“Lastly, I summon the aid of Zyrashana, witch-queen of Mytos K’unn and Lord Angsaar, the Dark Liege of Chaos. I call upon the powers of the Obsidian Crown and the ancient guardians of the Ice-Veiled Throne of Ultima Thule! May your spirits join ours this night!”
“Now Karnov, drink the blood…”
As I uncorked the crystalline jorum, a thick cloud of scarlet fumes rose from it and the dark brew within churned as if alive. I put the opening to my mouth and drank deep. Cringing and shuddering as the fluent substance coated my throat, I swallowed all of it and then threw the flask to the ground in disgust, shattering it.
“What now?” I roared in anger.
Before I could wipe the stuff from my lips, great winds began roaring and the sky appeared to split open above us, revealing a flashing red ether with torrents of blue lightning eddying through it. My horse could stand its ground, but the winds were so powerful that D’vartha was knocked down. She arose to her knees and laughed in triumphant glee, crying aloud with fists held to the sky.
“Yes! Great Lords empower us!” bellowed the witch.
D’vartha looked more insane than ever, unclad and painted in the carmine skylight, her long hair blowing wildly in the wind and green eyes blazing with an indescribable madness.
There was a massive blast as a huge bolt of lightning struck before me in the circle, blinding me and causing the earth to tremble. When my vision cleared, I realized that upon the ground, the symbols now radiated with a pulsing blue light.
“By the Gods!” exclaimed D’vartha, struggling to stay afoot in the raging winds.
I looked dazedly into the hypnotic, swirling markings that entranced me as I gazed. Carefully, I took a step back, staying within the circumference of the ring.
“Brace yourself, Karnov!” shouted the witch.
I looked at her with a questioning expression, not understanding.
At that very moment, a second boom sounded, as another bolt of lightning cracked the sky and came down upon me and my steed. My body convulsed wildly and I was engulfed in a seething mass of galvanic current. The levin did not cease when it struck, but continued to surge from the ether into me. As the energy flowed through my bones, I felt a sensation colder than the highest snow wyrm-infested mountains and an intense, tingling pain run throughout my being. My blood felt as if it was freezing in my veins and my mind reeled in a terrible insanity. Wrathmane and I levitated, immersed in the lightning orb.
On her knees, D’vartha beheld this with a deranged beam of exuberance upon her face, laughing with victorious pride.
“Yes! Hold on, Karnov!”
As the shock continued, I felt a change come over me, and a swelling transformation occurred. Something was overtaking my body and limbs. A hard, ice-like substance started to encase me. The sensation of intense pain and confusion that had assailed me now changed into an exhilaration of overwhelming joy and ecstasy. The hard, icy matter encasing me materialized into an armor of frozen blue steel. It covered my whole frame. A helm of the same material also developed upon my head. Engraved in the armor were blue-glowing symbols identical to the arcane runes D’vartha had illustrated within the occultic annulus.
Ghostly forms arose, issuing from the glyphs. They appeared to be grotesque phantoms of the undead—transparent beings that moaned eerily, with hollow eyes and fangs protruding from their mouths. These ghosts rose from the earth and flew into me, being absorbed by the lucent sigils in my armor that coincided with those from which they came forth. After a wraith from each symbol was assimilated into me, the stream of sorcerous lightning overtaking my body ceased and the winds died so that all was still.
D’vartha stared wide-eyed at my new form in silence. I sat upon my mount, inside the illumined wreath. A ghostly aura now flowed all along my icy mail, undulating inside it as if part of the armor. The phantom-energy embraced me and I could see the hideous faces of the undead entities in it. I realized that the sword in my grasp and the shield upon my back cast an azurean luster and had the same spiritual substance flowing throughout.
It was not only I that had been changed; Wrathmane was now garbed as a noble warhorse in the same rune-inscribed ghost-armor, his eyes flaring with an ultramarine radiance. I stretched my limbs and gripped the hilt of my enchanted weapon, feeling stronger and mightier than ever, my mind clear and sharp and somehow enlightened…
D’vartha rose to her feet, still staring at me in awe. Her smile faded.
