Skull of Oghren

by Tuomas Vainio

  Pan runs his fingers along the oaken surface of tarred wood, and he feels touch of seasons already long past. The old rat adds: 'The magisters rarely head further up, no reason for them to mingle with those beneath them, even if they are technically above them. Hence the door rarely sees any usage, and those tasked to maintain the light also operate the elevator mechanism. They might notice when the door opens, and I fear that they will eventually notice us.'

  The boy turns around to look. The corridors remain empty and desolate in their grandeur. 'What are they?' He whispers.

  'The operators are afflicted, those imprisoned for life who exchanged their curse of darkness for another.'

  'How many are there?'

  'At least dozens and dozens, and their noses are almost as keen as mine.'

  'What should I do?'

  The old rat grins. 'On the other side of this door you will find a great hall. The elevator mechanism will be right before you, great wheels, with the afflicted both toiling and turning them as directed by their mad overseer in his little cage above. Above them lies the great fire perched onto the edge of the half collapsed floor, and the great mirror that is used to focus a beam of light towards the sea. But what you need to do is head for the stairs on your left, the one adorned with the braziers. If noticed, drop some of the yellow cubes onto those fires as you fly upwards, and toss whatever remains into the great fire on your first chance. It should give us a chance to reach the door leading to the very top of the tower. The door to the skull is unlocked, and guarded by a single magister that finds his pleasure from the bottom of a bottle. Do you think you can do this?'

  The boy nods once, but asks: 'Why unlocked?'

  'The afflicted are large by default, and ever so muscular from their toil. If you get past them, they cannot follow through the narrow doorways. In fact they are forever imprisoned; too few to rebel and even if managed to flee - what life would they even find as hideous monsters?'

  'Right.' The boy takes a deep breath in, and lets the air flow out. All it takes is a slight nudge and the door begins to open slowly. Pan squeezes through the gap before slowly pushing the door back in. He stares at the massive mechanism operated by the were-rats, while the almost scorching heat emanates from the great fire above. A glance towards the mirror is almost blinding, and so his eyes wonder to his right where lies the large opening at the side of the tower. The light of the furnace makes the falling snow glow and dance with eerie brightness. The sight captivates the boy.

  'Move.' The rat says with a commanding tone. Pan is startled, but he begins to head towards the stairs. Although his feet move fast, he nevertheless tries to step as quietly as possible. Underneath his cloaks his hand reaches down to the pouch with the yellow cubes, and his fingers are ready to grasp and throw as the need requires.

  The boy makes good progress until the nose of one the many were-rats twitches. The long whiskers shiver as it tries to recognise the strange scent. He lets go of the giant gears he is tasked to operate. Others around him notice it, and then their noses pick the scent of the boy and the old rat on his shoulder. Their noses point towards the door, and slowly shift towards the stairs. To these beastly creatures of fur and muscles, the boy's visage of invisibility has become redundant. One of them points his finger and shouts: 'Other!' Another: 'There is a rat!' Third: 'They should not be here.' That is all it takes for them leave aside the elevator mechanism and rush towards the stairs.

  Pan does not look behind for long, for he recognises the glimmer of anger and hunger in their eyes. A chance for the downtrodden to inflict violence to someone else, to exact vengeance for their own fate, and for that brief escape from their monotonous toil. The were-rats rush after the boy, but as each and every one of them longs to be first to catch him, they shove and pull at each other hampering their own climb.

  The boy does as the old rat instructed before, and he drops some of the yellow cubes into the braziers to his right. The cubes fizzle and pop, before starting to rapidly expand creating large yellow puffs of strange alien tendrils reaching out to all directions. Some of the were rats get pinned down, other try to claw their way through, while others shamelessly jump to climb past them. To their surprise, the solidity of these would be barriers quickly crumbles with an exploding burst of yellow dust. It covers the were-rats, blinding their eyes and filling their sensitive noses. The beastly might of the afflicted is cut short. Some are reduced to tear filled whimpering, while other still try to claw ever onwards as they cough for air. Yet it will not held them back for long. Especially when the ones that were shielded by the blasts of dust at the tail of the mob, begin to shove others of their own kind down the stairs. Some fall more than others, some somehow manage to cling to the braziers, while for others the flames catch on. Cries echo past the silenced elevator mechanism.

