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Kurn of Vatkya stared into his cup of warm, bitter ale and tried to ignore the weighty glances of those who shared the dusty Khymerian tavern with him. This, of course, was nothing new. With Kurn's lengthy blond hair, striking green eyes, and light skin, the Northern warrior stuck out like a sore thumb amid the crowds of dark-haired, dark-skinned peoples who populated the sun-blasted wastes of the Eastern nations. From the arid deserts of Keth to the fertile banks of the mighty Oras, Kurn had traveled, and everywhere he went he felt the same overt, often hostile stares of those he encountered. Here, in the East, the white man was not overly liked. Scarce a generation had passed since the Western Kings, hungry for plunder and extended borders, had sent down a great silver horde of mounted knights and far-flung mercenaries to liberate the Holy City from heathen rule. They had failed, of course, and were chased back across the Sibelle Pass, which for ages untold had stood as the natural boundary separating East from West. They had been driven on the point of the blood-drenched lances of the fierce Zyberk horsemen, whom the Great King had swelled his ranks with, a truly humiliating rout. Such bloody deeds had happened in the time of Kurn's father, and the people of the East would be long in forgetting their hatred for the pale-skinned soulless devils, as the Westerners were called by them. Did it matter that Kurn's people were not of the West, but the icy Northlands, and had, in fact, played no part in the fool's Crusade? No, Kurn's skin was pale, his hair was different from theirs, and that was enough to damn him in their eyes. Kurn quaffed the last of his ale in a single draught, hoping to drown the bitter taste his brooding thoughts had left in his mouth. Finished, Kurn called the short, bald-pated Khymerian cups-man for another fill, the taste still there, along with the oppressive weight of a roomful of eyes. When he received no answer, Kurn bellowed again, pounding his heavy fist on the table to accentuate his point. The nervous little man glanced up at the blond giant, excused himself from a conversation he was sharing with a group of turbaned men, and crossed the tavern's length to the isolated table where Kurn sat alone with his thoughts. Kurn pushed his empty cup forward, and fixed his green stare upon the Khymerian. "Cha'haul," the bartender said, speaking in quiet, conciliatory tones, "haven't you had enough ale already? "Had I quaffed my full, I wouldn't be asking for more, now would I?" "What I meant was, I think you would feel more comfortable else ...." "Blood of Valla, there can be no comfort for me anywhere in this accursed land!" Kurn snarled, digging out a handful of coins. He tossed them noisily on the table, and said. "Now, will you take my gold or not, cups-man?" "Aye, cha'haul, aye." The Khymerian said without further protest. He hurried off to the back room, where the ales and other drinks were kept. By the Seven Devils of the Pit, and by Hothor the Fire Giant did Kurn curse the sniveling bartender. Kurn's wrath did not end with him, but spread to his whole vile race, and to the land of Khymeria and her ancient, horrid sisters. Had not Kurn fled the wild steppes and grey coasts of the North to escape petty hatreds and tribal prejudices? Yet it mattered not how far traveled, or to what exotic local he fled, for Kurn always found the hearts of men to be the same. Kurn was drawn from his dark musing by the sound of footsteps approaching his table. Kurn's green gaze slid slowly from his empty cup to the hapless souls who approached him. There were three of them, tall, though none met Kurn's massive shoulders. Their faces were hid beneath thick, black beards that fell over their white-robed chests. Red cloth-wrapped turbans covered their bald brown heads. Each had a curved sword stuck through his girdle. They were the men with whom the bartender had been conversing scant moments before. Blandly, Kurn watched his visitors. For all the curiosity that shown through the Northerner's cold jade eyes, the Khymerians might have been nothing more than a mild ale-induced hallucination tolerated only out of familiarity. The foremost Khymerian cleared his throat. Kurn mutely watched. Kurn's insolence angered the Khymerian. "Outlander, you do not belong here." He growled. "Pray, then, where do I belong?" Kurn asked, his hand tightening about his empty cup. "A'lakoult!" The Khymerian sneered, "Where the white devils shall burn forever in the fires of their inequities." "Then why don't you send me there, you fatherless jackal-raper!" As Kurn had intended, the Khymerian swelled at the insult and made to draw his curved sword. With lightning speed Kurn rose from his chair. In the same fluid motion, he slammed the earthenware mug into the side of the Khymerians head. The man tumbled forward, slamming into Kurn's battered table, already streaming blood from the gouge in his head. Kurn took the man's head in