Ravenfell Chronicles: Origins

by Brand J. Alexander

  “Is there nothing but rock and wasteland in this realm?” she asked, at last, a bit exasperated. There was always life and death in abundance around her normally, but this hellscape was a void. “My magic harnesses the essence of death,” she explained. “If nothing lives here, then nothing has ever died here either.”

  She saw the warlock’s eyes flare with demon fire in answer. Then he waved his hand in a flurried rhythmic gesture. The air in front of him shivered momentarily in response, and a demonic imp materialized before him.

  “I need a quick favor,” the warlock told the creature offhandedly. The imp bowed its head in defeat and spread its arms wide. A rune-inscribed dagger sprouted from Beaumont’s hand and struck the beast in its chest with a thunk.

  Katerina was undoubtedly cruel and equally lethal to her enemies, but she was a bit taken aback by the brutality of the warlock’s action. This demon appeared to serve him, yet he treated it with little regard. Of course, she didn’t understand demons enough to comprehend a warlock’s relationship with them yet, but she intended to find out before judging.

  As the creature collapsed, the misty essence she desired sprung from the corpse and spread out in seeping trails. The warlock turned to her in offering, unphased by the sudden death.

  “Is this enough?” he inquired politely.

  “Wait, you can see that unaided?” the raven on his shoulder asked before she could respond.

  “The foggy trails? The death? Yes,” he answered.

  “Since when?”

  “Since the witchdoctors showed me in the jungle. I can see it unaided now. It’s as if I always could but never noticed,” the warlock replied.

  “It comes with peering beyond the veil,” the raven explained as he inspected the man with interest. “It’s a test of the old shamans to impart special knowledge about the Netherworld. You should have had it from birth, like your ability to see spirits considering the circumstances. Though, I wouldn’t doubt that the old witch did something to prevent it. You touched the other side again through your fragment, though. Perhaps that is awakening the rest.”

  “Can it hurry?” Beaumont insisted. “I have two days to plan a war. It would be nice to understand our enemy before I face them.” He paused, realizing that their conversation had cut Katerina off, and turned to her. “I apologize, my lady. My world has been chaotic of late. But that should not take away from your task. Please, continue.”

  “I too once experienced the gift of seeing beyond for the first time, though perhaps not in such a manner as you,” she replied. “It took me years to master it all.”

  It was his turn to witness her mastery, Katerina considered. Knowing that he shared the gift to see her workings made it even more enjoyable.

  Katerina held his eyes as she drew the essence of death to her. It flowed up her dress in swirling tendrils and ignited in a spark of black flame at her fingertips.

  The warlock watched, entranced with her work.

  One by one, she plucked leaves from her dress and offered them to each of the sprite spirits. Then she merged them with a touch of black flame, granting them purpose and design with a thought.

  The black ivy leaves split and unfurled like the wings of a raven, while the vine stems twined with the glimmering spirits into tiny malformed bodies. Within moments, a swarm of graceful yet unsettling butterfly creatures stirred the air around here.

  “It is time for the mystical beasts to rise up,” she declared to her newly reborn audience. “To create a sanctuary for our kind, a price must be taken from our persecutors in blood.”

  The creatures squeaked with excitement as they darted too and froe like dragonflies on the hunt. It was a very different relationship than what the warlock shared with his servants, and she hoped he took notice.

  “Travel to the encampments. Bring my request to the others. When the demon Terror is loosed upon the world, our forces must strike. One night of vengeance is all we will seek, for now, so make it count. Then return to me at dawn. If all goes well, we shall be free of persecution at last.”

  Like shooting stars, the tiny fluttering leaf sprites descended in fading sparks, vanishing from view. Her pets were loyal. She could trust the messages would be delivered without threats of death.

  “My part is prepared. In two nights, the remaining creatures of magic will bring their fury down upon the civilization of man.” She said it with a hint of challenge as she gazed at the Ravenfell warlock. He was obviously impressed by her small feat, so she could only imagine what his response would be. “Your turn.”