  Pan's illusion of invisibility has flickered and faded away well before he reaches the second level. He sees the brazier and the great mirror, and how alarmed by the sounds below, the remainder of the were-rats have already turned their heads to face him. Noses twitch and whiskers shiver. One by one more and more were-rats choose to leave behind their tasks, and so the great mirror no longer moves from side to side. It grinds to a slow halt.

  Pan is forced to stop on his tracks as he reaches for the pouch under his two cloaks. He gives it a few spins on his right hand before the pouch flies off, past the gawking were-rats, over the edge of the great fire, and nothing happens. The boy swallows, he glances backwards, seeing the beasts from the lower floor almost upon him.

  The boy has no choice, nowhere else to turn than up, and he must run faster than ever before. Thus Pan runs and runs along the stairs following the side of the wall. While the were-rats fight past each other with their claws scraping against the steps and walls. Some even take it to themselves to climb along the walls to catch the boy. Terrifying howls and shrieks echo behind the boy's tail as claws and fangs tear at the boy's flowing cloaks.

  Yet inside the burning pit of fire: the leather pouch is slowly turning dark. The leather burns away leaving the remaining cubes unshielded from the burning heat. The cubes crack before they explode into rigid protrusions lashing all around. The great fire vanishes beneath the massive tendrils that push towards the great mirror, and towards the open skies itself. The great mirror creaks, and most of the were-rats turn to face it. It seems to withold.

  Yet under the yellow tendrils a shadowy paw pushes against the mirror. A single bolt snaps from the structure that fastens the mirror onto the mechanism that spins it from side to side, a nudge more, and the support structure itself begins to bend under the weight of the mirror. Wood splinters and metal breaks. And so the entire mirror comes tumbling down against the stone stairs and wall. The glass tries to resist the impact, but cracks spread all across the polished surface. Fragments fly loose. Flesh is cut as the shattered glass falls onto the were-rats. Their shouts of hunt transform into squeals of horror and pained whimpers.

  The boy doesn't look behind, he just keeps running onwards for his dear life. He keeps his eyes peeled onto the small door that awaits him above. His salvation, his escape, and he dares not to think how the door might be locked, or that it might open towards him. Step after step the boy rushes the stairs. Step after the step, until he is almost at the door. His feet stumble on the last step. He falls face first against the black oak of the door. A slam that pushes the air from his lungs, and knocks his mind dark.

  The boy awakens to the feeling of having the old rat's fangs on his neck. The boy curses and wobbles up, and feeling clueless in his dizziness he looks behind. He sees the devastation the shattered mirror has wrought. The bodies pierced, crushed, and cut. Blood oozing down along the large fragments of glass. How the survivors struggle to get back up as the yellow tendrils begin to collapse under their own weight.

  'Meh, it could have gone better.' The old rat retorts. 'Now, pull the door open and focus your mind. This is not over yet.' The nearest were-rat twitches, it tries to crawl
closer to the boy, but the effort dies short. The creature's eyes close as it draws his last breath.

  Pan turns away and pulls the door open. The door is heavy, or at least it feels like it. Pan cannot hide how he feels relieved to hide from the grizzly sight on the other side. Relieved to stare at relatively normal room. One with a large mirror against the right side of the wall, tables and chairs, few decorative banners depicting dancing dragons, and winding stone stairs leading ever upwards on the left. Pan can hardly hear the screams and cries through the door, and with each new step those grow ever the more distant.

  'Top of the tower.' The old rat narrates. 'Five floors, and we are headed to the fifth, just keep to the stairs. No need to head for the balconies that once served as the eyes and nostrils of this tower's dragon head .' The thought of a tower shaped like a like a dragon helps Pan to push down the thoughts about the blood and the glass. Just few more steps and it will be finally over. Just few more steps until the old rat and the boy face the final door.

