Ravenfell Chronicles: Origins

by Brand J. Alexander

  “No. I suppose I can’t. But I can help hide you from the blasted dead things long enough for you to find a more permanent solution.” She reached up and grabbed one of the old, twisted roots hanging down from the ceiling. A trail of black fire flicked from her hand up the wood and severed it where it vanished into the dirt, then the dark flames absorbed into it. “Carry this staff with you, and it will hide you as long as there is life still in it.” He took the black twisted item reverently. He could feel the life of the Ravenwood burning warm within.

  “Thank you, Hildey.” Beaumont nodded to her affectionately, then turned to the raven. “Now, Raven King, where are we going?” Before the bird could answer, Beaumont unstoppered the vial from his robes and drank down the thick burning liquid to refresh his reserves. As the tincture spread, his fingers lengthened into claws, and a bit of fur sprouted from the back of his hands. He held most of the change at bay, though he longed to erupt in howling fury. Instead, he fed his demonic powers with the intoxicating essence of Fenris, the Lord of Werewolves.

  Chapter 5:

  Welcome to the Jungle

  Beaumont still remembered how it felt when Hildey first taught him magic. Back then, it was the Common Arts. Through careful study and extensive practice, he mastered the complicated rituals, symbols, potions, and incantations required to command primal forces. He was a natural, but such casting had numerous limitations and time constraints. Thankfully, it was the base upon which greater magics were built.

  The Grand Arts were the premier classes of magic. Besides the few rare souls who were born with latent talents in the Grand Arts, such power was usually withheld for only the greatest students of the Common Arts.

  The Grand Arts allowed one to become a conduit for the forces he wields instead of having to summon them through tedious spell and ritual. And their potential was only limited to the weakness of the practitioner, not some formulaic restriction. There were several paths of study to choose from, but the calling of a Warlock was the most attractive to Beaumont, though he dabbled in the others from time to time.

  His path to power began with an imp, one of the lowest demons there are, when he was thirteen. He summoned the creature through a sigil of the Common Arts drawn in blood. He spoke the incantation, which dragged the devilish entity from its ethereal existence and commanded it to assume flesh.

  Like most of its kind, the imp had been at the mercy of warlocks before, so it fought with all its might. It hurled its fiery magic desperately to escape. But Beaumont came prepared. He was adorned in a salve that resisted the Hellfire.

  Beaumont slew the imp with an enchanted dagger constructed using the lower ritual style magic. It was his first step towards ascendency into the Grand Arts. He drank the imp’s blood then and tasted the first tangy bite of demon magic. Weeks of meditation and warding prepared him for the battle to come.

  The demon’s essence, once imbibed, fought to overcome his own. His hands spasmed and melded into the short stubby talons of an imp. His ears lengthened, and his skin grew progressively warm and enflamed. But those changes were only physical and would dissipate once he mastered the power. The more threatening transformation was taking place within.

  The demon’s corruption spread through his being, threatening to consume and remake him. If he gave in, he would be twisted into a hellspawn by the newly corrupted power of his soul. But again, Beaumont came prepared. He knew how to overpower the imp’s essence. Even for a weak demon, the blood was powerful and intoxicating, but he fought back and imprisoned its essence with his soul, bound and mildly obedient. The scorched mark of corruption upon his soul that remained would become a reservoir for future demonic energy. It was called a Well of Corruption and was the foundation of the warlock arts.

  With a thought and a flourish, young Beaumont drew a spark of Hellfire to his fingertips, that part of the demon now his to command. It was exhilarating. As long as he held a demon’s essence within, he could forever call the flames.

  The power was minor, however. It would take more imp blood to truly master Hellfire. It would take more demonic essence to grow powerful in the Warlock arts. Even as he savored the new magic, he could feel the pool of reserves depleting.

  Beaumont immediately hungered for more. Fortunately, demons are mostly creatures of energy. When you slay their physical form, you are only rending manifested flesh infused with their corrupt energy. The demon’s true essence often escapes into the nether to be summoned again, which Beaumont did the very next day after recovering his strength.

