***
Loge and Pan carry a filled basket together. They pull the street side door open, and spot the young Bergelmir waiting. He asks about the large skulls before the two others can even put down the basket. His face is beaming with curiosity.
Loge and Pan look at one and the other. Both their faces remain pale and weary from their nightly flight through the rain and into the depths of the pit. Dark rings surround their eyes, and the wound on Loge's forehead is only barely closed.
'Oh.' Bergelmir says, when he notices how worn out the two seem. 'What happened yesterday?'
Pan coughs. He blinks, and twists his face into a smile. 'We found a were-rat, and we beat it up.' Bergelmir's eyes widen as he presents his litany of ever increasing questions. From what each of them did and ultimately what exactly happened to the monster they had encountered. Pan hesitates before he finally tells how he made a tree grow from an acorn the beast swallowed. Bergelmir suddenly falls silent recalling the nuts he ate during his own breakfast.
Pan chuckles and goes to helps her sister empty the basket, and later goes to find the flint and steel to help lit up the fireplace. The sparks Loge manages to conjure from her hands are weak, feeble, and too cold to light up anything. Bergelmir watches over thinking how he has never seen her be so weak.
The flint and steel strike. Sparks fly until flames take a hold of the strange metal within the fireplace. The two rush to feed the fire with additional firewood, until the flames begin to climb high along the back of the fireplace. The warmth seems to return to Loge's face, and small tendrils of fire raise and curl towards her.
Pan proceeds to skewer a piece of meat, and to move it into the flames to cook. Grease and far drips down, hissing as it reaches the coals.
Thus Bergelmir slowly creeps over and decides to help the two prepare the food they have brought with them. He goes to fetch the water required to boil the vegetables, and does most of the peeling as the two other kids appear to be far more focused on gobbling down their lumps of beef.
The soup takes its time to boil, during which Loge and Pan begin share the plans the old rat had shared with them earlier. What was expected from each and everyone of them, and especially what not to do should they eventually succeed. Bergelmir nods while stirring the bubbling soup.
The other kids begin to find their way there one after another. Things start to move, and there is work to be done for all of them.
Chapter 12:
'Pan!' Loge shouts outs while clanging two iron pans together. A dreadful noise, but enough to force his eyes open and make him crawl towards the window and peak through while still dangling on the roof. 'I have been calling for you.'
'Sorry.' Pan says while ruffling his hair and plucking the occasional leaf away.
'Just get inside, everything is ready for you.' Loge's gaze wanders away and she rubs her own arm with the handle of one of the pans as Pan crawls through and straightens his clothes. He sees some meticulous effort to lower down the eye patch, before taking one of Loge's pans to be worn as a hat. The boy smiles with a grin as wide as his face.
'What?' He snorts out as Loge grabs the pan back.
The girl points the pan towards the stairs and simple retorts back: 'Let's go down.'
'Fine...' Replies Pan as he makes sure that there is no odd leaf sticking out of his hair.
The two make their way down the stairs. Step after step, floor after floor, and so our two siblings find themselves on the ground floor. They are greeted by the eleven others, and the old rat yawns in the middle of the kitchen table. The kids are smirking and holding their hands behind their backs.
Pan's eyes squint with suspicion, and Loge simply hurries them to get it over with.
Thus without much of a further adieu; Atlas steps forth and hands one of the were-rat skulls to Pan. It is heavy, and untarnished. The large boy smirks and says how it has been made to the specifications of the old rat, how it is supposedly inseparable from the real one. Atlas raises his shoulders and leaves Pan barely holding on to the skull with his arms.
The three siblings rest a black folded cloak on top of the skull. Pan's knees wobble a bit more while Mimas boldly declares; 'It's not my cloak, it is not like it at all.' Pallene is quick to jab at her sister's side, and the youngest, Enceladus, continues in her stead; 'But it will fly, if you need it to fly.'
Hip casually flings a harness made of leather straps on top. 'You will need to carry the skull in, and the other other out, somehow. So; strap it to your back with that harness.'
