A priest and her lackeys readied the ritual. They cupped their hands and raised them toward the unseen sky, long smothered dead by a jagged cavernous ceiling.
“Our song today shall obliterate all forms of life,” the priest declared, “Do take a step back, would you?”
Goor the Undubbed took a step back.
They began their song. Contrary to Goor’s assumption, it was not a melody but rather a droll repetition of incantations uttered without any form of passion or vibrancy. The priest, Fracaso the Lauded, led the men in their ‘song,’ swishing and swiping her hands about the dead air with an expectant and casual flair. Her wispy white sleeves followed her swaying arms like dogs tethered to their owners. Her followers mimic her actions accordingly. Goor returned to the door and clasped the large rope dangling from its girded mechanism. He would not actually have to pull it then but he could at least sway it back and forth to temper his fast-dulling mind. Over the next few hours, the incantations would persist. Theoretically, the sky outside would split open and an ancient creature of sorts, whose name continued to evade Goor’s attention, would descend and burst through their inner sanctum. Assuming that no one perishes in the process, the followers would proceed to guide their object of worship to a room – located behind a massive locked door that Goor is meant to open with his rune – and keep it locked inside until it is ready to be unleashed.
“What if it kills you too?” Goor asked.
“Then the deed is done as foretold,” Fracaso replied tersely.
“How can it be foretold when you do not know for sure?”
“Does pyre question why it is burned? Do oceans question their own depths? What right does nature have to constantly doubt itself?”
Fracaso’s words, weighted in indecipherable logistical meshes, were enough to halt Goor’s train of thought for the time being, barring him from forming a coherent response, knowing it would fall upon long-clogged ears.
“At peace, priest.” A voice rang from above. The respective parties gaze up to find its source. They observe a hooded figure strolling upon the slackened rungs of large timber beams, sandwiched between gaps of air of moderately intimidating size, which adorned the stabbing walls of the dark arena, complimented by a circular row of bright and vigorous torches. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the ritual. His voice echoed downward.
“No one shall perish under my purview,” declared Zooard the Tamer, the owner of the cave. His bold words effortlessly made contact and summarily bounced off of the nonplussed expressions of his intended recipients. Nevertheless, he was proud of his speech and of his own smile that was neither childishly jubilant nor coldly clinical. Yes, indeed. He hoped the others below could see and admire this nuance for decades to come.
“Is it complete, priest?” he inquired (what a nice word).
“Nay, good sir,” Fracaso answered, eyeing Goor with scrunched brows, “Due to an unwarranted disruption, I am afraid the summoning was annulled. We shall try again tomorrow.”
Zooard’s lips were tugged downward. He sighed.
“Tomorrow it is, then.”
“Again?” Goor exclaimed, “We have been humoring this sickening farce for three days now! To hell with you all.”
A shift in Goor’s foot toward the exit of the sanctum was enough for him to see multiple glimmers of sharpened metal from the translucent robes of Fracaso’s fanatical thugs. Goor turned to look intently at them, his arms mobilizing to his sides.
“I assure you, old friend,” Zooard boomed, “Your pay will quadruple by the morning. If this pleases you not, I am willing to raise it fivefold. Sixfold, even.”
Goor remained transfixed on Fracaso. She in turn met his gaze with a stern boost of her head, akin to a signal for her men to withdraw their blades. They straightened themselves. Goor allowed his arms to rest, shifting his focus to Zooard.
“Sevenfold,” Goor said.
Night falls upon the sanctum, at least by Zooard’s account of the time. Beyond the arena, the darkness of the cave was unchanged. Goor observed his lack of surroundings as he made his nightly walk on an unidentifiable walkway periodically existing between hazy spheres of torchlight. Based on Zooard’s words, he should be approaching the “recreational area” soon. It was not long until he wandered into the aforementioned place, at least he assumed that was what it was. It was a hollow cube of carved space within the earth, accentuated by four large lanterns, their inner fires blazing tirelessly from wall to wall to wall to wall. In the middle was a giant slab of stone, either modeled after a bed or an operating table. Enthroned upon this dubious seat was Zooard, having changed his attire from one of professionalism to one of leisure. His robe, instead of ending its fabric on the uneven grounds, was suspended around his prickly thighs, revolving around them with a resigned stillness only achieved through a stuffy, draftless hum of the dungeon air. Goor approached him.
“I trust my expanded facilities are to your liking?” Zooard said.
“How is my mount?” Goor asked.
“Your tripede? It is as fit as a scrawka’s bough!” Zooard laughed heartily at what Goor assumed to be a joke. Jokes. Jokes. Jokes. They were Zooard’s treasured means of social currency. As he had been the one and only veterinarian for Goor’s tripede ever since its first bout of illness, Goor had come to tolerate his encroaching company, no matter how arbitrary or incompatible their actual chemistry might be in any social setting. On such occasions of Goor’s compassionate tolerance, the old doctor of animals never demanded much beyond a measly dry laugh for some of his verbal gags or a slight indulgence in his questions about what his favorite client has been up to. Goor always answered that he is “doing well” and that would be the end of it. However, it was not until a few days ago that a scheduled appointment led to an uncharacteristic request, unbecoming of the doctor’s usual good oafish nature:
“You are a locksmith, are you not?” Zooard asked, “With that marked hand of yours?”
“For the time being,” Goor answered.
“I have a door I would like you to open. It can only be done by your hand.”
“For what purpose?”
“I would like to end the world.”
Goor initially assumed it to be one of his many japes. It was only in experiencing the suffocating darkness in this forsaken cave for three days that Goor realized his veterinarian had gone mad. Zooard claimed that he had researched countless creatures of old that could potentially harbor the end of all things. It was this creature specifically that he wished to have procured as soon as possible. An indescribable thing that roamed among a herd of indescribables in the stars. Why this creature in particular? Why does he want to destroy all that is living? Goor could not force a direct answer, only a hefty sum of coy allusions and inane babble about genetic family trees. Goor did warn himself about the inherent guilt that came with squeezing gold from his companion’s declining mind, but he put it aside as soon as he found out how the amount of his pay increased exponentially every time some mishap befell Fracaso and her eccentric little troupe’s hem and haw. As maniacal as the situation was, it was too much of an opportunity that would be most foolish of Goor to simply ignore.
“Your tripede will be ready for you as soon as we finish ending the world,” Zooard said.
“Where will I go, then?” Goor asked.
“The new world, of course! The one operated by only the most rational of souls. For too long, our nature is governed by these inefficient busybodies that could not see reality for what it is.”
Goor nodded.
“All of their genetics were in need of rearrangement, you see. It is only logical for us to lead the genetic revolution of the next cycle!”
Goor nodded some more.
“Worry not, my good friend! Fracaso had already informed me that tomorrow’s attempt shall be different!”
Goor could not help but imagine the boon he could reap by the end of the week.
“She had come up with a new strategy to attract this being to us! You will see!”
The next morning, Fracaso had pierced one of her men through his gushing heart and plopped his corpse on a slab of stone. She and her remaining men proceeded with their usual routine. Nothing had changed.
“More bodies,” she told Zooard.
Goor made it his urgent mission to leave.