  “Don’t encourage him, my lady,” the raven warned. “He has the blood of a madman running through his veins and a heart of death. He is not the sort to back down from a challenge even if he should.”

  Katerina could hear the warning in the raven’s tone directed at his companion, but the warlock, as warned, seemed completely unmoved.

  “Precious time is wasting if the cry of Terror is to aid our cause. I must prepare for the summoning. It will be the greatest challenge my skills have ever faced, but I will bend this demon to my will.” The warlock’s fury and determination were mirrored by the flames in his eyes.

  Something in his voice sent a chill up Katerina’s spine. The man was a force of nature all to himself, but she had always been well attuned to nature.

  Chapter 13:

  Cry of Terror

  “A powerful witch, despised and reviled, seeking a means of pain.”

  “To stricken her victims with visions abhorrent and drive them all insane.”

  “With magic, she summoned a scene of such torture that mortal souls would break.”

  “But her wisdom did falter, curiosity called her, one glance the fool witch did take.”

  “A vision she’d woven of madness and suffering so pure with her dark intent,”

  “She cried out in terror, realizing her error, in the moment, her foul life was spent.”

  The Mad Witchdoctors’ chanting had accompanied every step of Beaumont’s summoning ritual. The babbling ghouls had remained mostly quiet over the day it took to gather the materials. But now that he needed his concentration most, they couldn’t stop reminding him of the nightmare he would face.

  “What did she see?” the Spirit Weaver called dramatically from behind.

  Beaumont knelt on the ground inscribing a runic circle of protection in blood, and the last thing he wanted to think about was what the witch saw. To face the demon Terror, he would have to face the same vision and the same emotion of her final scream. The circle would protect those on the outside from the worst of it. But to command such a force, he would have to stand within the ring and resist the full might of her presence.

  “What she saw. What she saw. Never speak of what she saw,” the drummer answered.

  “For the vision of her spell was so extreme.”

  “Such pure fear it did contain, on her soul it left a stain.”

  “Reborn as Terror in the madness of her scream.”

  “She was reborn as a demon,” Beaumont declared in challenge. “Nothing more. Nothing less. She was reborn from the corruption of pure terror, but like any demon, she can be overcome.”

  Though he displayed bravado, Beaumont approached this summoning with more caution and preparation than ever before. Terror wasn’t an average demon. She was born from something overwhelmingly primal within the human spirit. She was corrupted by unrelenting terror, and she inflicted that corruption on anyone who looked upon her or heard her wailing cry.

  The last thing Beaumont needed was to let fear infect him. It was a weakness the demon could exploit.

  Few warlocks dared summon primal demons such as Terror. Those who did rarely survived to record how they managed it in books. Consequently, Beaumont had to design the entire ritual from scratch based on what he had studied.

  His Overlord compulsion would not be enough to summon and subdue such a being alone. So, he built the ritual from the most basic and solid formulas he knew. He fully i
ntended to face off with his warlock mastery, but he was building a foundation of the Common Arts to ensure success.

  A circle of warding protected those outside the ring with a rune of summoning at its center, awaiting the sacrificial offering. Additional runes and totems were integrated to help subdue the beast and dampen the mind-shattering effects of her aura. He constructed each pattern intricately with little room for error because once the battle commenced, there would be no time to fix things.

  He could feel Katerina’s eyes on him as he worked. She mentioned how her fallen order had used variations of the Common Arts for their magic when she saw what he was doing. Some of what he scrolled now was clearly familiar to her. Although, unlike the witchdoctors’ chanting, her interruptions were rare and only when her curiosity was overly piqued.

  The witch’s presence made him cautious, though. She trusted him to create a sanctuary for her charges and hopefully not get them all killed in the process. The least he could manage is to not get her killed while enacting step one of his plan.