his hands and pummeled it into the table three staccato times before dropping the man's unconscious frame to the dirty floor. As the great cats of the frozen North turn upon their steel-carrying hunters, so Kurn, with the same untamed, primal ferocity, the same reckless disregard for greater numbers and greater arms, flung himself at his opponents with a wild rage. Coming in low, the Vatkyan's fist slammed into his opponent's stomach, crumpling the man about the iron appendage. Kurn followed through with a nasty left that caught the Khymerian's outthrust jaw and rocked the man's head back violently. Another right sent the Khymerian to join his fellow on the ground in a bloody heap. Even as his companion fell, the last Khymerian struck. He was deceptively fast for one of his build, and his blow took Kurn full on the face. Kurn staggered under the blow, but easily recovered, a true son of icy Vatkya. The Khymerian struck again, but hit only air as Kurn weaved under the blow and shot up with a right of his own. Kurn's fist met with the man's aquiline nose, and Kurn felt the cartilage give. The Khymerian screamed in pain, clutching his broken, bloody face. Before Kurn could deliver another blow, a voice rang out behind him. Kurn spun and saw the occupants of the tavern standing, ready to lynch and rend the white devil who'd nearly killed three of their own. The voice rang out again, and the mulling crowd parted to let the cups-man through. "You son of the Foul One," he cried, raising a large leather-wrapped club he'd taken from the back room. "Why did you come here seeking confrontation? If you wished to brawl, you should have stayed out in the street with the mangy dogs where you belong!" "I came here to drink, not for -" Kurn was cut off by the angry tones of the cups-man. "Profane not these walls with your lies! All your kind are alike: ill-tempered, stupid, foul-smelling and honorless. By the Seven Prophets, I knew from the first that you'd be trouble. I knew that I should have told you to be on your way - yet your gold was good. Curse my greed - no, curse your hide, you white devil!" Kurn felt like a cornered beast, with the mob of angry Khymerians staring at him. Kurn tightened his fists and readied himself for battle. Unarmed though he was, Kurn would meet Aros, God of death, upon his feet. The cups-man stroked the length of his club and took a step towards Kurn, but stopped when he saw the shadows of madness and death that swam beneath the green, transparent surface of the foreigner's eyes. The cups-man knew fear. If by nothing more than the sheer weight of their numbers, they would bring the white devil down. But before then, how many would he slay? Would I, the cups-man thought, fall too? The white devil was unarmed, but his eyes burned with the brutal fury of the primitive who knows no weapons and needs no weapons, the primitive who clawed his way up from the primordial muck of Creation and warred with inhuman things for the dominion of the earth eons before. That soul, that light, burned in the foreigner's eyes, and though the cups-man knew not what the light mean, he saw it, and was afraid. The cups-man fell back and loosened his grip on his club. "Out!" He cried, his voice wavering with his fear. "Get out of here you vile miscreant, and leave Khymeria! Flee to your accursed West and come no more to the land of the Seven Prophets." Though Kurn heard the man's words, he disbelieved them. The Khymerians were a hateful race, ill-inclined to mercy. "Get, you." The cups-man shouted, his face growing in strength the longer he was free of the white devil's terrible gaze. "Leave before I change my mind and let this mob have you!" Kurn felt a great weight lift from his bosom; it was the weight of his own mortality. He stepped over the writhing bodies and prepared to leave. The men at the head of the mob stayed where they were however, refusing Kurn passage. "I have said that he may leave." The cups-man reminded them. "But look at what he has done to -" "Aye," the cups-man interrupted hotly. "They are my friends, but I have granted this man his life, so long as he leaves now." "But -" "But, no. This is my house, and I am master here. You will do as I have said, else I shall use this upon you!" With that, the cups-man hefted his club ominously. Grumbling bitterly, the men at the head of the mob parted - though only enough that Kurn had to force his way through - and the rest did likewise. Past the mob, Kurn rushed out into the warm, sultry Khymerian night. With the white devil gone, the cups-man exhaled audibly. "Why, Kahlil, why did you let that soulless creature go?" One of the men at the head of the mob asked, reflecting the thoughts of everyone gathered, including Kahlil. The cups-man turned and walked to the back room, mumbling to himself as well as to the querier, "I do not know, I rightly do not know." The desert sky over shining Khymeria was a sullen, gaudy jewels for stars stuck in a syrupy black morasse. As Kurn stalked the dark streets of the city