The ancient stone seemed to crumble, as if somehow putrefied and weakened by the lurid presence it held captive. Dillenger gasped as a chilled breath of air passed through the opening he’d created. It was like the void itself had sighed relief at being breached, and thus relinquished its duties to the next unfortunate. He had expected an odour befitting a dungeon; the dank and musty stench of deep, stale subsoil, blended with odorous fungal spores. Instead it was cold and dry, with a pungent hue of some long forgotten spice.

After all he had read on the exploits of this demonic being, he was more than just a little rattled at the prospect of being in such close proximity to its remains, even if it had been dead for an eternity. Since stumbling upon the first account of Tsutska’s debauched reign, it had become his sole ambition to locate and unearth the tomb. Though successive kings had sought to erase the name from history, his infamy was such that his words and the tales of his deeds appeared to transcend any boundary or obstacle placed in their path. The proclamations carved in granite, though defaced, buried or smashed and scattered to the limits of the kingdom, had defied the passage of time and chance, been discovered, and brought together. Carvings, busts and effigies that bore his craggy features had been loaded onto a barge, which was set adrift in a gale; its hull holed and sail set to assure it would scuttle itself far from land. These too had been found…intact, nestled into a crevice on a shallow reef of the ocean floor, mere feet from an abyss. There was an air of determination about the way all these items came to light, freak occurrences; synchronicity at the very least, but kismet did seem to be at work.

He adjusted the flow of water onto the lime of his lamp and, as it brightened, cast its beam around the space. Dillenger turned to instruct the native labour; so rapt was he in the moment that he hadn’t noticed them back away and disappear into the gloom of the tunnel. Their fear had overcome their reason, superstition in their primitive brains had once more won over rationality, but he was a man of science, and as such would persevere. What he failed to realise was that their terror had been handed down to them in an almost congenital fashion, as real to them as life memories. Tsutska’s vile legacy percolated through their most feared nightmares until it was instinctual to loathe the mere sight of his name; it was never spoken aloud, though all knew its sound.

Dust from the wall’s breach still swirled in the arc of the lamp as he returned his gaze to the sweetly scented interior. On the opposite wall, he thought he made out an inscription. Directing the light and squinting his eyes confirmed his suspicion; runes that resembled some from ancient languages the world over, but matched none entirely. A tablet he’d found detailing some of the peculiarities of the infamous ruler, noted that he used a text considered ancient in antiquity, obscure and archaic even then. Tales told of him being driven insane by his own misanthropic words and, as his madness progressed, of fingernails growing into quills at the tips of his index fingers. As with all dramatic legendary stories, Dillenger knew the facts had been embellished to further enhance the notoriety of the king’s character. For instance, the notion of him piercing his own flesh for a supply of fresh blood with which to write seemed absurd, but, even more so, the thought of him picking a hole in his skull and probing the curled mass of grey matter within, for a more inspirational brand of ink. He was also supposed to have eaten nothing but spice, and feast on the still living flesh of newborn infants; his own progeny born from the loins of raped virgins. It was all just too far fetched to be true, but the ridiculous excesses of his vilification were in themselves entertaining to the trained mind. The premise behind the alleged crimes was a wish for immortality, which he had indeed attained in a round about way. Vlad the Impaler, Alexander the Great, the Caesars of Rome and all the Pharaohs of Egypt put together hadn’t the reputation this psychopath had to his credit; this was what drew the archaeologist to the project in the first place. The more disgraceful the miscreant, the more publicity he would attract when the discoveries reached the wider world, and the more famous the explorer would be. Dillenger would surely be celebrated upon his return, the talk of London society; no longer the obscure young man with unproven claims regarding a lost culture. He would be vindicated.

Picking away at the friable sandstone, Dillenger soon enlarged the hole until it was big enough to step through. Once inside, he was immediately captivated by a still brightly coloured mural, which adorned the entire wall area, as well as the ceiling of the anteroom. There, graphically depicted, were the most violent excesses of Tsutska’s life. Tiny blood spattered corpses littered scenes of depravity whose recurring tormentor was a wizened and wiry being, bald, with a pair of prominent teeth; long, thin, and fang-like. Judging by the depictions, it appeared that at least some of Tsutka’s reported modus operandi was more accurate than he had presumed. Turning his attention to the hieroglyphics, which he’d first seen on opening the tomb, Dillenger attempted to decipher the primitive language. He marvelled at the perfect state of preservation of all he saw, especially the dense timber of the huge door in which the inscription was carved. Even after the passage of more than four thousand years, it remained intact; its joints tight and its dimensions so skilfully worked that it fit the mullions in which it hung precisely. Taking out a notepad and pencil from his jacket pocket, Dillenger began to take notes, copying what he observed and comparing it to memories of other ancient texts.

The ambient air temperature was rising within the space, causing the walls to sweat with condensation. Having been frigid for an eternity, the chill was as much a part of the stone as the minerals it contained. Dillenger studied his notes. From what he could understand, using a degree of license in his interpretations, it appeared that Tsutska’s burial chamber had at once been his home and palace in life. It was also the place of his ‘birth’. The records told of this creature emerging from the ground when the native people were digging a new well in the foothills of a mountain range. Finding a network of tunnels, partially filled with ice, they had begun to withdraw, when out of the blackness loped the demonic being named Tsutska. Being a simple but superstitious people, they treated the stranger with kindness, unprepared for his brutal and ravenous nature. Within the passage of one moon he had enslaved them, the most malicious of despots, his tyranny reached depths of depravity previously unimaginable. Dillenger surmised that this ‘evil being’ had somehow become lost, trapped in the labyrinth of caves beneath the ground, and had been fortunate to be discovered before expiring through starvation. Perhaps he had been exiled from a mountain-dwelling tribe after having committed a crime? Yes, he thought, that would make perfect sense.