  The imp was smart, however. It knew what happens when a warlock learns your taste, so the creature offered its services, providing corrupted blood once a day to sate the budding warlock’s gifts and help its new master grow. After the first month, the imp was forgotten and left to flee into the void. Beaumont had grown in power enough to hunt much bigger, more fulfilling prey and master even greater demonic magic.

  ◆◆◆

  Like with that imp so long ago, the bottle of werewolf blood Beaumont consumed fed a torrent of corrupt energies within him, but after years of demon mastery, he held it under control with ease. The monster had immense power, and the fact that it too gave its blood willingly granted Beaumont extra benefits. Though the magic mastered from the werewolf blood only granted enhanced strength and physical resistance, the essence itself filled his Well of Corruption to bursting and tended to dissipate more slowly than other resources.

  “Where is it that we are going, raven?” Beaumont growled. Even while under control, powerful demon essence made itself known in the visage and demeanor of the warlock. His hair and beard had grown silver as moondust like the Lord of Werewolves, and his eyes gleamed amber in the dim light of the glowing fern fronds.

  “Those we seek remain hidden from the world of the dead. They will be in a place that repels the touch of the veil,” the raven answered.

  “I will need a focal point. Something to center on when I phase us there.”

  “I will use the veil to show you. But look through it only. Do not even attempt to sense what stands on the other side, or your hunters may detect my work.”

  “I read that you once could travel anywhere you wished through the veil,” Beaumont commented. “You have forsaken so much power to avoid their notice.” Beaumont couldn’t imagine giving up even an ounce of the power he commanded. This raven was truly a remarkable beast to do so willingly.

  “It is a small sacrifice to regain what was taken from me.” The bird spread its wings with a flourish, and it was as if a curtain were drawn back on the nearby wall, revealing a dark, fetid jungle beyond.

  Beaumont had looked upon demonic realms that felt less ominous. It was clearly more than just a jungle, but a land of dark enchantments.

  “Can you get us there?” the bird asked. When Beaumont nodded, the glimpse of the jungle vanished as if overtaken by a dark mist.

  “You will need to be in contact with me, raven,” Beaumont called with a tap on his shoulder. The raven obliged with a short flutter of its wings. Then the warlock turned to Hildey, where she was tapping suspiciously on the dirt walls and inspecting the roots of the Ravenwood. “Are you sure you wish to stay here? Even with me gone, the spirits will likely try to get in.”

  “Something is coming. I can sense it. It attacks the Ravenwood and the ward over this place,” Hildegard warned. “If the tree dies, the staff’s protection will fade quickly. You must go now. I will hold them here as long as I can to keep them off your trail.” She picked up the glowing horn from Beaumont’s summoning ritual. “I’ll use my time to get what I can out of Corvus and see if we can figure out a way to get the Raven King back to the land of the dead.”

  “I will return as soon as I can,” Beaumont offered, though he feared it might not be soon enough. Then he closed his eyes and focused on the Raven King’s vision. He opened himself to the reservoir of demonic energy within, savoring the flood of rage and power, then directed a portion towards his mastery of the Phasebeast’
s blood. He felt his being ripple, separating from reality, then reforming just as quickly.

  When he opened his eyes, he was no longer within the old witch’s tunnel, but within the sultry mists of a jungle, darkness clinging like a caul all around him.

  “Impressive strength,” the raven cawed, sounding slightly disoriented. “Though you could work on the landing.”

  “It’s demon blood, not fairy dust, bird. It took all my skill not to smash us through reality like a pane of glass.”

  “Still,” the bird grumbled as it ruffled its feathers back into place. “Now to the Mad Witchdoctors,” the raven croaked from his shoulder.

  “Do you know where to find them in this?” Beaumont asked, gesturing to the twisted tangle of vines and darkness before them.

  “When it comes to the witchdoctors, it is more a matter of letting themselves be found,” the raven offered. “On a positive note, the jungle hasn’t come alive to kill us yet. So, we are enough of a curiosity for them to hold back, for now.”