their shadows seemed to enter his heart. The further his feet carried him from the drinking house, the greater his anger and frustration grew. There was no justice in the world: nothing good and right! It wasn't his fault that the drunken Khymerians had come to his table seeking a fight, or that he proved the more skilled combatant. It wasn't his fault that a group of zealots had conned some power-mad Kings into declaring a Crusade. By Hothar, there were a lot of things that weren't Kurn's fault, and yet, he always seemed to be paying the price for them. How he longed to return to Vatkya, to her hoary, frozen peaks, to her virgin, primeval forests, to her endless steppes and rocky coasts. Yet, that path was denied him too, for Kurn was an outlaw in the land of his birth, a man who would be hunted and slain like a beast should he but step foot on Vatkyan soil. Kurn the Jarl-slayer, they called him in the North; Kurn of the Red Hands. Kurn didn't regret killing the Jarl, even with its awful cost. Nay, given the chance he would squeeze the life from the bloated neck of the cruel tyrant again and again. he felt no sadness for spilling the man's blood, only remorse at what had befallen his family before the Jarl's slaying. For long and long had the Jarls of Mürna counted Kurn's family amongst it's greatest allies. Generations of Kurn's family had shed blood for the Jarls, had faired the treacherous coasts of Vatkya, Eirrin , and Denland for the Jarls, had tended the Jarls' land faithfully. Their service had well been repaid, too, until Jarl Harlodson came to power. Harlodson was a greedy, honorless lout who cared nothing for the traditions of his people and thought by right of his birth the world was due him. Harlodson sought Kurn's sister as his wife. The dowry he offered Kurn's father was not half of what such a girl was worth. Kurn's father, who cared for his daughter's happiness than the insulting dowry, refused Harlodson's offer. Harlodson had never been refused anything in his life, and so in anger the Jarl conspired against Kurn's father. Kurn's father, who was perhaps the most loyal man in all of Mürna, was found guilty of treachery and deceit and so was hanged for his crimes. All of his lands and properties were confiscated by Harlodson. The Jarl took and raped Kurn's sister as his rightful due and in despair, she tossed herself into the sea, whence she was dashed upon the angry rocks of the coast. When Kurn returned from a viking raid and found what had befallen his family, he swore vengeance against the Jarl. By the dark of the moon, the warrior breached the Jarl's fastness and slew the tyrant with his bare hands, choking the life from him slowly and agonizingly. Kurn fled before the sun rose and boarded a trading vessel headed for the south. Five years had passed since then and a hundred score more would have to be swallowed by the Three Sisters of Time before Kurn could return to his beloved homeland. Kurn swore into the dark of night, damning the Gods of fate, the Gods of the World, and the souls of all the hateful bastards he had encountered during his grief-fraught life. Something in the dark, desert night heard him. It wasn't a God or a Demon, though it served both. After a time, Kurn heard the soft, shuffling sounds of pursuit. Occasionally the Vatkyan met others upon the dark streets: turbaned, saturnine men who scowled bleakly at the foreigner, or mendicants clothed in rags and filth who noisily begged for charity. Long after Kurn passed these desperate souls by he could still hear his stealthily follower. More than once Kurn looked over his shoulder only to glimpse a shadow of movement as someone - or something - ducked behind a corner or into an open doorway. Kurn would continue, and before long the muffled sounds of pursuit could be heard again. After about a half hour of this, Kurn turned off the street and ducked into an alleyway to wait for his pursuer. Sure enough, about a dozen steps behind him came a wizened old man in dusty, tattered black robes, with a thin fall of silver hair and a matted beard. As the old man passed the alley, Kurn leapt out and took him by the throat and shoulder. "Speak true: why have you been following me?" Kurn demanded. "I-I saw what happened at Kahlil's." The old man gasped. "And you came to punish the white devil for his inequities, eh?" Kurn snarled, tightening his vice-like grip about the old man's throat. He sputtered and choked until Kurn loosened his grip. "Gah, gah - I ... I ... meant you - choke - no ill-will. I sought only - choke - your company, and wondered if you would - choke - share a drink with me." "What?" Kurn asked, letting the man go in surprise. The old man rubbed his throat tenderly, and then sputtered, "It's the truth, by the Elder Names of the Gods, I swear it!" "Then why the deception? Why did you hide and duck around corners when I looked your way?" "You were wroth," the old man explained, stepping back from the Northern giant. "You needed to let the fires of anger, stoked by those