by Brian Murray
For two more years, continuing his reclusive lifestyle, the man sifted through the various books and parchments, making notes, completing his own journals, but it still was not enough. He still felt that something remained just out of his reach, but he did not know what. To help the man think, he again left the house and walked down to the lake. Stripping again, the man went for a long swim. Then he returned to the house and sank into one of the deep leather chairs in front of the hearth, shivering. The room was quite warm yet he did not know why he was so cold. Frazellon knew he had lost the power to heal, but he still had the ability to diagnose problems. He closed his eyes and searched his body. His eyes snapped open in a start and he began to panic. He had the same sickness as his wife—he had a mass, eating at his innards.
Frazellon rose from the chair and rushed into the library, slamming the door closed. There must be something in the room to help him, he thought; there must. For the next couple of months, the man again poured over the books and parchments he had already read and the few that he had missed. But nothing—nothing written could help him. Furious, Frazellon grabbed one of the shelves and yanked it away from the wall, spilling the books and parchments over the floor. He fell to his knees, cupped his face in his hands, and sobbed. I’ve gained nothing, he thought. After a while, Frazellon looked up. His eyes narrowed. Where the shelf had been pulled from the wall was a secret compartment. He rose slowly, wiped his eyes roughly on his sleeve, and opened the compartment door. He gazed in. Almost palpable blackness filled the cavity, and no light seemed able to penetrate its depths.
The former general slowly reached into the hidden compartment. Suddenly, he yanked his hand back as if stung. For some reason, Frazellon panted with excitement. He took a calming deep breath. He reached into the blackness again. His fingers touched something. Gently, he pulled out an old book. He blew the dust from the cover and walked over to the desk. He held the book in one hand and with the other wiped the desk clear of all other books and parchments. With reverence, he placed the large tome on the table. He sat down at the desk, looking at the book for a while. He did not know at the time but blackened human skin covered the book, and the binding came from human hair. Slowly, Frazellon reached forward and opened the book. A whoosh of air escaped when he lifted the cover, sending small particles of black dust into the air. The text was written in a strange script unknown to Frazellon. Yet, as he stared at the page, the symbols seemed to shift in his mind to form letters, words, and whole sentences. He quickly read the opening paragraph. His heart pounded in his chest as though trying to escape. He calmed his excitement and eagerly read on—
***
This is the first Tome of the Damned.
Within these pages lies ultimate power.
Only the worthy will be able to read this text.
***
Frazellon took a long, shuddering deep breath and read on. Somehow, he knew what the book and its creator meant. This contained everything he had ever wanted to know. The book was full of everything dark and evil. It contained spells involving sacrifices and torture. It showed him how to make an addictive drug from the balamine plant. Frazellon could not wait and rushed outside. After searching for a while, he found the leaf pattern that matched the illustration in the Tome. He found a balamine plant, tore it from the soil, and returned to the house. He followed the instructions and soon in his hand he held three small black crystals. He put one of the crystals into his mouth and sucked it. For a moment, nothing happened, then . . .
The crystals tasted bitter, but that was quickly forgotten. The juices from the crystal surged through Frazellon’s body and he shivered with delight. The intoxicating effect reached his mind. Suddenly, colours and lights danced before his eyes. He felt euphoric. He looked down at the Tome and it seemed to glow red with a black hue encasing it, protecting the pages from light. The letters and words left the pages and danced in the air around him. He laughed, a sound born from wickedness.
After several hours, the effects of the drug wore off and yearning started to knot his stomach. He managed to suppress the feelings and he did not stop reading until he had nearly completed the book. Frazellon smiled. He found what he had sought. He felt in ecstasy as his fingers traced along the words, the last spell in the Tome—the Spell of Calling. According to the book, the spell would summon a demon who would grant your wishes. Frazellon’s heart leapt. He read on. Then he saw his problem. He would need a human sacrifice. Frazellon had a choice: his life or that of an innocent. It took him less than a heartbeat to make his choice.
