Chronicles of Sunno: The Serpent's Door

Marcell rose from the bed, leaving behind the rumpled sheets, and approached one of the large windows. He drew back the heavy velvet curtain to allow the warm afternoon light to flood the room. He had to squint, blinded by the glare of Sunno, which still dominated the sky with force. The sweat covering his chest glistened like a constellation, and his pale, thin body was illuminated, contrasting with the darkness of the rest of the room. He looked once more at the contents of his quarters, where he had spent much of his life, as if seeing them for the first time.

In one corner was a rather austere stone fireplace, adorned with a pair of silver candelabras on each side. In the other corner, an old wooden chest stood next to a desk, a wardrobe, and a leather slat chair, which wasn't very comfortable but served for the infrequent occasions when he had to write a letter or missive. There was little else in his quarters, except for a full-length oval silver mirror and the bed with its dark red canopy, where the captain of the guard still slept, covered only by a thin white silk sheet.

His head was not visible, as it was buried among the pile of feather pillows, though he could be heard snoring slightly, something Marcell found a bit displeasing. But the man was solicitous, attractive for his age, and had a sturdy, muscular body. He had never refused to engage in any of Marcell's games, no matter how strange or morbid they were. Although he didn't know if it was truly for pleasure or simply to obey orders.

Three soft knocks came at the door.

"Come in, you may enter."

"My Lo..."

The young maid stopped, frozen in the doorway and almost dropping the tray when she saw the young count completely naked. The girl looked away and stared fixedly at the floor, red as a tomato. Marcell found it somewhat amusing.

"Haven't you ever seen one of these?" he said mockingly, spreading his arms to fully display his attributes as he approached her.

"I, no, my Lord... I mean, yes, but no..." the girl stammered, visibly nervous.

Marcell placed his hand on the maid's chin to lift her gaze. His amused expression suddenly changed to a cold, icy seriousness.

"Kneel," he ordered in a cold and impersonal voice.

"But, my Lord..." the girl responded, her voice choked, almost about to cry.

There was a moment of sharp tension. And suddenly, Marcell started laughing heartily.

"It's a joke, poor girl. Go ahead, put the tray on the table and ask for my bath to be prepared."

The girl hastily set everything down and left in a rush, with a hurried "Yes, my Lord" and a nervous, poorly executed curtsy.

"Don't be cruel to the girl. She could be my daughter's age," said the captain, in the hoarse voice of someone just woken up. As soon as the maid closed the door, he sat up against the padded headboard.

Marcell did not respond, though he was slightly taken aback by the captain's rebellious tone and the lack of a "my Lord" at the end of his sentence, as he was used to hearing. He approached the tray to see what the maid had brought. Spiced wine, sweet pastries, fresh bread, butter, blackberry jam, and some pieces of cheese. He poured himself a glass of wine, ignoring everything else. The captain also got out of bed and poured himself another glass, taking the opportunity to eat something.

"His breath will smell like cheese later," Marcell thought. Not with displeasure, but more as a personal observation.

"Tell me, my loyal Kracio. What news do you have for me about our dear and charming thieves? Because I suppose you didn't come to my quarters just to fornicate, did you?" he said soberly, looking at him over the rim of his glass.

The captain swallowed quickly, with difficulty. Marcell had caught him with his mouth full.

"No, of course not, my Lord," he replied, half-choking. "We received a pigeon this morning from Rocavelada. Our agents lost track of them. Apparently, they tried to sell the goods to a local fence."

"Well. They will prove to be elusive, after all. And what happened that our 'skilled' agents lost their trail?" Marcell asked, moving distractedly to the window to look outside.

"It seems they received help from some witches and killed six of our men. The rest had to flee," the captain continued, fearing the count's violent reaction.

"Witches... Two, by any chance?" Marcell said, absorbed.

"Yes, that's right, my Lord. How did you know?"

He did not answer. He approached the bed again and sat on the edge, thoughtful, while stroking his long blonde hair. He stretched his arm to take the pendant he had placed on the bedside table. Then he lay down, staring at it with his arm outstretched, while the medallion spun on its chain.