simple-minded fools at the tavern, burn down. Had I approached you then, you would have seen my dark skin, thought me one of them. and thrashed me fiercely. Nay, 'twas better to hide and wait in the succoring shadows before approaching you." "And how do you know that I won't smite you yet?" The old man looked at Kurn then, his tiny rat-like eyes boring into the frosted jade of Kurn's. There were shadows in the old man's eyes, shadows of secrets and hard-won truths the likes of which scar the mortal soul. The old man stared at him and iron-willed Kurn, Kurn of the Red Hands and animal's soul, looked away. "Nay, I don't think you'll strike me Kurn, not now, anyway." "Tell me, old one - how is it that you know my name when we have never before met!" The warrior demanded, anger quickly growing in his breast, anger and a chillness that felt uncomfortably like fear. "Every man's name is written upon his eyes, though few are they who can read the eldritch script." "Are you a wizard, then, old one?" "Aye, in the North I would be called wizard, though here in the land of the Seven Prophets I am abomination." "Abomination. Is that worse than 'white devil'?" "Oh yes, much worse. You shall be consigned to the flames of A'lakoult because you are not a faithful Believer of the Prophets. I shall be consigned there because the Prophets hate my kind." "What is the difference, if we end up in the same place?" "A lot." The old man smiled, a world of bitterness and anger revealed in the gesture. "To hell with all their Prophets and their infantile hatreds, I have my own Gods!" "I too, cha'haul, I too." "So what was that about a drink?" Kurn asked, finding himself rather liking the tiny old man. "I would share a amphora of Doric with you, cha'haul, as we are to share A'lakoult, should those simple-minded fools have their way. "Doric? That's practically Vatkyan. Lead on, old man, lead on!" The old man, whose name Kurn had yet to learn, led the Northern warrior through the stygian bowels of Khymeria. Down little-tred allies and across forgotten paths, through rubble that once had stood as ancient towers, and along shadowed, secretive lanes the old man led Kurn, winding and weaving through parts of Khymeria Kurn had never thought existed, doubling back upon their path once, twice, perhaps even three times to make sure that they weren't being followed. Or, the Northerner thought with growing suspicion, so that Kurn would not be able to find his way out again. With that thought firmly planted in his brain, Kurn abruptly stopped. The old man paused and then came back to him, saying, "Tarry not, we're almost there." "And just where exactly, "Kurn demanded, folding his massive arms over his barrel chest, "are we headed, old one?" "As I told you, cha'haul, we are headed to my humble abode." "Then why the long route? I swear I've seen that same one-legged beggar three times already this evening. Valla, I don't want to see him again!" "Then stop looking, cha'haul, and stop complaining. We shall be there soon enough." Kurn grumbled, but continued, his thoughts turning from treachery and subterfuge to Doric wine and his mighty thirst, as if by magic. Valla, it had been a long time since Kurn had last drunk a good Northern wine, almost as long as his Vatkyan exile. The drinks of the East were cloying and sweet, or so watered down that one might as well quaff a skin of water. Truly the dark-skin men had not the brew-masters touch. Fanatical religion, ethnic hatred, mounted combat - these were where they excelled, but when it came to strong drinks, that art was better left to the ale-houses and reclusive Monks of the North! Before long the old man stopped outside a decrepit building on the outskirts of town and announced that they had reached their goal. Kurn scrutinized the building closely. It looked as if once, long ago, it had been a great manor-house, but like its neighbors and like the old man himself, the building had definitely seen better days. Its upper level had collapsed and its facade was bleached a startling white by the desert sun and bitter winds of the East. Its sole remaining window was boarded up to keep out the harsh sun and trespassing miscreants, though its door was busted open, disgorging a vile mass of rubbage the stench of which assailed Kurn's nostrils, for the stench was that of death and dying things. "This is where you live?" Kurn asked dubiously. "Nay," the old man replied with a laugh. "It has been a long time since living thing dwelt here. Even the mendicants shun this place." "Then why have your brought me here?" Kurn demanded in growing fear. "Once this place was the abode of a powerful necromancer whose knowledge of the Forbidden Arts was great. Upon this place he called down forces from Beyond and bade them do his will. The Necromancer all but ruled Khymeria as its king, and in time he did suffer the fate of kings. The people of Khymeria feared the Necromancer and as it is wont to do, their fear grew into hatred. They rose up and threw down the Impostor King, for