He stepped on the small stone that was out of place, and the stone floor in front of the stairs to the thrones began to open, releasing more dust and an earthquake-like rumbling in the ground. The paintings and hunting trophies on the walls fell to the ground with a large crash, but he continued to watch the stones move apart.
A stone stairway became visible behind the throne, covered in dust. He looked at them, wondering where they would lead him. He stood at the top of the stairway and took the first step, kicking up a small cloud of dust as his foot landed.
This must be where they've kept it all these years, he chuckled with satisfaction.
His robes dragged across the steps behind him, leaving a cloud in his wake as he continued down the steps, until all light from the hall above him had vanished, making the passage as black as a moonless night. Through his mask, he could smell the air becoming dirtier and denser.
For this to be so well hidden, I must be on the right path, he thought.
A few moments later, the stairs ended, and his steps echoed in what he thought to be a large hall. His eyes didn't need a torchlight to see in the dark, and what lay before him was not what he had expected.
Books. Countless books. Leading nearly as far as his eyes could see, on numerous shelves. Every outlawed book and tome ever to be recorded or written during the time of the Continent, covered in ages worth of dust. Surprisingly enough, they were all very well preserved, due to the lack of fresh air reaching the large chamber. He looked at the motionless gargoyle sentries placed at the end of every shelf and felt his brow furrow in anger.
No, this can't be right. The information I got from Mourtis never mentioned a library, gargoyles, or anything else that seems to be here. Where the hell is it? It must be here, somewhere, he thought, pulling out books and collapsing shelves in a fit of rage.
After a few of the massive shelves collapsed, he grunted in frustration and returned up the steps, pushing the stone to reseal the library as it once was. He searched his memories fervently, though when he found nothing, he made a tight fist, drawing a few drops of blood from where his elongated nails sank into the skin.
I will find it even if it takes me all of eternity. I will have it, he breathed heavily, expelling a blast of mana that spread across the throne room, shattering the glass and anything hung on the walls.
The door at the far end of the hall fell victim to the blast, as it was also obliterated into a thousand wooden shards that soared through the air at the front of the palace. With a sigh, he sat back down on the throne, listening to the sound of his horde killing the remaining hooded figures in the distance.
I wonder if he will have anything of use for me when he arrives. It shouldn't be much longer, but I can't afford to wait much longer, since the Undergod has already grown impatient enough, he thought, resting his chin on his folded hands.
Just then, a small group of hooded men stormed through one of the doors to the right of the hall, desperate to find safety from the monsters just outside. He smiled wickedly at them, realizing they may serve another purpose.
"We're doomed," one of the figures said, not noticing the Masked One at the other end of the hall. "They'll find us anywhere we run," he continued. "If you don't shut your fucking gob, they will for sure," one of the others replied. "Osgar, I'm afraid Alf may be right," one of the others said. "Don't Osgar me, Wingar," Osgar began.
He was the largest of the three, and his voice carried heavily across the hall. "Alf, do us all a favor and put yourself out of your impending misery," he sighed, putting his hand on Alf's shoulder.
The Masked One rose from his seated position. "You three," his voice rang out, startling the three hooded men with his thunderous voice. "Who are you?" Wingar asked. "I suppose I could be considered the newest lord of Coltend, even though that is not really the title I wanted in the first place," the Masked One replied.
"The beasts…" Alf began, his voice carried weakly. "Are of my doing," he interrupted. "So it was you who brought those horrid creatures here?" Osgar asked. "I did, and I see they are doing my bidding well," the Masked One said.
The three looked at each other with worried expressions. "If we side with him, maybe he will let us live," Wingar whispered. "Why should we side with the one who brought this destruction to begin with?" Osgar asked. "That's just it. It's because he's in control of them, and right now, we're running out of options," Wingar replied. Osgar shrugged, but said nothing.
