The old magister focuses on the nails on his left hand, taking a bite once here and there. 'I suppose not, I only gave out my counsel.'
'To butcher my family, to steal their hearts, to bind their bodies and souls into the servitude to that old monster beneath our feet?' His voice almost roars with fury.
'I did mention the possibility to collect and purchase the required hearts from the population of the city, but as that could have easily taken centuries for right quality and quantity... It was ultimately your own family that agreed to do the sacrifice for our city, for you. After all, it has always been you, Surtur, who has re-sired anew the house of Melrifareth.'
'Who else have you given your counsel to, old man?'
'To all who come to seek it, as I have for aeons.'
'Have you aided the rat?' Surtur demands as his fist slams against the armrest. The wood creaks and bends under the strength of the blow.
The left nostril of the old magister's nose twitches, his lower lip quivers as if to explode in rage. But it all fades, and his face just returns to its old mellow visage. 'What is done is done. I know you long for vengeance, to inflict your fury on those who wronged you, to the ones who stole your life and the work you have done. But the city needs its magister, it needs the force that keeps its enemies at bay, and it does not need you to chase after a powerless, pathetic little rat. You simply do not have the time or means to chase down a single lonely rat.'
'YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CANNOT DO?'
'On the contrary, I am just telling you what you yourself already know. You can disappear and chase after the rat in the dank sewers, I am not stopping you. But know that the two long years you remained dead have been taxing for us all, and should you disappear once more, our city's enemies will see it as weakness and take the cha
nce to strike. Which will force our king to rise from the depths and conscript an army of undead for him to lead in battle. So swallow your pride, and focus on fulfilling your duties as the city's truest protector. Leave the rat to be dealt by others, by the beings beneath you, as means to appease you.'
The old magister's stare does not flinch, it does not loose its focus. 'You tell me to trust the word of those hive-vermin of the sewers?'
'What could Albezjer even do? Fight to gain power under the sewers, try his best to wrestle control away from the eleven Rat-Kings? Even if he manages to pull it off, it is going to take centuries before he poses any risk beyond his tiny claws and teeth.'
'My body was destroyed, drained to fuel something I have no recollection of. The sheer amount of magical energy I possessed...'
'Could reshape the world itself, but it is no doubt gone, squandered even. You died, and nothing rose to claim your place. No spirit to haunt your husk, no magister to claim your prowess in the art, no army at our doorsteps to take abuse of our moment of weakness. The nothingness that followed was what terrified the Council of Magisters more than anything. For them to seek out your resurrection, to build a new body to house your soul from the strongest of heart sinews. When has that been done to any magister?'
'Which is exactly why I need to...'
'No, you cannot afford to seek out what destroyed you. Not now, not while you remain weakened and but a shadow of who you are. Magic takes time to build, and you are but a fresh born baby even with the knowledge of hundred centuries. There are far too many who would see this as their chance to destroy you. You need to consolidate your own standing before the council, before their own greedy hearts forget the fear they once felt in your passing.'
Surtur's face twitches, almost like that of a rabid dog, before he finally calms down. He does not utter a word, he simply gets up and walks out of his old mentor's study without seeing the effort to close the door after him. He takes his brisk steps onwards, and hears how the old magister finally locks his door anew.
Skull of Oghren Page 9