He hid the book and with Cleo walking at his side, calmly left the room. He stepped out of the house and looked left then right. He had no idea the way to the nearest settlement, having bought the food and supplies he needed from a local farmer. He sighed and looked down at his war-hound. Cleo looked up at her master then, seeming to understand his thoughts, padded off. The war-hound stopped at the clearing’s edge and sniffed the air. Then she turned her massive head towards her master. She barked once, then ambled into the trees. Frazellon followed his hound. Within an hour, they arrived at the edge of a small village as dusk coloured the sky. Staying in the brush, he studied at the settlement and smiled. He reached for his money pouch tied to his leggings and jangled the several coins, including some gold. Frazellon stood up and strolled boldly into the village. He walked into the nearest squalid tavern and sat at a table in a dark corner.
A scrawny ginger-headed barmaid walked up to him and took his order. He ordered an evening meal and a jug of frothy ale. The woman returned with a bowl of thin stew, several slices of two-day-old gritty bread, and a jug of warm ale. “You’re new here?” she asked, trying to look sweet, pouting her lips.
“Yes, I have bought a house up the way,” he replied calmly, nodding his head to one side, in the general direction from where he came.
“Live alone?” she asked, moving closer.
“Aye, I do,” he answered, spooning the stew, trying to look uninterested.
“Looking for any company?” said the barmaid, smiling broadly, showing her youthful age.
“Maybe.”
“I’ll be finished in an hour if you want some company, but I’m not cheap.”
“I have coin,” said Frazellon, producing a gold coin. He watched the woman’s face light up. He had her.
“I’ll be finished in an hour if you want company,” she repeated, staring at the gold coin.
“I will wait for you on the road leading out to town to the east. You do not mind coming to my place?”
“Not at all, lover,” said the barmaid, her eyes still fixed on the gold coin in his palm.
Frazellon had finished his meal and now waited on the road for the barmaid to arrive. He began to get anxious, waiting for her. Suppose she does not come, he thought. “Calm yourself,” he whispered softly. He looked towards the village and saw nothing. He cursed his luck and was about to leave when Cleo growled softly, stopping him. Frazellon looked back to town and saw the young woman walking up the path. When she saw him, her sluggish walk changed. She swayed her hips, trying to look sexy. But Frazellon was not thinking about sex.
“Hello lover,” she purred sweetly.
“Shall we go,” he said, grabbing her arm.
“Well, the thing is . . . ”
“You said you would come to my place. I have coin.”
“I know, but you hear stories. You know . . . about men attacking and killing women.”
“Well, here you go,” he said, handing the woman a gold coin. “You said you were good and I am looking for company all night. I am a rich man.”
The woman looked down at the heavy gold coin twinkling in the moonlight. She smiled sweetly. “I’ve never held a gold coin before,” she admitted wistfully.
“There will be another one for you if, like you say, you are good.”
“Well then, lover, what are we waiting for? I’m the best you will have had.”
The two made their way to the stone house and
the woman did nothing but complain all the way. Frazellon was getting fed up with the woman’s nagging, thinking he would kill her before they arrived. Finally, they reached the clearing around the house and the woman quietened down. They entered the house and the woman removed her thin shawl, throwing it over the back of a chair.
“Nice house,” she said honestly. “I’ve lived in the village all my life and never knew this house was here . . . Fancy that.”
“It is a bit isolated. Would you like a drink?”
“That would be nice,” she answered, walking to the fire and warming her hands as she looked around.
Frazellon arrived back with two drinks and handed one to her.
“So, where’s the bedroom?” she asked.
“There is no rush, we have all night.”
“That’s right,” said the woman, sitting in one of the leather chairs before the hearth.
He held out his glass for a toast and she clinked her glass against his. He drank his drink, watching her over the rim of his glass. She swallowed the contents in one gulp. He smiled. Shortly, the woman started to smile.
