Amrita manuscripts

Germany, 1726.

Daybreak.

An old gentleman clad in a thick winter coat was rushing through the potholed streets of Düsseldorf, sneakily making his way down the narrow winding road as he fled the Stadtschloss, careful not to be seen as he slid under the cover of the morning fog. Snug tightly in his right pocket was a band of papyrus parchments carrying the baron’s emblem.

As he came upon over the hill that winds down to the city’s tavern, he walked into the alleyway nearest the pub, where, at the corner, was a wooden shed that stood silently. He reached into his pocket, dug in for his prize, and secured it inside an ivory cylinder. He took off his coat, then folded it into halves of two before dumping them in the garbage. He squatted down as he took out the flimsy nail that fastened the center plank to the side wall of the shed and yanked it off. In its now hollowed out space was a box containing a set of clean garments for him to don on. He stood up and looked observantly around before changing his old attire for the new ones he had hidden.

He had done it, he thought. He had broken into the city’s castle and retrieved the item some other gentleman had asked him to. Being the masterful thief that he was, it was a momentous victory for him. After all, the high-walled fortress was a garrison for 150 landsknechts, 35 hussars, and 95 schützes. He marveled at his deed, then at himself.

He turned around to pick up the parchments only to find them missing. Thinking he had simply misplaced them momentarily, he bumbled about as he looked for them: upturning the garbage bins and sifting through the mess, emptying out both his pockets, and even looking inside his socks. They were nowhere to be found. Strangely, or perhaps amazingly, they were just gone.

Suddenly, a deep guttural snarl made him snap his attention towards the darkened corners near where he was hunkered at. Instinctively, he tried surveying the vaguely frightening pocket of space he thought the menacing cry had echoed from. Could the canister have somehow gotten there while he changed, he thought questioningly.

Sprawled entirely, with his knees and arms kissing the ground, he fumbled around for the parchments, methodically scanning the ground with his hands, weaving them from left to right, then back and forth. He caught something, he thought. Or rather, something caught him.

In the blackness of the dark, eyes burning with red stared at him with no more than a hair’s width. As lifeless as they were, they seared into his soul, etching numerations upon his very being. He struggled to free himself; writhing about to try to set himself loose from what was otherwise an ungodly weight that bore down on his chest. He flailed his arms at something; at anything. As his strength drained from him, he could only wonder what it was he was against.

It wasn’t human,he thought. What it was something else: it was foul-smelling, stank of the rotting dead, its flesh peeling off as they wilted away into flecks of thickened leathery skin.

Petrified, he hollered out for help; screaming for all he was worth. He pleaded, then begged the heavens to be saved. And out of nowhere came a silent humming. When he heard them, he cried out violently as he tried to crawl away from the beast. Someone is nearby, he thought. Someone able enough to help him, he hoped. The beast’s slimy arm reached out for his neck and tightened around it, choking, but not strangling him. His voice croaked as he got dragged raggedly away from the corner.

The beast threw him up into the air as it stood on its hind forearms and caught him by his leg as he was about to hit the ground. Opposite to him was a figure standing calmly in front of both he and the monster that held him dangling in the air.

His mind drew blank as he gawked at its monstrosity: stitches ran along the deep fissures in the beast’s skin that was dotted with boils of the black plague. Out of the cracks of its flesh were squirming maggots, fat and bloated from their gangrenous meals. New scars, now hardened and callous, covered older ones themselves brimming with pus. Its nose sunk into its face and wriggled clumsily as it evaluated scent trails. Torn flesh hung loose from its gaping wounds and swayed freely as it moved. The mark of the oroborus had been carved deeply into its back, cutting through into the thick of its muscle. Many other markings were tattooed throughout its body. Some were Gaelic rune words; some were Aramaic passages; more yet were occult inscriptions. He was astonished. By now, he had understood that such an unnatural thing could only be of demonic origins; that such a heinous creature could have only been conjured up by the wickedest designs.

“Put him down.” A soft voice broke the silence of their circumstance. He scuttled about as he hit the ground, trying to escape the alleyway that has become a great place of torment for him. A strong tug jerked him upright as the beast held him by his arms as if being presented to the man whom, it seemed, the beast listened to.

“Baron Von Weichman!” He spouted out as he recognized the stoic man.

“Oh? I see you are familiar with me,” came the answer.

Baron Von Weichman was the city lord and owned the nearby Standtschloss. He was rarely seen out of his estates and was never pompous or flamboyant. Instead, he was a peculiarly quiet young man who cared little for the rumors the townsfolk insinuate about him. And yet here he was. His coat draped unusually low, covering most of his leg and was adjoined at the collar by his favorite cravat that bore his initials. His gray waistcoat overlain his silken black shirt, both of which had been tucked neatly into his breeches.

“But that is not my real name.” The baron added. He paused a while and asked, “I understand that you have some of my documents?”

“Baron, it is true that I had it. But I have lost it.” He explained.

“What is your name, old one?”

“I am Wagner.” Hearing this, the baron then stretched out his arm towards the ghoulish fiend and motioned it to come near him. And it did. As it stood in front of him, a pale arm ripped through the stitches that held its abdomen together and handed the canister with the parchments over to the baron.

“Why, thank you Malphas.” He said as he petted the haphazardly sewn lump of flesh that stood eagerly beside him. Von Weichman then turned his attention to Wagner who was now huddling in fear as he imagined the horrors facing him.

“Who has paid you to do this?” Asked the Baron.

“He has not given me his name, sir. But I am certain that I will recognize him if I am to see him,” Wagner explained as he tried to bargain his way out.

“Very well,” Von Weichman answered.

He then turned around and started walking away from Wagner and humming a strangely familiar tune as he trailed off farther out and away from the alleyway, slowly melding into the thick morning mist that now has enveloped the entire city before finally vanishing from descirnable sight. Malphas lowered its head as it hunched forward; its eerily deadened gaze staring intently at Wagner, provoking the deepest and most primal fear he had never known before. He could only sit splayed out with overwhelming panic as Malphas crept ever so closer.

Out from a distance, the baron proclaimed with much pride saying, “I am Amon,” and added, “will you come and serve me?”