The devil’s eyrie, by contrast, had no such restrictions. It seemed given over to living out its own life to the full, – invisible claws scraping walls, sounds of clanking chains, long, rising yowls, sudden shrieks that broke out in the hallway, moans rising into an awful desperation in rooms. What climax awaited?
Even when he could sleep there was no relief, demon faces growled at him in nightmares. Had Hamar not known of the limitation on the ways of these demons in the underground school he likely would have gone mad. At least, with no majics being done by him there weren’t any nightcrawlers along the walls. And the resident demons apparently didn’t leave the place, so it also wasn’t likely they were reporting on him anywhere else, not that there was anything worthwhile to report.
In less than a year he ended up constantly singing to himself to drown out everything.
He endlessly tapped his fingers as he sat staring, waggled his foot unceasingly as he read, talked to himself with lengthy dialogues.
He counted exactly one hundred and twenty-nine paces to the end of the main corridor, ninety-eight if he paced with big strides, and soon realized he must never start aimlessly running the halls in desperation, because that way lay madness! He fought against it by anchoring his days with a set routine of tasks, each one timed to be done at the exact passing of daylight along the walls.
When he reached the mindless state of a trained rat, one final relief was blessedly scheduled for him. Among Hamar’s new fames he was suddenly elevated to the status of Chief Astrologer, the supreme caster of royal horoscopes above all others, and it graciously afforded him, – under strict constraints – brief forays off the mountain.
Hamar was now the Fiend’s, ‘Maker of Kings.’ Whenever some despot or tyrant or fool was needed to oppress a region Hamar got summoned to put in an appearance at their court to officially sanction the man with a horoscope charted in detail, confirming the man’s celestial destiny to rule.
It was a twisted tactic that played on Hamar’s famous role as the supposed highest Chaldean sage. But one that made no practical sense to him whatever, – anything he predicted for rulers could just as easily be told by the touring Chaldee Maji.
His appointment to do it had come about in his ninth month. When the torches were due to relight themselves one evening a spectre solidly appeared in the main room, standing in the last glow of sunset coming in from the balcony. Hamar looked over from his cushions and the hair stood up on his arms.
“Hail, servant of the Most High!” it said as it advanced toward him. Pin-light eyes fixed on him within its empty face. “Arise,” it added as it extended its clammy hand onto his. The torches flared.
Hamar rose and, shivering, followed the thing. They went down a long hallway and when they got to one permanently locked room the door chunked open. There, across from them in the dark, was a DECAPITATED MAN! Headless, the corpse ended at squared shoulders! But then, no, mercifully, it proved to only be a grand robe on a stand! It seemed to be representing the Fiend in his absence, some sort of totem. As the torches in the room flared awake, the gold on its purple brocade shone.
“Your robe!,” the spectre said.
Leave a Reply