“Now, dismount and come forth so that I can reveal to you the secrets of the Cosmic Ice.”
I acknowledged the witch with a glance from beneath my helm of icy steel and spirit-fleece. I did as she asked and stepped out of the ring towards her. The sounds of night-creatures had ceased and only the cool breeze whispered as I stood before her like an otherworldly knight.
“Listen carefully,” she said. “By the powers of blood and divine sorcery, you have now been transformed into a phantom-clad warrior and voyager of the Cosmic Ice, which is a gateway to a series of passageways that lead to various places on this earthly plane and beyond. When you slay an undead being, the tainted soul of the creature will be absorbed into your magic armor. Not only will you gain strength and power by imbibing their essence, but your armor and weapons will become ‘charged.’ When that occurs, you will be granted the ability to open the gateways. At no other time will this be possible.
“As you know, the deadly mountain range which Ghormanteia’s castle sits upon is unscalable. No man, even you in your new form, could pass through the force field which has been placed upon them. Now that you are energized with undead souls, you can travel through the Cosmic Ice beyond the force field, directly to the great fortress. I will show you how to open the gateway.
“The runes upon your armor represent different planar gateways which you may journey through. When you draw one of these symbols upon the ground with your weapon, a portal will open and you may traverse the plane that coincides with the sigil you have drawn. Again, this will only work when your sword and armor are ‘charged’ by souls of the vampyres you have slain. Each passage leads to a different place in this world, which you can reach by utilizing them. Some of these pathways guide to worlds beyond, as well. You will soon become familiar with the symbols and the roads which each are connected to.”
D’vartha came forward and touched one of the many pulsating runes upon my breastplate—the one that looked like a chalice with a crescent moon behind it.
“This is the sign to open the specific gateway that will take you beyond the deadly mountains and directly to Ghormanteia’s castle. Now, with the point of your sword, draw it upon the ground.”
I grasped the great brand of my ancestors which now seemed to radiate with life. Putting the point of the blade to the earth, I did as she instructed. This happened with ease, and my hand moved automatically, as if it were an extension of the weapon. The intricate marking was etched so quickly that it was as if I had thoroughly perfected the skill many years ago. The crest gave off an uncanny flare just like the ones upon my armor.
Once completed, the insignia I had made brightened and great beams of bluish light shot up to the sky. It wavered and materialized into a pool of icy luminosity that swirled with myriad prismatic colors, illuminating the whole scene.
“You’ve done it!” D’vartha exclaimed, shielding her eyes from the blinding light. “Go forward, Karnov. You now have the power to conquer the Undead Lord. Heed my words and be victorious. Claim your vengeance and cleanse these lands!”
I looked down into the shimmering portal. Memories of my fallen wife and son ran through my mind, clear as ever and I scowled.
“These lands, ha!” I said. “All I care for these lands is drenching them in the blood of Ghormanteia and his kind. It is only vengeance I am concerned with, and that I shall have! Thank you witch, and farewell… No doubt, we shall meet again.”
D’vartha stared at me with tears welling in her crystalline jade eyes. Fearless and ready, I mounted Wr
athmane. Taking one last look at the trembling witch, I urged Wrathmane into the portal… and the Age of Karnov had begun.
Book II by Howie K. Bentley
Chapter I: Into the Lair of the Fiend
Sparks flew from Wrathmane’s hooves as we galloped along the swirling hollow of Cosmic Ice, traversing the boundaries of space and time. Ahead of me lay the lair of the vampyre, Lord Ghormanteia—he who would perish by my sword before the sun rose on the decimated village I once called home. The phantom wisps lingering about my armor melded with the mystical blue ice and coruscated into whirling colors and faces of heroes who had travelled the Cosmic Ice in ages long fallen to dust—as well as those who would travel this road in the far-flung future. They whispered their exhortations and urged me onward.
