The Archmage sat in his study, the stark light of day shining on the blank page of the tome in which he was writing. He felt almost in a trance with the soft scritching of his pen on the fine parchment. He could write like this for hours and not feel the passage of time. He dabbed his pen in the fluted ceramic ink jar. Presently came the sound of pounding feet.
A dishevelled man threw open the heavy door, causing dust to fly from the bookshelf behind. The Archmage took a moment to pierce the man with a glare, grey eyes under dark brows, before continuing with his scribing.
"Archmage Al'ali. Please excuse my interruption. I have news."
The Archmage sighed deeply, but continued with his writing. "What is it, Orim?"
Orim was fairly sweating. This room was a good deal warmer than the tunnels below, and the mad run he made from the elevator did nothing to ease his ragged breath.
"I...I came from below. From the Underways."
Finally the Archmage looked up. He held the man for a moment, then went back to his book, dipping the pen in the ink jar.
"Sir, the Horror has come from below!"
This caused the scritch-scritching to stop. Al'ali started off the edge of the desk, pen held against paper. Presently, his eyes refocused on the page. The ink had stained the paper, an irregular black blotch still slowly spreading across his last word. He grew livid.
"Look at what you made me do! Imbecile! This is the finest paper. The most permanent ink!"
The messenger shrank back. Al'ali regained his composure, dropped the pen on the open page.
"The Horror, you say?"
Orim nodded. "Yes. Tor heard noises--speech--in one of the Underways. Well, one of the tunnels just above the Underways. He gathered up as many mages as time permitted, and some scorpions from the pens, and led us down. I was with him. The Horror is a band of warrior-mages. Most bear axes--"
The Archmage cut him off. "That was not the Horror."
The messenger continued more earnestly. "The axemen. They took no heed of our magicka! Our fireballs broke over them. Our lightning merely blackened their armour. And there was a black one. A giant with a terrible red sword! Tor fell first under his blade. And his eyes..."
The Archmage was silent in thought. The silence lengthened until Orim was flexing his fingers, unbearably tense.
*Of course they are the Horror!* he thought to himself. *They heed no magicka. The giant tore through the scorpions with delight. And there was a shadow, cat-like and quick. It tore out Keel's throat! Of course they are the Horror.*
The Archmage stirred. "How did you escape?"
Orim swallowed. "I, uh, teleported away when the battle seemed lost. I was in the very rear. I would have died if I stayed," he added by way of excuse.
Al'ali nodded. "That was not the Horror." He raised a hand to stay the mage. "That was not the Horror because you are not dead. Why would It come up now? We have lived with It for decades, and nothing but rumour have we heard from below. Whoever explored deep enough always came back with tales of living shadows and sourceless whispers. The only man who died in the Underways had a broken neck."
"Yes, and have we found what broke it for him? I'll tell you: it was the giant! It--"
"It was most likely a bad fall down some stairs. He grew frightened from something, and fell in his recklessness. His body was found at the bottom of a stairwell."
Orim had forgotten his place now, caught up in trying to convince his superior that the Horror had indeed come up at last.
"Even if he had fallen to his death, what was he running from? Hmmm? And what then were those marks about his chest. Stairs cannot cave in a man's chest, no matter what Pimu says. There is something down there."
Al'ali was also caught up in the debate, and did not reprimand the younger man, but fixed him with a steady gaze.
"There is something down there. I don't think these warriors you speak of are the Horror, but I will speak with the others. I'm sure if you had indeed been the Horror, you would have broken you own neck trying to escape."
Al'ali dismissed Orim. He had reasons for thinking the murderous party below was not the Horror, not least of which the account of the magicka-proof axemen. He could imagine them: dark-skinned, black hair and eyes, axes heavy and straight. They were Werre come out of legend. He knew this much; the Werre and those with them were not the Horror.
He no longer needed the Heart to sense the Blood. It moved ever closer, now this way, now that, as its bearer passed through rooms and passages. Veer'Shule Hhaathra could barely contain himself. At last, after all these long years! He had prolonged his life far beyond the measure of man to see this moment.
This moment.
He paused in his pacing to ponder the gravity of it. But soon, his feet were moving again of their own accord. The Heart would be reborn. The Denigroth again walk the earth. The mages above subjugated. All of Hammerfell would feel the iron fist of the Horned Council again. Hammerfell, and then perhaps Highrock. Or shall Valenwood fall next? Now he was getting ahead of himself. Concentrate on the now.
He reached out to the Heart, a great ruby two fists large, laying in itsgolden cradle, shaped in the likeness of a narrow hand. The Master marvelled at the stone's perfectly smooth surface. The light of the two torches on either side of his dark throne were thrown back into his eyes.
He shook himself and withheld his white hand. He didn't need to touch it with the Blood so near. He let his eyes wander about the great hall of bone. Its vaulted ceiling was lost to the darkness, but he could see in his mind's eye every rib that held up the rock above. He turned to the columns, long femurs accenting the pale towers of vertebrae and long bones. The walls were decorated with intricate designs of teeth, painting a ghastly panoramic mural. Denigroth were outlined in the bodies of their victims. Ah, but the floor was his favourite work. No, he did not pave the floor with his own hands, but he knew every skull. His forebearer, Tol'Arigrim, who had taught him all he knew, had named each skull from his ancient memory. These skulls he now trampled upon held special honour, deserved special condemnation. Those who paved the hall were those men and women who had broken the inner chamber and murdered all but a few of the Horned Council. They were Werre. Every one.
The dead stared back at him.
"Arigrim," he whispered, "if only you could see me now. You were as a father to me. You were the son of one of the last of the Council, and now I, your pupil...your son, shall rebuild it. I have chosen three Archmages worthy of holding seats on the Horned Council. They know it not yet, but greatness awaits them. The Council shall be whole, and all thirteen seats filled by the end of the decade."
He knelt by the Heart's pedestal and kissed one of the four skulls on the forehead there. He looked long upon it.
"I swear it!"
The Blood would be taken at the bridge.