Pandora, Yarnsaxa, and Dione on their turn quietly pile strange cubes. They explain how the ones with a faint copper hue will explode into a puff of yellow smoke with the smallest spark of flame, and how the midnight blue ones will spew forth dark smoke if the protective surface ever cracks.
And finally, the twins step forth, and they present the hammer they have created. A hammer formed out of single dark grey piece of metal. Shaped and wrought not with just hammers, but with magic, and how the handle and the head alike are decorated with various different engraved seals. The twins tell how the engravings belong to to magisters from ages past to those still alive. From friends to foes, and how none would be wiser who actually made the hammer.
The eleven kids look at each other approvingly all while Pan's face keeps turning to a ever redder shade of red. He cannot help but to dash onwards hastily in an attempt to unload the weight resting on his arms. He sprints towards the nearest stool by the table. Stumbles and pants.
The old rat moves past the cubes and hammer that flew onto the table. 'You are lucky those cubes did not break, or we would be all running outside for fresh air.' The other kids sigh in deep relief.
Pan looks up only to see how the rat looks down on him past the edge of the table.
'You will also have wear the fox mask in addition to all this junk.' The chuckles. 'To conceal your identity, your face, just in case. So, what do you say?'
Pan slowly lets go off the skull and turns around to face the other children. He thanks them for what they have given to him, and the little Bergelmir proudly states how he is going to help Pan remain invisible.
***
The old rat watches from the side how the kids continue to laugh and play. He lets them have the evening to relax, and be proud of what they have achieved. After all, they have worked hard to fulfil a theft that could go sour in so many ways. Thus he watches how Pan laughs with the others, blatantly unaware of the weight that has now fallen to his small shoulders alone. How the boy, if only for a moment, remains oblivious how his life, his future, hangs on nothing but the success of the theft of a skull.
The old rat's claws are tense, the sharp points dig into the wood of the table. The old rat's quiet observation now turns towards Loge, a fire elemental that has all but forgotten her past and the exact extent of her capabilities. Albezjer recalls how he once stood on Surtur's shoulders as the flames from the lantern raged and swept those trying to hinder their progress. How they raced up along the stairs of the Tower of Judgement to smash the Skull of Oghren once and for all. The skull had not cracked on that or on any of their other attempts. It had remained unbent, and unchanged in any way, regardless of the magical furies they had once aimed and brought to it.
'Circles.' The old rat mutters aloud, yet the word remains unheard past the shrieks and laughter. The kids continue to goof around and throw their little tricks of magic. The rat chooses it as his moment to leave, and so he takes his small and quiet steps past the objects on the table, and races down to the floor over the fake Skull of Oghren. His gait takes him past the stomping feet of the kids, and soon the tip of the tail vanishes into a hole in the wall.
The rat stops to look back from his dark hiding place, just lingering at the verge of the light emanating from the fireplace, as the shadows dance against the walls. 'Circles.' He says once more before turning away and heading towards the hidden shard of glass. The rat flinches as he tears open the wound on his stomach and laments how it is
not getting the chance to heal any more.
What waits on the other side is the underground palace of the Wight King, and it has changed since his previous visit as he peers over a column. No more are the hallways covered in layers of dust and hulking wights wandering around aimlessly. The floor is polished, and the magical braziers glow bright. The wights stand in guard with straight backs, and they wear polished armour that almost masks their unnatural nature.
Albezjer swallows before begins to crawl along the decorative ledges towards the Wight King's throne room. He is fully aware that the wights below could sense his tiny spark of life, and how the enraged undead could reach the ledge with ease due to their unbelievable gait. The old rat decides to make haste on his tiny high road.
Words echo from king's hall. A voice the old rat recognises afar from habit alone, the musky roar of Surtur against the cold icy tone of the Wight King. Yet the details remain muffled past the ventilation holes. The old rat swallows and unwillingly crawls through the tiny holes.