"If you truly are the new lord of Coltend and have brought these beasts with you, then the three of us here pledge our allegiance to you, great one," Wingar said with a low bow, motioning for the others to do the same. "You are members of the Church. What makes you so sure that I will simply take you in?" the mage asked, tilting his head.
Wingar looked at his robes and saw that he bore the sign of the Sword and Staff sewn into them. "We were members of the church, but not avid ones, lord," he said. "And what would cause that?" the Masked One asked, watching as Wingar knelt and paused momentarily, recalling the events that had led up to that point.
"Osgar, my blood brother, Alf, and I had seen what Father Mourtis was doing to the poor and hated him for it, but even more for what he had done to us over the years. We were raised in the poorer communities that were once here, and knew that the only way to make any kind of living was to join the Guild or the Church. We took part in prayers and such, yes, but neither of us is religious in any sort of way, lord," Wingar explained.
"Mourtis took us in, and from a very young age, he molested us until we were each strong enough to be able to resist him. One day, he gathered the three of us and told us that if we didn't let him have his way with us, he would cast us out, back into the streets to live like beggars. The three of us swallowed the harsh reality presented to us, and so we were forced into service until the day either we or he died, whichever came first, lord," he said with nods of agreement from the others.
The Masked One listened attentively to the story being told. "So you are no friends of Mourtis, that much is certain. However, what makes you think I will be a better master than he was?" he asked. "Our chances of survival are stretched thin as it is, and we never wanted to take part in his treachery, great one. He must be your enemy if he is not here with you. As the old saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my ally," Wingar said, making the mage grin beneath his mask as if music had just reached his ears.
If they hate him, they might aid me in unveiling Mourtis' secrets, he thought, carefully regarding them.
"Very well, then, I shall take you in on one condition," he said. "Whatever you ask, lord," Wingar replied. "If I sense even the slightest bit of deviation of loyalty coming from any of you, I will see to it that you are fed to the monsters outside alive," the Masked One said threateningly. Wingar looked over at his brother, who simply shrugged. "Not like we have much of a choice now, brother," Osgar whispered,
"We will be your servants, lord," Wingar said, bowing again, prompting the others to follow suit as the Masked One tilted his head imperiously. "Very well. Your first task as my new servants is to uncover Mourtis' journals and any other documents that contain information about the palace itself," he commanded. "As you command, lord," Wingar replied with another bow.
The Masked One motioned for them to leave him, and within a few seconds, they disappeared to Mourtis' quarters. Up the steps they went, through the hallways of stone, making their way to their harasser's quarters. They entered the room, finding books and scrolls strewn about it.
The bed was messy, and countless wax stubs from previously burned candles were atop the nightstand. The smell was a palpable mixture of cinnamon and other unidentifiable herbs, smoking on a small tray in the corner of the room.
"I've always hated cinnamon," Osgar said. "Well, he's gone, and we have a task that we must complete unless we want to be fed to the beasts," Wingar put a hand on his shoulder. "I never agreed to be with you two," Alf began, but Wingar immediately turned to snap at him.
"I've just saved our lives and bought us precious time to figure out what to do next. So shut the fuck up, and help me look for his journals," Wingar spat back. Alf shook his head and reluctantly began rummaging through the scrolls and books on the floor. Wingar and his brother took to the bookshelves with more books than they could count.
"Look at this," Osgar said, pulling a brown covered book from the shelf. "A Guide to Young Boys, written by none other than the old, disgusting fuck himself," he said angrily. "We'll come back later and burn everything in here. I hate him just as much as you do, but for now, we must put our hatred for that shriveled cocksneeze behind us," Wingar nodded and continued his search.
The three went through the numerous iterations of books and began to think they would die to the monsters after all. Suddenly, Alf gasped as he looked under the bed.
"I think I've found something," he said to the others, who were no sooner on their hands and knees, looking under the bed with him. "These must be the ones he left behind," Osgar said, taking one of the books and bringing it into the light of the small window. "I think we've found our salvation, boys," he said, silently reading the first page, prompting Wingar to move beside him.