“Can I have another drink? That one has made me feel all warm and tingly inside.”
“Of course,” said Frazellon. He went to the kitchen and poured two more glasses, but this time he did not add a black crystal to her drink. When he arrived back into the room, he found the woman dancing in front of the fire.
“I feel funny,” she slurred. “Merry and light.”
Frazellon put down the drinks on the table and approached the woman. She looped her arms around his neck and drew him in close. Her lips brushed his and she kissed him passionately. Frazellon became aroused, but he tried to ignore this. He had work to do.
“Come,” he said softly. He walked the woman into his library and turned her as they reached the stone desk. She smiled at him and pushed the straps to her faded blue dress from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Frazellon saw her naked bony body and something flickered in his head. Reaching forward, he kneaded one of her perk breasts and his arousal grew. He lifted her onto the desk and undid his leggings. He held her legs in the air and rutted with the woman on the desk, quickly reaching ecstasy. When finished, he pushed the woman further down onto the table. She moaned softly and whispered something huskily, but he did not hear her. She fell into a deep slumber.
Frazellon retrieved the Tome and prepared for the Spell of Calling. When ready, he started to recite the spell. The temperature in the room dropped and icicles formed on the shelves and around the stone desk. He continued to chant and reached for a dagger. He raised the dagger above his head in eager anticipation. When he reached the end of the spell, he plunged the dagger into the woman’s chest. The barmaid’s eyes flashed open, her body jerked, and she arched her back. Her mouth opened but no sound escaped. The barmaid slumped back onto the desk—dead. Frazellon waited, but nothing happened. Worried that he had done something wrong, he frantically looked at the book. As he leaned over the book, blood dripped from his dagger onto the page. He swore aloud. Suddenly, the room plunged into darkness and a voice boomed.
“Who summons me?”
“I do. My name is Frazellon,” he replied, his voice shaking with fear.
“What do you want from me, mortal?”
“Life,” answered the man simply.
“I can give you the gift of life, but there will be a tribune to pay. Everything has a price.”
“I do not care what the cost is, I want to live.”
“My favours are not cheap, mortal. Are you sure you will pay my tribune?”
“Yes.”
“Then the tribune will be your soul.”
Frazellon did not understand what the demon was asking for. “I do not understand . . .
you want my soul?”
“Yes,” answered the demon simply. “I give you life and you will be my servant for all eternity.”
“I will be immortal?”
“Yes, but remember even the immortals can be killed. Do you want my gift?”
Frazellon did not hesitate with his answer. “Give it to me.”
“I will come to you soon and obtain your tribune.”
“I will be ready.”
“To ensure you are, I will furnish you with the next two Tomes of the Damned. Learn quickly Frazellon, I am not known for my patience.”
The lantern in the room re-ignited. On the table, instead of the dead woman, there were two more books like the first. He looked at the first book. The bloodstains on the page had disappeared. Somehow, Frazellon knew what to do. He checked his body and the mass in his abdomen had vanished. He smiled and whooped loudly. Calming himself, he started reading the first of the other two books, making more notes in his journal and on fresh parchments. He quickly realised he had to get ready.
***
Frazellon spent the next two years reading, learning, and practising the spells, enchantments, and other teachings hidden within the pages of the second and third Tomes of the Damned. He learned how to travel the Paths of Time and see the various futures. He continued to make notes. Based on his journey on the Paths of Time, he drew up new prophecies and predictions, and created the basis for a new religion. All of these would be useful as he continued to prepare for all possible known futures. However, many of the futures remained clouded, lost in the mists of time. Unbeknown to Frazellon, some possibilities he did not see. If he had, he would have changed his preparations.
***
One night, with his notes stowed away in an old battered leather satchel, Frazellon and his war-hound, left the comfort of the stone house and headed south towards the Great Mountains. Frazellon travelled for two weeks, searching the Great Mountains for the perfect location, protecting his valuable cargo of parchments and his journal from the harsh wintry weather. He travelled between the high peaks and deep valleys, wading through deep snow. For a few more days, Frazellon travelled the bitterly cold mountains exploring, trying to find the location. Then on a clear, bright morning, he found the place he had been seeking.