The great tapestry of flesh is gone. The king's hall stands spotless and polished to a point where every surface reflects the light of the numerous blue braziers and crystal chandeliers. Even the dried out vestiges of decorative plants. Wight soldiers stand in their motionless guard before the pillars guarding the path to the throne. A court of masked wightsoul magisters whisper behind the central pillars. The old rat can tell for he still remembers the eerie cold burn burn that sparkles from their eyes. The Wight King himself is not seated on his throne, he stands right before Surtur and the detachment of guards and magisters Surtur had brought with him.
Albezjer's whiskers shake as his nose twitches, the scent might be coming from afar, but he knows the distinct scent of human fear. The cold sweat on their backs and bladders that are just ready to burst wide open. The odours that group had gained on their march to their king is not enough to mask the truth.
Yet the detail that causes a dagger of fear to be plunged deeper in Albezjer's own heart, is the fact that the Wight King is no more the ghastly dried up corpse of his previous visit. Past the distance, the old rat sees the young face that had been once cursed to live through death. If the old rat's face were not covered under a coat of fur, it would have fallen as white as snow.
Surtur's voice roars and echoes in the hall: 'What have you done with the tapestry of flesh?'
The Wight King appears utterly indifferent as he holds a crystal chalice half filled with wine on his left hand. He makes the liquid swirl and dance against his palm, before raising it to his lips, and taking an almost non existent sip. The little wine that reaches the Wight King's tongue, gets smeared on his lips. A stark reddish hue covers the lips while the rest of his face remains pale and greyish. The king's eyes finally meet with those of the ancient magister, and his cold words crawl out: 'Nothing you would not have done yourself, if given access to such working material.'
Surtur's eyes blink, and apparently for the first time he looks around. Past those who accompanied him, past the armoured wights in guard, past the pillars that support the great hall, and towards the masked court of the Wight King. His jaw quivers, his massive beard shakes and pulsates as the truth of the fact is finally revealed right before his eyes. While all those eyes glowing with cold their fury stare right back at him without forgiveness. The ancient magister only utters out two words; 'My family-'
A malicious grin rises to the face of the Wight King, and the sharp tongue finally licks the wine from his lips in a burst of visible euphoria. 'Their flesh was used to harbour the spirits of ice and hunger, much in the manner you once build your family of fire.' The wight turns away from the magister, and begins to circle the detachment. 'Surely you must be curious what has happened to all those magisters that were sent here before you, and perhaps you might even find yourselves curious for the fate of all those miners that have vanished from their posts within the salt mines. They showed the greatest love and service for their home, to our city, as they knelt before me and offered their blood and hearts.' The wight king continues to circle around the group of magisters and their personal guards. 'I do not believe your services are required... quite yet.' Some of the detachment cannot help but to sigh in relief until they hear the king's last two words.
The embers of mad anger begin to burn in Surtur's eyes. A burning orange stares into the cold blue eyes of the Wight King. 'Your court will not be bound in your service forever, they will struggle free from the strings you hold.'
'My dear magister, I hold no strings. As always, I am followed out of their own free will.' The Wight King raises his arms up and the silence of the court shatters into howls and rumble of feet. 'But you are half a month early to deliver the usual reports from the surface, has something extraordinary transpired? Has something warranted the attention of your king? Speak your mind little magister.' The Wight King king turns his back to Surtur and slowly walks towards his throne to sit down.
Surtur does not speak at fist. He waits in silence until the Wight King has sat down and perched his pale head against the palm of his right hand, appearing uncaring of the worries of the world around. The words that come out of Surtur's mouth are calm, almost polite, but the fury on his face is not quenched for a single drop. 'The Orb of Time has shifted at the crossroads of the our city's multitude of domains. In fact, there is a tree, a great oak, growing at the bottom of the pit itself.'
'A tree?' The Wight King chuckles.
'A tree that grew out of the guts of a were-rat. It is obvious that magic was involved, and the recent disturbance on the surface of the Orb is telling.'
'What is it that you wish to ask of me?'
'Have you... invited... the school of chronomancy back into... your city?'
