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 disheveled 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 armor. 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 rumor 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.