"They will come for it," said the woman, almost in a whisper. Marcell didn't even turn towards where the voice came from. He had sensed her presence for a while but had decided to ignore her. Of course, the captain showed no sign of hearing her or even seeing the naked red-haired figure lying on the bed next to him.

"They will come to retrieve it. They are desperate," she continued, as she began to caress the young man's body, starting from his neck and moving down to his groin. "What better moment than to wait for them and trap them here, don't you think?"

"Is something wrong, my Lord?" asked the captain, seeing his lost look.

"Don't worry, Kracio. I am exceptionally well," the young man replied, smiling at the medallion. He thought for a moment and put it back on the table, while lying down again, hands crossed behind his head. "I have orders for your men. I think they are tired of all the hustle and bustle of these days, so I want you to relax the guards, let them take a few breaks. In fact, give half of them leave. All of them. Let them go down to the city and have some fun."

"As you wish," the captain replied, surprised.

It must have seemed odd to him, this gesture of kindness towards his men, but in reality, Marcell was very interested in meeting the witches face to face, so he would make it a little easier for them to reach him. He noticed the captain remained somewhat thoughtful. He was staring fixedly at the medallion.

"What is it? Is it so strange that I occasionally think about the well-being of our men?" he asked, with some irony.

"You haven't told me why you are so interested in that pendant. It may be a valuable jewel, but I don't think it's worth causing such a fuss over it."

"And why should I tell you? Don't overstep, Kracio, and remember your place."

"Don't be silly, tell him," the woman whispered in his ear. "He might be useful to us."

"But he will think I'm not sane..."

"Look at him. He's long thought you're crazy. And so do all the other castle inhabitants. But he won't say it, he's a loyal servant and a good soldier," she replied, laughing.

He observed the captain, who indeed looked at him strangely.

"Forgive me, my Lord. I shouldn't have bothered you... Are you talking to me? Are you really alright?" the man asked, hesitant.

"Of course I'm fine, why do you ask?" he replied, somewhat indignant. "Alright, I'll tell you," he continued, with a long, tired sigh. "But I count on your word that nothing said here will leave these four walls, right?"

"Of course, my Lord. You can trust me."

Marcell looked at him sideways, then stared fixedly upwards, lost among the floral motifs embroidered in the red velvet that covered the canopy of the bed.

"You remember my parents, don't you?"

"Without a doubt. I entered the service of your father, Count Beleroc, when I was a young man, as a simple soldier. I have fond memories of his rule."

"That was a rhetorical question. Of course, you remember them. And yes, yes, I know. He was very appreciated by his men and considered a friendly Lord, respected by his people, and blah, blah, blah..." he responded, with a disdainful air. "In reality, my father was a wretch. He only cared about hunting, drinking, and card games. A puppet in the hands of my mother. She ruled everything, always scheming from the shadows. Though I suppose you already knew that, didn't you?" he asked, looking at the captain again. Before he could open his mouth, he cut him off, with a tired tone. "Don't answer. It was another rhetorical question. Really, Kracio, sometimes I think you've received too many blows to the helmet."

"Well, your mother was known for her intelligence and people skills. She was loved and respected among the people, despite being a foreigner," the man replied, slightly annoyed.

Marcell smiled ironically.

"My mother was a witch. In the figurative sense, and the literal. If you ever heard stories about missing girls, it's quite likely my mother had something to do with it. She used them in her stupid rites."

The captain had stopped eating, visibly disturbed by the sudden and terrible confession.

"My mother was never kind to me. She tolerated me because my father wanted a male heir to inherit his title. But my mother wanted a daughter, to pass on her power and knowledge and have a little witch like herself at home. In the end, she didn't stop until my father impregnated her again. You remember Lenna, my younger sister, don't you?"

He noticed the captain wasn't sure if he should respond, which he found quite amusing. He continued with a slight smile.

"Lenna the redhead. She used to joke a lot about her hair, poor thing. If I had known how she would end up, I would have treated her better."

He turned towards the woman lying next to him and observed her features. "Yes, if she had reached twenty years old, she would look exactly like this," he thought. She returned his gaze, smiling and blinking slowly, as if she knew what was going through his mind at that moment. He knew that this incestuous image was only a cruel illusion. His sister hadn't even reached ten.