  Her smiles made that more difficult, however. Every time her lips curled, he knew she was considering something significant regarding his work. It was an effort not to inquire. It was even harder to ignore. But somehow, he worked through it, relishing the moments when she broke the tension of her restrained smile with her corruptive voice.

  “So, this construct is meant to contain demons?” she inquired as she walked along the perimeter of the ritual scene, analyzing the runes.

  “This is meant to keep you and the others alive. The inner circle is for summoning and entrapment,” he answered as he resisted glancing up into her eyes. He knew it would make him lose focus.

  “Ah, I see the similar runes in the seal. My order used several of them in the creation of their Soul Gourds.”

  “So, these Soul Gourds are both magically altered lifeforms as well as constructs of Common Arts?” Beaumont was too intrigued by the possibilities not to ask. He had become mildly obsessed with the possibility of using them to entrap demons since he met her. It was just another way in which her infrequent commentary felt deftly targeted to draw his attention.

  “Those created in my village were. What I do is something different,” she replied.

  “A natural talent. Like my Hildey.” He sensed the similarities in her aura. Though there was a deep darkness at her heart, there was a light that grew from her spirit, like life growing from death.

  “If she is not a god like my people claimed, perhaps I share something with her gift,” she mused.

  “I don’t believe she would have entrusted you with reviving the Ravenwood if you didn’t.” He finally gave in and looked up to find her smiling subtly down at him. “That should do it,” he announced. “The protections are in place. All I need is the offering.”

  As if summoned by his words, the demon imp he murdered earlier returned in a blink. It hopped over to him hesitantly, still cautious after his most recent impaling, and handed Beaumont the requested satchel of ingredients.

  “Your offering, master,” the imp offered grovelingly. “What do you require of me next?” The pathetic creature still expected to be struck down again any second, despite Beaumont’s insistence that he wouldn’t. Although, the fiend likely deserved it for a hundred past offenses.

  It was another difference incited by Lady Katerina’s presence. Despite the creature’s immortal nature and demonic corruption, the Lady of the Harvest wished for the demon’s sacrifice to be respected once she had drawn from the essence of its death. She saw the spirits she commanded as willing servants, not mystical slaves, and appeared to believe demons could be the same.

  Clearly, she had never commanded a demon, the warlock reasoned. Their entire purpose was to corrupt others. A warlock’s gifts rose from accepting and constantly fighting that corruption. Kindness and respect weren’t a part of that relationship. Strength and power were.

  However, Beaumont had the power to destroy the imp with ease, and both knew it. He lost nothing by offering a show of deference for the creature’s obedience and sacrifice to appease the lady. So, he incinerated the previous body with Hellfire before summoning it back into existence, and he asked the beast to retrieve the ingredients instead of commanding it.

  The imp’s behavior revealed how little it trusted that change.

  “Ixgol? That was your name, correct?” Beaumont asked. He had known this imp since he began his dark path to becoming a warlock, yet he had never asked its name. It took Katerina to inquire when he summoned the creature back.

  The demon nodded and spoke low, “Yes, master. Ixgol” It suspected imminent treachery, and for a moment, Beaumont almost felt sorry for the thing. It was still a demon, however, despite having served him well so far. There wasn’t any reason to disturb things yet.

  “I am finished with your services, for now, Ixgol. But I request that you remain until I finish this summoning. If I survive, I will have one final task for you.”

  “Yes, master,” the imp grumbled obediently, but in the creature’s eyes, Beaumont could see the fury of a demon burning low and deep. It wanted him to fail horribly, and it was excited to stay and watch.

  ◆◆◆

  There was a fire in Katerina’s eyes that mirrored the demonic fury in Beaumont’s own as he set the outer ring of runes alight with Hellfire. Fascination fueled the gleam for the Lady of the Harvest. But for Beaumont, it was a special concoction of precisely mixed demon blood.

  There was no specific demonic mastery that could shield against Terror’s presence, but Beaumont hoped a mix of differing traits could strengthen his resistance against the assault. The combination burned through his veins with virulent corruption and made for a twisted physical transformation as well.