  Pan leans down to peek through the keyhole. He sees the magister in his red robes snoring with his head arced over the back of the chair as his hand clings to a bottle on the table. His bloated face is adorned with a tangled and messy beard. His lips quiver as he snores with the vibrato of an angry mule. A misshaped mug rests on its side on the table, with a single red drop waiting to fall onto the table.

  'The key to the cabinet is around his neck.' The old rat whispers. Pan stares at the fat man, and the moves his onto towards the ornate cabinet, the only piece of furniture that does not show signs of decades of misuse. The old rat adds: 'The only remnant of the last resident, let us go and get the key.'

  With light steps the boy moves closer. He times his steps as the snoring man releases his drunken thunder, and with ease the boy climbs to the back of the chair reaches down for the man's neck. Slowly he pulls the robe's collar away, revealing an unwashed smelly shirt. It is greasy and grey to the touch, yet it too must be pulled aside to reveal the golden chain that holds the key under buried under the hair of the man's neck and chest.

  The old rat whispers: 'The lock mechanism of the cabinet is made of magical liquid metal. It will only twist and turn when moved by the key that was wrought at the same time as the lock. Just carefully lift up the chain.'

  The boy does as commanded. Past the back hairs his finger nails lift the chain until fingers can slide underneath. Slowly the chain begins to shift past the coat of fur on the snoring man's chest. Up and up it goes with tiny nudges, as the boy does not want for the man to wake up. It is almost as if a spider were crawling on the body of the man, as long as the spider will not bite, the man will not wake up.

  Thus slowly the chain rises high enough for it to be bent past the balding head. The boy balances on the chair as he is forced to lean ahead. Pan's nose does not appreciate the unwashed stench of sweat and old alcohol that reaches his nose, but finally he can begin to pull the key out underneath the shirt. It takes even greater care, but little by little they key gets shifted and nudged underneath the magister's robes and shirts. It is done while the magister simply continues snore right into Pan's ear, and while even the old rat shifts its body uncomfortably against Pan's neck.

  But at last, there it is. The golden key simply dangles in the air. It is right before Pan's open eyes, while the drunken magister continues to sleep unaware of the theft. A grin spreads to the boy's head as he slowly climbs down from his perched position. The fake skull weights on his back. Thus Pan is looking forward for the momentary relief, and so he can finally turn to face the adorned cabinet on the other side of the room.

  With relative haste, the boy moves past the bed and finally pushes the key into the lock. It turns neatly and almost without a single sound. The boy slides the cabinet doors open and finally lays his eyes on the Skull of Oghren resting on top of a purple pillow. His hands slide underneath his cloaks and unfasten the knots of the harness. The skull is lowered to the floor and loosened from the harness entirely.

  Pan scratches the back of his head, and whispers as quietly as he can: 'Would it have made more sense to break the fake skull before we got here?'

  'No.' The old rat replies sternly. 'Too many pieces could be left behind, and the magisters might attempt to piece skull back together. No matter how small, they would ask where is the missing piece?'

  'So what should I do?'

  'Push the real skull against the cabinet's side, place the fake on the pillow. As our magister continues to snore in his guard, time the strikes of the hammer for when his thunder is at its loudest. Finally, finish the hammer at the real skull, and get ready to leave with the real skull. We will float down with the aid of your new cape through the window on your the left.' The rat's whiskers shake as the nose twitches. 'And just in case, I will be ready to bite at the magister's throat. Are you ready?' The boy nods. Thus, the old rat jumps out from the back of Pan's head and races across the floor to perch himself on the magister's shoulder, ever ready to sink his fangs and claws into the fat hairy neck.

  So it begins.

  The hammer rises and comes down whenever the roaring snore is at its loudest. The bone cracks. Pieces fall down. The fake skull tries, but ultimately cannot withstand the blunt of the enchanted hammer as the effort of swinging it up and down raises sweat onto the boy's forehead.

  When the fake skull finally gives in and lies in a pile of small and large misshapen fragments, Pan almost casually flings the hammer to his left. It hits the real Skull of Oghren with a clang and the impact sends shivers across the boy's body. The hammer head shatters as if it were nothing but dry sand hit by a rock.