"It was my mother who killed her. Not intentionally, of course. At least not consciously. One of her stupid rituals. She hoped to use their combined Power to open the temple of Vanar-Gash."

The captain sat on the bed and looked at him with a mixture of terror and fascination. Was he revealing too many family secrets to this man? It didn't matter; he needed to unload part of this burden on someone.

"I don't know anything about that temple you mention, my Lord," the captain murmured.

"Of course not. Few know that name anymore. And even fewer know its location. My mother never told me, though I know it is hidden somewhere among the mountains that surround the Horn coast."

"And why did your mother want to access that temple? I mean, what did she find there? If I may ask..."

"I don't know. She found nothing. She couldn't enter. The fool overestimated her power, which was nowhere near enough to open that door. She sacrificed my sister in vain, and she lost her mind. The rest you know well. The night she slit my father's throat in bed and then threw herself from the tower."

"A shame, my Lord. Lucky for you nothing happened to you."

"Yes, lucky..."

The woman next to him tried to stifle her laughter and winked at him while putting a finger to her lips in a gesture to keep quiet.

"I appreciate your confidence, my Lord. Still, if I may, I'm not clear on the role of that pendant in all of this."

"This medallion, my dear Kracio, is the key. Something so small and so silly was all that was needed to open that door. If the fool had concerned herself more with researching history books than following her outdated and crude witchcraft teachings, she would have known that. And my sister would still be alive."

The captain stared at the pendant, mesmerized, as Marcell lifted it so the light from the window illuminated it.

"And you're... going to use it?"

"Of course. I just need to know exactly where that temple is. And I believe that very soon, they will come to tell me."

"You know you can count on me and my men for whatever you need, my Lord."

"I know, Kracio. I know. And when the time comes, I will need you. All of you."

"But dear, you haven't told him how your parents really died..." the woman whispered in his ear, laughing softly while kissing his neck. Her caresses were proving quite successful.

The captain, noticing how his Lord was growing, and without changing his serious expression, lay on top of him and began to work with his mouth and tongue, in a studied martial rhythm. Marcell smiled, half-closing his eyes.

The red-haired woman caressed him and looked at him intently, while with her other hand she massaged herself between the thighs, with soft moans that echoed with the sound of thousands of voices howling in pleasure.

Marcell was about to reach his climax. He was breathing heavily and decided to open his eyes. It was a bad decision. He was paralyzed, white as a ghost. For what he saw in the depths of those violet eyes that looked directly into his soul had no name. It was horror, without relief. Chaos, non-life. A strange and cruel intelligence, which enjoyed to the point of ecstasy the terror it saw reflected on his face.

For a moment, that thing showed itself as it truly was. A formless, timeless mass floating in the void. It was insignificantly small and at the same time, incomprehensibly enormous. It looked at him, but had no eyes. It spoke to him, but without a mouth. It opened part of its being, like the petals of a flower, and showed him three bodies it kept inside. They had undoubtedly been human, although now they were just dry, lifeless, breathless shells. They wore tattered clothes, which must have been luxurious and elaborate in their time. On their heads, they wore tall, rectangular hats adorned with strips of fabric that fell to the sides. The three of them posed mortuary-like, with their feet together and their arms crossed over their chests. Their empty eyes were closed, their dry lips revealing yellowed cadaverous teeth. The entity brought the bodies closer to Marcell, or he moved closer to them. He couldn't tell. And when they were within arm's reach, the three of them opened their hollow eyes, from which a cold, bluish, sepulchral glow emanated. They began to scream, opening their horrible mouths, although no sound came from their parched throats. They extended their skeletal arms to grab his neck, with bony fingers and long, broken yellow nails.

The vision disappeared, but he still couldn't breathe. He tried to scream, but couldn't. The woman was no longer caressing or kissing him. Now she was squeezing his throat with a hand as cold as ice, strong as ten men. And she laughed heartily, tightening her grip. Marcell tried to call for help from the captain, who continued his efforts, oblivious to everything, but couldn't make the slightest sound. As he lost consciousness, he heard her whispering in his ear, with the echo of doom:

"Remember that you are mine, Marcell of Brademond. You will open the doors to this world for me. And then you will know what true pleasure is. The pleasure of immortal pain. Infinite suffering."