Scenes born of the Cosmic Ice and the ensorcelled armor that I wore surrounded me. All around raged the battle between spear-wielding warriors from the dawn of man, engaged in bloody conflict with serpent-men. The primitives drove their spears into the reptilians, and green ichor sprayed over the cave dwellers’ furs and powerful naked limbs. The scene dissolved into mist and reformed anew as armored vampyre warriors stormed a castle and were beaten back by a single warrior clad in glowing runic armor much like my own. The vampyre hordes fell before the lone champion’s battle-axe like chaff before the scythe.
The castle of the axe-wielding warrior receded into the mists of time to be replaced by boar-headed brutes roasting a little girl on a spit. The child looked to be about eight years old. The hog-men turned the screaming child round and round over a fire while more of the villains held her family members still and made them watch. A gallant knight in phantom-haunted armor raced in on his horse, and the hog-men fell before his whirling blade. The armored avenger did not stop until he ran the last brute down and split his head open with his sword. Crimson gushed, and bits of bone and pieces of brain scattered. The knight raised his blood-soaked steel in triumph; then, he looked at me and nodded. I felt a kinship with those who had waged the timeless battle against the abominations that would forever plague the sons of man, but I needed nothing but the hatred in my heart to spur my mount further into the lair of the fiend. I kicked my heels into my horse’s sides and urged Wrathmane forward. The heroes’ faces and scenes of past triumphs waned and faded away as I approached the end of the netherworld ice-tunnel that bore its way through time.
My horse leapt from the exit of the tunnel, and a blinding light exploded. Darkness descended upon me and my mount. My eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit chamber and Wrathmane stood on his hind legs, screaming and kicking his hoofs in the air in response to the abominations before us.
“Greetings, O mighty slayer of the undead!” mocked the abhorrence lolling on his throne in front of me. The vampyre lord’s green face was framed by shoulder-length, straight black hair that shined like polished onyx. He seemed undisturbed by my presence as he stared into a crystal orb containing an eldritch object as if he was more interested in what he saw there. His ebony eyes beamed with the insane fevered glow of one who has been infested with daemons for aeons. His face snarled sourly—with an upturned nose like a bat—and was drawn into a perpetual rictus of hatred and cruelty.
“Won’t you join in our revelry tonight?” he asked as he put the crystal orb in his pocket and relaxed on his throne, waving his left arm. The billowing sleeve of his purple silk robe seemed to multiply and trail itself when he moved his arm. Long claw-like talons protruded from the end of his sleeve and indicated the pleasures that he referred to as he swept his arm: naked women, horned like rams and both alabaster and scarlet in color, writhed on the floor with one another in the throes of Sapphic ecstasy.
A newly-turned vampyress sat at the foot of Ghormanteia’s throne, clutching her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth in anguish. About her neck was a thick iron collar, and fastened to it was a length of heavy chain links that wrapped around the arm of the vampyre lord’s ornate crystal throne.
A young girl brought in a wailing infant. Upon first sight, I judged that the girl carrying the child couldn’t have been more than ten years of age, but I knew by the elongated teeth that she bared when she smiled at Ghormanteia’s starving fledgling that the girl could have been centuries old. The girl child laid the baby before the starving woman and Ghormanteia’s vampyre-slave wept as she sunk her fangs into the screaming infant. The woman’s hair covered the baby’s face, but I could see blood running down its tiny convulsing body; then I was lost in a barrage of fleeting thoughts. A feeling of intoxication engulfed me, and I nearly fell off my horse. I watched the vampyre lord roar with laughter and all I could think of was, “By the gods of Averoigne! That bastard is ugly!”
As my eyes adjusted more to the gloom, I realized the vastness of the vampyre lord’s hall. Off to the right, smoke issued forth from a brazier filling the room with a sickly sweet aroma, redolent of dangerous eldritch flowers—masking a faint hint of charnel-house decay. The smoke permeated the vile sights before me like fog filling up a graveyard.
“How do you like the yellow lotus, Slayer?” Ghormanteia cackled—as if he could read my thoughts. His voice dropped in pitch and sounded as though many men were echoing his words. “It is quite alluring isn’t it? My playthings love what the flower brings to my chamber—fortunately, I am immune. I always say such things are good for the slaves, but not for the masters.”