  “You imply that they know we are here, raven. Why not just meet with us then?”

  “I said we were a curiosity to them. We are like a mouse in the paws of a playful feline. They wish to see what we will do before they decide to eat us. Expect them to swat us around a bit first.”

  “You could have said I was phasing directly into danger. I would have come more prepared.” Beaumont hastily assessed the resources within the confines of his robes.

  His left hand instinctively clasped the hilt of his original imp-slaying dagger, while his right held the Ravenwood staff. Both provided comfort imbued with the familiar essence of home and family.

  “You are a Ravenfell, young Beaumont. You should already know the wisdom in being prepared when tampering with dark forces.”

  “Part of being prepared is understanding the forces I am tangling with. I don’t summon a demon until I know how to slay it.”

  “Sounds like a mundane life for someone with such power and ambition.” The raven seemed clearly distraught. “There is a thrill to facing uncertain forces. I suspect this will be quite a treat for you. It is, after all, the very odds which brought your family into being.” The raven fluffed up its feathers excitedly and gazed into the shadowy realm with anticipation.

  The jungle crawled in every direction. Opaque sheets of spiders’ silk cloaked the branches above, catching faint sips of moonlight to backlight the skittering occupants. Scorpions with bone ivory carapaces scurried below, lashing at anything that moved with their spine-like tails.

  The plants were no better. Gaping pitcher plants rose hungrily from the damp soil, emanating the putrid stench of rotting flesh to lure the chittering scavengers to their doom. Strangling vines clung to every solid surface and even twisted in tormented statuesque forms where they had taken over once-living creatures. The still-life tragedies hung all around as a testament to the fate of unwary trespassers.

  “Can you at least enlighten me on what to expect?” Beaumont insisted.

  “I couldn’t say. I did mention they are mad witchdoctors, did I not? So, whatever foul machination intrigues them in the moment, I imagine. They will test you.”

  It did not take long for the testing to begin.

  When hordes of spiders descended on shimmering threads, Beaumont brought forth the imp’s Hellfire to burn down their webs and scatter them. The raven ate the few that drew close. They screeched as their carapaces crunched between the ebony beak before being slurped down. As the last of the offending legs curled in their final throes, the jungle went silent.

  “That wasn’t too threatening,” Beaumont commented as his eyes searched the surroundings warily for the slightest hint of a skitter.

  “A single bite from one of them would wither your soul before your heart even stopped,” the raven croaked as it gulped down a still twitching appendage. “Had they intended to kill you, they would have sent all of them at once. This species is more than capable of leaping. No, they are testing your capabilities. Swatting the mouse.”

  “Well, this mouse bites,” Beaumont snarled, a bit of the werewolf essence escaping his control. He embraced his Well of Corruption and drew forth the skill of his greatest demon mastery—an Overlord. He toiled for three years on a single foe to complete his final ascendency as a warlock. Once he slew the dark Overlord and drank of its essence, he no longer needed rune circles and Common Art tricks to summon demons. He could call them at will.

  Beaumont sent his mind like a savage claw through the boundaries of reality and into the chaos of the hellscapes beyond. He did not grasp at just any entity nearby. Instead, he sought a familiar power, one he had slain and imbibed from many times before. It was a truly loathsome essence, but it was also one of the most destructive demons in Beaumont’s arsenal.

  The Mawgrithe fought against his command, as it always did. After numerous defeats, the demon still resisted his control fiercely. But the warlock knew the creature’s weakness. He carried a part of the Mawgrithe within him now, having mastered its blood and fully integrated its powers. Instead of trying to overcome the demon’s rage, he whispered temptations of death and destruction. Sometimes a lure was better than compulsion, and the Mawgrithe howled eagerly as it coalesced within the jungle.