  The magister's snoring winds to a halt. Pan curses inside his mind, and carefully turns his head to look behind to see what horrors await him.

  A sigh of relief follows as the magister had only shifted his sleeping position. Now he rests his cheek against mug, and as the snoring resumes, the lone drop waves back and forth at the edge of the mug with drunken magister's thunderous breathing.

  The old rat shakes his tiny paws while his ratty face is twisted to an angry grimace.

  Pan's head sinks down and he returns to face the cabinet.

  As Pan lifts up the real Skull of Oghren along with its jaw he cannot help but to measure the weight. The old rat had gotten it right as far as Pan could tell, and so he lowers the skull down and begins to tie it into the harness. The jawbone is fastened hard against the skull as the leather strips are pushed through every hole to form a one solid package. The boy flips his cloaks over his head so that he can slide the skull up on his back and to push his arms through the loops. He then flings his cloaks fall down, and finally fastens the remaining strips around his waist and chest.

  The boy does few gentle bounces to make sure that the skull remains firmly attached to his body, and once he is satisfied, he closes the cabinet doors. The key turns to lock it as silently as it was opened.

  Thus with the key on his hand the boy returns to the magister and the old rat.

  Pan looks around as the magister continues his snore. The old rat crawls his way to Pan's shoulder and whispers: 'You have to raise his head to return the key, he must have the key on his neck when he wakes up.'

  Thus reluctantly, Pan climbs onto the chair and table alike. He is balancing himself on his legs as he rests the golden key chain over the head of the drunken magister. The key rests on the table as the chain itself falls onto the hairy neck.

  A deep breath. Pan leans in, with one hand against the table, and the other on the man's forehead, he slowly begins to lift the head up. It is heavy and greasy, and it does not help that Pan's heart is beating like a drum. Cold shiver spreads on his back, as he fears that the magister could wake up at any moment. The rat races down Pan's arm and aids by shifting the chain, until the key itself falls past the edge of the table. A moment of relief for the boy, as he gently lowers the head back down.

  The old rat stares at the snoring magister while Pan climbs down from his perched position.
Now all that remains is tugging the key underneath the robe and shirt of the unwashed drunkard. Thus our boy crouches and leans under the husk of the man.

  The stench that emanates begin to overpower the boy's nose as he pulls the robe's and shirt's collars away from the thick hairy neck. Pan is about to push the key in as his own nose cannot stop twitching. He blinks, he tries to keep it in, but the need to sneeze is too strong. His nose explodes, his head strikes upwards as his hand yanks the golden key chain down.

  The magister snores no more. He coughs, blinks, and gets up knocking his chair down. His vision is foggy and blurred, but he sees a fox masked creature clinging onto his key chain. Spit flies from his mouth as he roars the word: 'THIEF!' His greasy hair lights up into burning cinders and smoke. His eyes sparkle like night stars, as the boy lets go and tries to flee towards the window.

  The magister inhales as if he were trying to suck in all the air within the tower, and then he finally exhales towards the fox masked boy. By reflex Pan jumps to the left as burning spit sprays out from the magister's mouth. It digs into the bricks and melts through the opposing wall, streaking fragments of red hot rocks into the night sky.

  The old rat tries to bite and claw its way through the magister's thick hairy neck, but the magister instinctively grabs the rat, and throws him away. Albezjer hits the wall hard, and falls motionless to the floor. The drunken magister looks at the blood that flows through his fat neck, the stains on his fingers, and his eyes begin to burn ever brighter. He begins to inhale the air once again.

  Pan is almost frozen still, he looks at the rat lying on the floor and then he gazes towards the night sky. Pan knowns he has no choice but to flee to save his own life, but at the same time he cannot leave the old rat behind, he doesn't have time to think, time to act, and so he wishes for more time...

  A flare of faerie fire rises from the boy's glass eye as the world around him grinds to a halt, the boy swallows as he stares towards tendrils burning spit that have sprouted from the magister's mouth. Breathing feels harder with each breath, every movement like he was stuck within thick porridge. Pan does not understand what is going on at first, not until the old rat's warnings return to his mind. Chronomancy. The only thing the old rat had told him about with true fear in his voice.