He arrived in a deep, steep-sided valley that had a grey cliff face blocking the western end. The valley had been the birthplace of a massive glacier that gouged out the rock several thousands of years earlier. He closed his eyes and focused on an image he had seen on the Paths of Time. In his mind, Frazellon pictured a massive castle. Where he was standing would be a huge wall, behind him an outer wall, and before him, a large keep built so it backed onto the grey cliff face. The image changed and he saw a battle at the castle, then he saw a lone figure dressed in black scaling the wall. Frazellon smiled when the image again changed and he saw a huge army camped at the castle, the elite being men dressed in black, like his old armour, with long black cloaks billowing behind them. “Brethren,” he whispered softly.
Frazellon opened his eyes and his smile broadened. This was the right place. As he walked farther into the valley, fresh snow drifted from the skies and silently settled around him. He headed for the rock face that loomed up before him. At the base of the cliff, he stopped. Again, he closed his eyes and pictured the inside of the keep. He shuffled several paces to his left, then stopped. In his mind’s eye, he stood above a dungeon. Opening his eyes, he stared at the grey rock. He reached out and caressed the icy cold granite. After stepping back, Frazellon muttered a spell and created a hole in the ground where the dungeon would be. He moved to the edge of the hole. Leading down into the gloom was a set of steps made from the frozen soil. He walked down the steps and paused. He had to be sure. He was. In his mind’s eye, he visualised the dungeon—dark and gloomy room with barbaric torture tools hanging on the wall. Frazellon shivered with pleasure.
Using dark magic, he located a small cavern behind the outer rock face. Casting another spell, the man moved through the wall. He placed the leather satchel containing his journal and other parchments inside the small cave. Passing back through the rock, he turned and placed a spell of passing over the rock. Only a word of power wou
ld be needed for someone to pass through and locate his work. Finally, Frazellon climbed out of the hole and refilled it using magic. He looked at the ground. It looked the same as when he had arrived, even the snow. Feeling tired, Frazellon gathered some wood and lit a fire under a small overhang on the southern slope to rest for the night. As the sun clawed into the sky, he began the long journey back to the stone house. However, during the trek, the weather closed in, greatly slowing his pace. When he and his war-hound finally cleared the mountains, reaching the northern foothills, he had a thick beard covering his jaw, but he did not care, he had achieved his mission.
The journey took Frazellon two months. With much relief, he arrived at the door of the stone house. He entered and to his surprise, everything felt cold and stale. The dark magic keeping the house alive had disappeared, the building had outlived its usefulness. He hurried through to the library to find that the three Tomes of the Damned had vanished from where he had hidden them. Frazellon smiled to himself; he had learned all from the books and instinctively knew it was now time for him to journey home. He spent the next couple of days recovering from his trek from the Great Mountains.
On a grey, storm-threatened morning, he packed again but this time headed for the port of Balasal. With Cleo at his side, Frazellon travelled northwest to the port to seek transport back to his homeland. He reached the sprawling stone city where many sights and buildings had changed. He found the inn called the Fort on the Hill and paid to stay for a couple of days. The owner had changed and no one recognised the man who had disappeared all those years earlier.
The next morning, fully refreshed after his trek, Frazellon headed for the docks. To his surprise, he found the Merry Storm moored in the port. He walked cautiously to the ship, hoping someone would recognise the former general. During his years in the stone house, Frazellon had aged only a little, the only sign of the passing time were a few streaks of grey that graced his hair. To his surprise and relief, the ship was still captained by the same man with whom he had originally travelled across the Endless Sea. The captain recognised the former general and happily allowed the man to travel back home. Unknown to Frazellon, his father had given specific instructions that if Frazellon wanted to travel home on any of his ships they would give him free passage.
