The strong presence of magic caused the flames that lit the interior of the Temple of Baal-Zebub to burn bright blue. Somewhere in the dark recesses of that fane of ancient evil the High Priest must have been performing a conjuration of considerable power.
As the horsewoman rode into the long vaulted anterior chamber, more priests ran howling toward her out of the temple’s depths, emboldened by the ardour of their faith. In wave upon wave they came swarming out of the darkness, their blue-dyed skin making them harder to see now in the dim azure haze of flickering torchlight.
Vana leapt from Thunrasar’s back and rushed forward to greet the oncoming horde with a savage battle cry bursting from her lungs as she willingly entered an uncontrollable frenzy, giving herself over completely to the ecstasy of battle—a true daughter of Wodanas drawing upon the last reserves of her fading strength.
Yet the horse would not be left behind, and with a fearsome battle cry of his own, he leapt into the fray, trampling many a foe beneath his great hooves before a blade gashed his left flank, forcing him to retreat.
Seeing this, Vana’s battle-madness reached a furor heretofore unknown to her, and now she moved through the ranks of her attackers like a raging fire, her lithe body swaying, twisting, and spinning, her wiry arms snaking chaotically this way and that—but all with inordinate grace and precision; as though she were a harim girl performing some deadly exotic dance of flesh, blood, and steel.
Again and again Icebreaker flashed like lightning in the temple’s deepening gloom, singing like a deadly nightingale in the reeking twilight of the blue torch-fires, hacking limb from limb and head from torso, bending and breaking the bronze swords of the priests as if they were the mere playthings of children.
When the last of these had finally fallen beneath that fearsome blade, spilling his lifeblood onto the slick black floor, Vana rushed to the side of her beloved steed and carefully examined his wound.
It was not deep, and once she had assured herself that it would not be life-threatening if treated promptly, she commanded Thunrasar to return at once to Jerob and Nightwind.
With a snort of protest, the horse grudgingly obeyed, pausing only for a moment to look back at his mistress before he reluctantly exited the temple.
Once he was clear of that foul den of sorcery and ancient evil, the weary swordswoman turned and crossed the hall, and shoving wide the massive doors that led into the innermost sanctum of the Temple of Baal-Zebub, warily entered its forbidding darkness.
Lowly now she chanted a powerful rune of protection in the hopes of warding off whatever forces of evil Ammon-Zul may have been raising against her, but her voice soon failed in the sight of his dark god.
For there, in the rear of that vast and murky hall, the colossal statue of Baal-Zebub loomed with ominous magnificence in the bluish light which now emanated weakly from the braziers at its feet.
As she looked upon the loathsome visage of that otherworldly fiend Vana felt her knees buckle, as if already the loss of her soul-shard were taking its final toll. Then, at that very moment, when she was at her weakest, she sensed the release of magical energy her enemy had summoned to dispatch her. The feeling was of all of the air being sucked out of the room. The spell Ammon-Zul had been casting all this time now at last took form, and Vana doubled over in pain, losing her grip on the broadsword.
As Icebreaker clattered to the ground, from out of the shadows the High Priest stepped nimbly, and with one swift sweep of his foot sent the sword spinning with ringing complaint across the marble floor to rest with a final resounding clamour of indignation against the base of the great stone altar of Baal-Zebub.
Vana felt her stomach lurch. Falling on all fours, she vomited, and then looked with horror upon the bloody contents of her stomach. They writhed with maggots.
Soon maggots oozed from her every orifice; even from the corners of her eyes. She felt them crawling through every part of her body—in her stomach, in her chest, in her skull—oozing through the very marrow of her bones. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, they began to feast, devouring her from within.
“Now you understand,” the High Priest sneered. “Now you truly understand the power I have at my command. The power of Baal-Zebub! Beg for your life, barbarian witch! It is no use. There is no mercy for the faithless. You will descend into the abyss, where the Lord of Flies will feast upon your soul for all eternity!”
While Ammon-Zul gloated over her, Vana forced her mind to grow still; despite the horror of what she was undergoing, willed herself to stare deeply into the fire that burned in the brazier nearest to her. She had but one remaining chance to counter the spell that Ammon-Zul had cast upon her before she fell into the darkness of unconsciousness and death. And dedicated to Baal-Zebub though it was, this fire could be that chance.
