MicroHorror

Malak slouched through the bowels of the keep, intent on his present purpose. Age had withered his limbs and twisted his face into a warped mask, but his loyalties remained strong. In the old days, his Master had trusted him with a most important task. He would ride out with the cavaliers and rescue the errant children fleeing the flaming remnants of their villages.

“You will be my angel,” the Master instructed. “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”

He had been a good and faithful servant. Many hundreds of children had been brought to Ironoak and clothed and feasted there and kept warm. Now that job was given to another, and Malak devoted himself to more domestic duties. The kitchen was his domain, with the great feasting hall and the wine cellar.

Malak paused at the last ramp leading to the lowermost cells. His memory was playing tricks on him. He was supposed to say something. “The Master…” Malak strained, steadying himself against the wall. “The Master requests…” he stammered. He could not recall. Was it the wine he was supposed to bring? Was it some message for the steward? No, those things he could remember. The Master had made him commit it to memory, had made him repeat it. Now it was gone, flown down some neglected passageway of his mind.

Malak trudged on. He would not fail the Master. He would remember, come the moment. “The Master requests,” he repeated, “your presents.” No, that did not seem right.

He came to the bottom landing and chose one of the five doors at random and flung it open. Inside, the torches burned brightly, hurting his old eyes. He shielded his face, waddling into the room and standing there, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Children were playing all around him, running back and forth, squealing. Some were intent on the juggler tossing balls and bottles. Some sat hypnotized at the puppet show. Others brought empty plates to the banquet table, skipping away with full ones.

“The Master requests your presence!” Malak said. He grinned triumphantly. One child stopped and stared. A scowl overshadowed Malak’s face. He stared back at the child. There was something else. Something more. He pounded his flabby thigh with a wrinkled fist. He could not remember.

“May I help you, sir?” asked the child, who put down his plate and took Malak by the elbow, steadying him. He was all of nine years, with a brown mop of hair and clear brown eyes.

“Come with me,” Malak said. The boy complied. Malak brought him up the first ramp. The boy helped him along the way, his small soft hand nestled inside Malak’s claw. They reached the next landing, outside the wine cellar door on the kitchen level. Malak struggled to say what he was commanded to say, grimacing with the effort to remember.

“The Master requests your presence,” he said. Then he added, “At dinner! The Master requests your presence at dinner.” He shuddered with glee.

“But I am quite full, sir,” the boy replied. “I have already eaten breakfast, brunch, lunch, and mid-afternoon snack.” Malak looked down at him tenderly.

“No matter,” Malak answered. “Worry not.” Yes, Malak thought. Do not worry, little one. We can’t have you all tense and tough when you get to the table. Malak pushed open the door to the wine cellar and brought the boy in.

All that remained was to start the pots boiling and to find a nice vintage with which to serve the meal. Malak studied the boy’s neck, reached down with both hands and snapped it right above the Adam’s apple.

He tossed the limp body over his shoulder. It was the humane thing to do. Boiling water was scalding. He didn’t want the boy to have to suffer.