I had only been in Ghormanteia’s throne room for what seemed like seconds, but the yellow lotus had scattered my thoughts and made me forget momentarily what I had come to do. I looked down upon the floor to see the succubi sensuously rubbing their bodies on a young dead girl and wallowing on her like a dog on carrion. They rolled over and held their outstretched hands up to Ghormanteia, petitioning their evil god to bestow a guerdon upon them.
Ghormanteia reached into a pocket inside his robe and brought forth crystal-clear straws, which had thin hollow blades on the end and were made from some strange, pliable material. The female daemons turned their attention back to the dead girl and drove the bladed straws into various parts of her body. They sucked on the straws, and I could see the blood flowing through the clear tubes into their mouths. They kissed one another and transferred the blood between them—swapping it back and forth before swallowing it—while licking and caressing each other. Though my head still swam in a narcotic haze, I whipped my broadsword from its scabbard and pointed it at Ghormanteia. Wrathmane was obviously stunned by the effects of the yellow lotus as well as I. He merely let out a disinterested neigh as I pointed my sword at the vampyre lord and addressed him. “Ghormanteia, vampyre lord of Thornhaven, formerly of Aschorzotha! This night I condemn you to death by my sword for the murders of my wife and son and those who once dwelt in my village… and other places…”
My rightful accusations of the vampyre lord made him smile: he nodded his head when I condemned him, accepting my challenge.
“You! Vile abomination! A master of the black arts who cannot even be bothered to cast a glamour upon yourself to mask the hideousness of your own countenance!” I shouted.
Ghormanteia’s sinister grin faded and he leaned forward on his throne like a jungle cat ready to spring, hissing at me and spewing forth bloody spittle from his fanged mouth as he pressed a button on the arm of his chair—his throne disappearing through a trap-door in the floor. Scant seconds had passed when Ghormanteia’s throne reemerged without the vampyre lord. In Ghormanteia’s place, a giant white serpent entwined his throne. The serpent’s alabaster skin glistened and its forked tongue flickered as fast as lightning—its open mouth revealing deadly hook-like fangs.
“Vampyre slayer, meet White Wyrm!” I could hear Ghormanteia’s reverberating cachinnations, but I could not see him.
“Coward!” I cried out.
More of the vampyre’s echoing laughter bounced around the chamber. I moved my horse from side to side, looking for the fiend, but he made no appearance.
Wrathmane backed up—rearing and screaming—tr
ying to turn away from the serpent. My mighty steed wanted no part of the giant snake, and, in truth, with the state I was in from inhaling the fumes of the yellow lotus, neither did I; but I thought of my dead loved ones and rage surged through me like burning lava, filling my veins! I dug my booted heels into Wrathmane’s ribs and swore. My mount leapt forward, and I swung my sword at the head of White Wyrm. The colossal serpent quickly ducked its head and struck back at me. I leaned back in my saddle just in time to avoid the deadly hook-like fangs and thrust upward with my sword. The snake dropped its head to one side, avoiding my blade, and dived onto the floor, leaving Ghormanteia’s throne vacant. In a flash, White Wyrm had coiled about me and Wrathmane, breathing its venomous fetor upon us. The serpent’s coils squeezed me and my mount, robbing us of the opportunity of any movement. My sword arm was tightly pinned to my side. The giant snake threw its head back in triumph, and venom sprayed from his fangs and rained down upon me; but I felt no pain. Losing consciousness and floating outside of myself, I watched as Wrathmane and I became a shimmering gaseous substance that faded into the ether and vanished from Castle Thornhaven.
Chapter II: Exiled
The frantic pounding of Wrathmane’s hooves was the first thing I remember once my scrambled brain had reassembled itself. The horse galloped as if we were being chased by the Hounds of Tindalos. After much effort I brought my mount to a stop and surveyed my surroundings. A dim purple sun in the eastern sky cast a soothing violet hue over the landscape in which I found myself. Low rocky hills spread out across the horizon occasionally marked by jutting stratum appearing at random intervals. The ground was completely flat and even, devoid of any vegetation. Everything that lay under the sky of this strange land matched the color of the dim violet rays radiating from its sun. The air was neither too hot, nor too cold.
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