  Snarling tusks with fur matted jowls preceded the immense twisting body of muscle, sinew, and thick patchy hide that followed. As its form solidified, the Mawgrithe lashed out with its spiked whip-like tail and toppled a clump of overgrowth. Its brute sized claws struck out, savaging vines, webs, and foliage with little distinction. With every act of destruction, the demon grew more frenzied, striking faster, screaming louder as it rampaged in howling fury.

  “You would unleash a demon berserker?” the raven exclaimed in surprise. “You are as mad as Dorga.”

  “I have control of the beast. The key to a Mawgrithe is to direct its destruction. As long as I sate its need, it is under my command.”

  “This beast is merely a tool of brute force.” the raven warned. “The witchdoctors are more interested in the mind and spirit and very good at corrupting both.”

  Chapter 6:

  Death Within

  The Mawgrithe rampaged forward, tearing a swathe through the forest as Beaumont followed with the Raven King perched uncertainly upon his shoulder. The jungle seemed endless, and it had gone silent even as the demon inflicted a path of destruction. The lack of resistance made Beaumont uncertain, however, and he was about to reassess his plan when he finally received a response.

  “It is an angry little creature, is it not?” a hollow, haunted voice echoed through the jungle then cackled maniacally.

  “Which one? Man? Beast? Or bird?” another voice asked in amusement before joining in the laughter.

  “I have come to seek your guidance. Show yourselves, and I will call off the demon,” Beaumont offered, though he still had no idea where the voices rose from.

  “It looks hungry.”

  “But what can it eat when there is nothing there?” Both voices cackled with insane glee.

  The jungle melted away into shadow. Trees and vines ebbed from reality into a dark emptiness in all directions. It happened too quickly for Beaumont to discern how it was managed, but as it did, he felt the dark fragment in his soul reach out towards the retreating darkness for just a moment. It was strange enough to take notice. He added that knowledge to the unraveling puzzle in his mind.

  “It looks as if there is only one thing to eat now.”

  “Two if you count the ragged excuse for a bird.”

  The raven cawed at that, and the two voices erupted into maddened laughter once more.

  The Mawgrithe was enraged and in need of something to destroy. It looked around frantically, slashing at the emptiness, seeking a target for its fury. Then it turned just enough to see the warlock that controlled it. The demon howled with pent up rage and charged, but Beaumont halted it in its tracks.

  He brought every shred of his Overlord skill to bear, inflicting an
overwhelming psychic compulsion to halt. The Mawgrithe froze, shaking its head in agitation at the overwhelming command. It tore at the spot where the jungle dirt should have been but disturbed only emptiness.

  Beaumont pushed against its fury, forcing it to submit. He had spent a great deal of time learning how the different demons’ minds worked, and he had mastered the best ways to overcome their natures. At last, the great tusked head drooped in submission.

  “It looks tired.”

  “It needs a snack, I think.” The voices laughed.

  Beaumont sensed a change in the shadows and focused on detecting its source. He swore he heard the thrumming beat of a drum, but it was swallowed by the shifting nothingness. Then the shadows swirled, awakening the dark fragment in his soul once more, just before a swarm of brightly colored frogs descended upon them.

  “Beware,” the raven cautioned. “Their toxin is a powerful drug. It will drive you mad if it gets on your skin.”

  Beaumont heeded the warning, but the Mawgrithe was already stirred to a destructive fury by the warlock’s earlier enticements. Even his Overlord compulsion could not hold the beast at bay. The demon charged, yet the frogs continued to hop rather unthreateningly onward. They squished and popped in the Mawgrithe’s tusked maw. They bled and croaked in gushing secretions as they were stomped and ripped apart by its claws. It was a horrific yet mesmerizing kaleidoscope of color in that dark and empty world.

  Connected as he was to the demon, Beaumont felt the blurring cloud of the drug haze descend over the creature’s mind before it disconnected from him. He had learned to master the demons he controlled by studying the workings of their minds. But the Mawgrithe was under the influence of something he’d never experienced. And the creature, obsessed with destruction and rage, was now infused with hallucinatory insanity, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He tried to drive it from the world, but his compulsion was useless now.