Reading on further, Dillenger tried unsuccessfully to make the dates work. Finally he gave up, deciding to work on the problem later; he must have been missing something, his calculations put the length of the ‘dark age’ at over three hundred years. In any case, a rebellion of sorts had occurred to bring Tsutska’s rule to an end. The people no doubt tired and sickened by the conditions of their repression, had risen up, killed the enforcers chosen from their own tribe, and moved against their malignant oppressor. It seemed they had simply barred his door then walled him into the cave from whence he came; the one that he, Dillenger, had just breached. Drunk on blood, he had retired to his quarters, and never been glimpsed again; a terrible end, but an overly deserved punishment for his crimes.

Unbarring the door, Dillenger utilised a prying tool to maximise the impact of his puny frame on the ancient timbers. With a groaning creak, it eased open, swinging and jarring on its fulcrum points. Immediately upon opening the door, Dillenger felt a warm breeze flush through from the surface, bringing with it the scent of flowers. This meant there must be a connection within the cave to outside air. It also meant that there had more than likely been some animal ingress, which might have destroyed any artefacts.

The interior of the cave was breathtakingly adorned with natural mineral formations and curiously lit with a muted light that permeated the rock crystal above and to the rear of the void. As his eyes grew accustomed to the illumination, he gasped at what he saw - every surface within reach was crammed with script. Every square inch of rock, every stalagmite, every stalactite, was written upon, it would take him years to transcribe all of it. The sweat of condensation that he’d observed on the walls of the anteroom was beginning to appear on the surfaces within the cave as the temperature rose. The influx of warm air meeting the cold had also caused a dense mist to form, which swirled around his feet as he walked. There were intricately carved pillars, tables, an altar, hangings, and to Dillenger’s surprise, ice. Everything was written upon.

A sniffing noise made Dillenger’s ears prick. It was coming from what looked like a bedchamber. Like the sound of a dog sampling the air, smelling for prey, catching a scent and finding its direction. He eased a rock hammer out of his satchel and held it up in readiness to strike if attacked. Feeling some reassurance in the fact that the indigenous predators were little more than small foxes, timid and reclusive, he stepped forward to investigate. Sniff, sniff, snort, then a guttural noise. What the hell was it? He noticed in his peripheral vision, that the hammer in which he was placing so much faith suddenly seemed very small, and it was very small; no bigger than a toffee hammer in fact. Dillenger was about to withdraw, his resolve diminished, when a bony hand slid around a stalagmite. Startled by the unexpected sight, he found himself petrified. Unable to speak or even breathe, he stood and stared as a wizened body slithered snakelike after the hand and crouched before him, glowering, eyes flashing, fangs bared, hands clawed and ready to pounce. All he could do was shake and gaze fixedly at the creature that was about to end his career along with his life. Neither one of them moved, Tsutska sized up the man, the man stood, mouth agape, awaiting his fate.

Dillenger felt his eyes drying in their sockets because he hadn’t dared to blink for such a long time. Tsutska crept sideways, forcing Dillenger to turn in order to keep him square on. He was obviously weighing up his target. For the first time Dillenger noticed the long quill-like fingernails, the ends shaped like the nibs of fountain pens. Allowing himself this distraction, Dillenger left himself open to attack; in the second or two it took him to mentally picture his reference material, Tsutska lunged forward and lashed out. Dillenger found himself with his eyes tightly shut, swinging the tiny hammer, desperately trying to fend off the assault. When he opened his eyes again, unhurt and somewhat bemused, he found that Tsutska’s purpose had been to grab Dillenger’s notepad. The lure of a fresh writing surface appeared to have won out over any other instinct.

Dillenger sat on his haunches, warily regarding the decrepit figure that was leafing through the pages of his notes, occasionally glancing up to frown and scowl at him.

Tsutska turned the pages until he found a clean sheet, then tapped the tip of one of his quilled fingers on the floor, which seemed to stimulate a vein into plumping-up in the pallid, almost translucent, skin of his forearm. A blue line traced through to the fingertip and a droplet of blood swelled in the reservoir of the nib. He began to write, lifting his head occasionally to sneer at the pensive archaeologist. Finally, it seemed he had something to show Dillenger, and he beckoned him over to where he’d settled. By now, the temperature had risen significantly, and what ice there was began to thaw, forming pools and small rivulets all across the cave. Tsutska’s domed skull was covered with water droplets that could have been either condensation or perspiration, Dillenger wasn’t sure which.

Slowly and with extreme caution, Dillenger moved toward the malevolent being, his curiosity overcoming his fear. Tsutska pointed first at the page he’d written upon and then toward the now open doorway, snarling in some lost dialect. Dillenger studied the new runes, still bluey-red and wet on the paper of his notebook. What he saw startled him - a hieroglyph depicting a woman giving birth, another showing a man and woman copulating, and a third that appeared to be a building of sorts, filled with livestock. An involuntary shudder rippled through his body as he considered what had just been displayed. Was it a mission statement? Were the villagers to once again be like cattle to the slaughter? Was this demon saying, “Thanks for releasing me, I’m going to resume where I left off”? What had he done, he asked himself. Could his arrogance have doomed a new generation of native people to another reign of terror?

Looking crestfallen, Dillenger tried to retrieve his notepad, hoping it was not too futile for him to write a few words of his own in an attempt to reason with the monster. Tsutska would not relinquish the book however, and merely pointed to both his words and the doorway again, more agitated than he was the first time, his movements more animated. Dillenger thought for a moment. It sounded like there was a questioning inflection towards the end of whatever Tsutska was saying. He looked at the runes once again, and glanced toward the door. Could it be that he was he asking Dillenger if he was, “born in a fucking barn?”

By Blunt