  The protection for those outside the circle was in place. It was finally time to begin the ritual of summoning.

  Beaumont felt oddly alone without the raven perched upon his shoulder. The bird had argued vociferously against his exclusion from the ring, but Beaumont needed his focus on defending against the demon Terror. He couldn’t spare concern for another. Despite the raven’s assurance that he would be fine, it was Beaumont’s certainty that he must do this alone that decided the matter. The raven’s black eyes gleamed with concern across the glow of the Hellfire ring, but he grudgingly did not interfere.

  Only two ingredients remained for the task, the spiritual essence of fear and Beaumont’s own blood. The Spirit Weaver and Death’s Drummer provided a means for the first and his runed dagger assisted with the extraction of the latter.

  The pop of the magically sealed cork broke the ominous silence of the ritual scene as he unstoppered the spiritual essence. The glowing blue contents hummed with the discord within. It was harvested from spirits who died in absolute fear, and it emanated with the trembling fright of their final moments.

  The blue energy seeped from the bottle like ethereal honey dripping in long stringy tendrils, filling the carved-out channels of the summoning rune. Distant screams of terror rose from the construction as the essence imbued it. It was the perfect bait for the demon.

  Beaumont’s blood was the final catalyst. With its addition, he theorized, he would become an irresistible beacon to the demon Terror. She was too powerful to be commanded to appear. But like with the Mawgrithe, Beaumont could tempt her by appealing to her primal desires.

  Beaumont offered a chant to empower the rune. It offered little more than reassurance, but he was employing every trick to help ensure success. Then he drew his dagger and sliced the back of his arm.

  The glistening beads of his demon-corrupted blood glowed in the light of the spiritual essence as he shed them in the circle’s center. Visually, the spell’s enactment appeared anticlimactic. But viscerally, the effects were profound.

  Time slowed dramatically. Every drop of blood struck in a suspended moment. And each moment stretched on horrifically long for Beaumont.

  By the time he discovered his miscalculation, it was too
late to reverse. The spell was designed to make him a beacon for Terror. But to do so, the spell had transformed him into a beacon of terror.

  Fear took hold of him in an inexorable creeping chill. It was an unfamiliar emotion for the warlock, but it was a primal force, difficult to repel. With each drop of his blood, a wave of slow-rolling terror coalesced within him then surged outward in a pulse into the worlds beyond where demons dwell.

  The fear was nearly paralyzing, and Beaumont sank to his knees from the sudden onslaught. He tried to rationalize it away, but there was no clear cause, just overwhelming panic.

  He focused on the words of his chant in desperation, the seemingly insignificant mantra becoming his lifeline. He clung to the sounds and rhythm of the words to avoid being completely consumed by the erupting waves of terror.

  An eternity seemed to pass as the final blood drop struck with a rolling wave of fright. The abrupt halt to the onslaught was nearly as traumatic.

  Beaumont awoke from the trance of his trembling chant with a sharply drawn breath. Though the waves of fear subsided, the chill of terror remained. Only now, it was an icy cloak that hung all around him instead of a growing ember within. His breath fogged in the air as he exhaled at last.

  His beacon spell worked. Terror had answered his summons.

  Beaumont was a bit surprised when she materialized in an instant with no fanfare or dramatic displays. Terror could assume any form she wanted, yet even that seemed subdued, considering the demon’s predilections. Lore claimed that her visage was enough to freeze a man’s soul, yet her wispily gowned guise proved more of a curiosity for the warlock.

  She was almost human in form. Her skin and hair were pale, nearly white, and the flesh was crackled like poorly glazed pottery. What should be the whites of her eyes was blood red, and the irises were empty voids threatening to devour the light. Her arms were perhaps a little longer than average, and her clawed fingers were definitely of extreme proportions, but there was very little about her that evoked her namesake.