The Wight King stares at Surtur for long while in complete silence. Silence that spreads to his court, and it is so quiet that those with their hearts cannot help but to hear them beat. 'No.' The answer is like a jolt of lightning splitting the sky of silence followed by rumble of relief. The king chuckles, and a smirk rises anew to his pale face: 'Not unless the seed had somehow mastered the art of chronomancy on its own!' The court blinks before following their king's words with a bellowing laughter.
'How would you explain the tree? The council is concerned.' Surtur roars past the court's howling laughter.
The Wight King straightens his back on his throne, and points his index finger towards the bearded magister. The guards and other magisters behind Surtur's back jolt backwards, clenching their hands on their meagre weapons. Yet the king's hand opens and slowly turns upside down. Blades of grass rise from the cracks of the floor panels as thorny rose wines begin to creep along the support pillars and walls of the throne room. Green leaves cover almost every surface, and then hundreds and thousands of roses bloom in all shades of the spectrum. All but Surtur gaze around in wonder, for Surtur already knows what will follow. The king's hand falls, and the leaves dry before their eyes. The lush green green twitches and cracks as it turns brown and lifeless. The bloomed roses linger for a while longer, before even their lovely hues fade to brown.
The Wight King clears his throat. 'Is it too far fetched to consider that the tree was a product of an escaped convict that had not sold his heart for an early release?'
'That does not explain the chronomancy.' A cowering magister interjects behind Surtur's back. The Wight King's eye brow rises, and the magisters shifts away from the king's gaze.
'I welcome you with open hands to see just how well you can survive on your own in my domain. Those who survived have all learned something new and have left changed, often in more ways than just one.'
Surtur weights the words inside his mind before finding his answer. 'Then what do you suppose has happened to this, individual that found these spectacular talents within?'
'What usually happens to first time chronomancers in the wild, my dear magister?'
'It tends to be a messy business.'
'Exactly, and due to the recent rain; it might be that w
hatever remains of this individual is already on its way to the ocean. You are welcome to search through the stench and dank, wade through the watery filth, but you will likely loose more than you will find. The unseen stones under the waste are slippery, after all.'
They eyes of Surtur and the Wight King are locked at each other, and as far as they were concerned, they could have stood alone in the throne room. 'Should the Orb of Time be stirred again...'
'Then I trust I will be informed of it in first hand.' The king retorts dryly. As Surtur finally blinks, the Wight King's eyes dart up and slightly right, past the pillars, and above all those before him. The old rat feels the burning cold stare at the back of his hairy neck, and cannot help but to swallow in horror, and start backing away.
The ancient magister notices the king's averted gaze and turns his head to glance behind, but he does not see anything strange in the distance. Surtur's face twists with his suspicious thoughts.
'Something on your mind, magister?' The words echo as the cold eyes are refocused towards the bearded magister.
'Yes, the were-rat we discovered had other signs of injuries. Burns and bruises, and we even found that a pebble had been hammered down into its skull through the eye socket.'
The Wight King smirks. 'The world under the Sun is notoriously dangerous, perhaps more today than it has in centuries. It appears the daily scuffles of the magisters have been mixed into the interests of the multitude of our rat barons. Sides are being chosen and soon betrayed, instead of order, there is once more chaos brewing in our noble city.'
Surtur almost voices his protest. His counter accusation for reasons for the city's current state. To preach of the unity of the magisters. And although he might have lost much, he still has his mind's reason, and that alone makes him halt his tongue. He remembers that no more does he have his heart crafted of dragon sinew, or his family to stand in guard as he rests and focuses on his arcane studies. What remains of him is but a name, and names can are just as easily claimed as those are forgotten. He bends down to his knee and gives one solemn look towards the Wight King's court, before finally pressing his left knuckle against the polished stone panels underneath. The magister grits his teeth, as he listens how his detachment slowly and clumsily decide to follow Surtur's actions and kneel as well. 'It would be my honour to return order to this city.'The old magister finally says.
Skull of Oghren Page 22