For all fire, regardless of what foulness it fed upon, belonged to one whose power reached beyond this middle-earth, beyond even the lofty halls of the gods—one whose true abode lay in the region of primal fire, where even Wodanas himself could not walk—one who could help her even here in this unholy place of accursed darkness, though she knew his aid would likely come at a high price.
O restless Lord of Fire! You who are neither god nor giant, but both; O exiled spirit who was cast down by the gods and will never again reach heaven, hear me! No one calls you... I call you. No one wants you... I want you. No one needs you... I need you. Listen to me. Listen to me.
As the words formed in her mind, the flames rose higher, turning from blue to brilliant white, as though in answer to her silent call.
My enemy and yours stands before me, my enemy and yours works within me. I summon your strength to cleanse my body and spirit. I summon your power to be a sword against my foe! Aid me now, most ancient one, for my need is great.
Soon she could feel the power of the fire-lord rising from somewhere deep within her, coursing through her body, incinerating the maggots that squirmed beneath her flesh, but in its turn threatening to consume her along with them.
She grew feverish and began to swoon, delirium taking hold, but somehow she managed to focus, to will all of that wild, chaotic energy into her empty sword-hand.
As she did so she felt the heat of the skin on that hand increase with a suddenness that alarmed her. She had only moments to spare. Thin wisps of smoke began to rise from her fingernails as she reached for the hem of the High Priest’s robe, as one about to plead for her life.
Seeing this, Ammon-Zul smiled down at her with evil satisfaction. But as soon as Vana felt her fingertips touch the silken fabric she used the last of her remaining strength to channel all of that explosive elemental energy through her hand—and into Ammon-Zul.
Almost instantly the High Priest burst into flames, as though he were made of straw, and as he died screaming in agony the soul-shard his fetch had torn from Vana earlier that night was released from his sorcerous clutches.
With a brief prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord of Fire, Vana drew this integral piece of her life-force back into herself as one who draws a deep breath upon emerging into the open air from a stifling tomb, and at once she began to feel whole again.
Then, retrieving her sword from where it had fallen, she departed in haste, for she could feel the black wrath of the Lord of Flies at her back, and already she could hear from deep within the unknown recesses of the massive statue a faint but steadily growing murmur that would soon become a roar.
The High Priest saw the flames of his own destruction reflected in the sapphire eyes of the sorceress before he realized what was happening, and even as he felt the rapidly rising heat engulf him he did not fully grasp, at first, its import.
Then, as understanding dawned as sudden and merciless as the desert sun, confusion gave way to disbelief, and disbelief in turn swiftly gave way to panic, and from the midst of the inferno that soon enveloped him, the horrible screams of Ammon-Zul rose and reverberated throughout the halls of the temple, as had those of so many of his victims.
Within moments
the conflagration devoured the outermost layers of his flesh, and then there was no more pain; only naked terror.
But soon that was gone as well, as behind the High Priest’s eyeless, blackened skull the chaotic fury of his thoughts subsided gratefully into the eternal silence of oblivion.
In the end all that was left of the High Priest was a small pile of ashes, which his destroyer staggered through as she exited the chamber, scattering them beneath her booted feet.
In her wake the remains of the great Ammon-Zul hovered momentarily in a grey cloud on the dank air of the temple, as though some tenuous shadow of his malice yet remained to glower briefly from beyond this earthly plane, before settling at last to mingle with the blood-soaked dust through which the maggots crawled under the glittering gaze of Baal-Zebub.
About the author:
Christopher Courtley has been spinning tales for nearly four decades. Born and raised in the slums of New York City, he has come to appreciate the finer things in life, such as cutlery, napkins, music made with real instruments, sophisticated women, and good manners.
He currently dwells in a cottage in Warwick, NY, where, when he is not languishing in an absinthe-soaked torpor, or wandering between the worlds, or being irritatingly distracted by the vicissitudes of earthly life, he spends his nights writing furiously, occasionally remembering to shave, bathe, and eat.
Connect with the author online:
Official Site: https://www.christophercourtley.com
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The Temple of Baal-Zebub (Tale I of the Valruna Saga) Page 5