those his power was indeed great, he was still subject to the laws of the flesh. In the years and centuries that passed this place which ran red with the blood of the Necromancer's victims, became taboo. No one set foot in here, no one so much as passed this place without feeling a sense of dread, a chill deep in their bones." Kurn knew the truth of the old man's words. Even now, he felt an icy finger tracing his spine. "Some say that the ghost of the Necromancer still walks this decrepit abode. They are wrong, of course. No wizard's shade walks these dusty halls, 'tis just I." "By Valla, why on earth would you want to go in there? The smell alone ...." "It's not so bad, farther on. And besides, it is the Necromancer's basement that I haunt." "Again I say, why?" "Khymeria is a noisy, blustering place. The Necromancer's home is quiet and redolent times long past. In Khymeria I am hated and constantly scorned because mine is the craft of the wise. Here there is no one save myself and the things that crawl through the dark: and they care for naught." "Then, old one, why have you brought me here to dispel you quiet and solitude?" "You, Kurn, you are not as other men. You are special: inside of you burns strong the primal flame which other seek to extinguish. Like calls to like, Kurn: we are two culled from the same source." "I know nothing of arcane manners. My world is the shining sword and the warmth of blood; the passion of battle and the lust of a ready woman." "There is magic in battle and death and lust, Kurn, high magic indeed!" The old man laughed, an odd, humorless sound. "Come, let us go down stairs, whence that amphora of Doric I promised you waits." Though Kurn was reticent of entering the crumbling abode, the thought of Northern wine compelled his limbs forward, and he followed the old man inside, stepping carefully over the rotting garbage at the entrance. Though the ceiling had caved in, letting in the light of the stars, darkness reigned over the crumbling ruin. Darkness that was thick and tangible, darkness that hung about Kurn like a smothering mantle. With familiarity the old man wove a path through the treacherous darkness and filth, walked the full length of the once great manor-house, over the ruin of ceiling and upper level to an area clear of refuse. Even though Kurn's eyes had yet to accustom themselves fully to the darkness, he guessed that they had approached their destination when the old man knelt and began to fidget with something. There was the sound of flame being drawn from flint and then a tiny halo of yellow clung about the old man's hand. The old man picked up a dry piece of timber, tore some cloth from his garment, and wrapped it around the stick's end, creating a makeshift torch, which he lit from his own. "Here," the old man said, as he offered the taper to Kurn. "Thus should make our descent easier." Gratefully Kurn accepted the taper, the weight of unseen eyes and black presences vanishing with the light. "Kurn, would you aid me with this trap-door?" The old man asked, lowering his taper so that its light fell upon a leather latch on the floor. "Aye," Kurn agreed, kneeling down beside the old man. Kurn grasped the old, age-toughened leather, and lifted. Though the door was not light, it proved surprisingly easy for the Northerner to open, as if it had frequently, and perhaps even recently, been in use. Ancient, stale air wafted up from the cellar, dry air, cold air, air that brought Kurn's mind dark thoughts of forgotten tombs and their mouldering inhabitants. "Valla and Hothar, this wine better be worth all the effort you've put me through, old man, else I shall be inclined to repay your deception with blows." "Worry not, my hot-tempered friend. This night shall end in wondrous things." The old man cackled at his words, the peal of his laughter echoing into the gaping doorway and the dark. "Come, Kurn," the old man spoke abruptly. "We waist our time here." The old man stood, and began his descent. After a pause, Kurn followed. The Necromancer's cellar was wide and empty save for a stone altar upon which Kurn sat, black candles which the old man lit against the dark, and assorted debris which littered the floor. The five candles, placed in a rough circle around the stone altar, bathed the chamber in a hazy, ethereal glow that cast strange and flickering shadows against the smooth, black walls of the cellar. Kurn watched the queer shadows dance, mesmerized by the phantasmagoric pageantry. If he stared long enough, hard enough, he could almost make out distinct shapes in the shadows. That one there, it almost looked like a woman, no, a panther keenly stalking some forest prey, now it was .... was ..... With his free hand Kurn pushed sweaty hair from his face. Kurn's other hand held the half-empty amphora of Doric by its long, slender neck. "O-old one. Why am I s-so .... so blasted hot? I-I feel like I-I'm in H-H-Hathor's Pit, for Valla's sake. I-I'm burning up ....." "It's all in your brain, Kurn. Drink some more wine, it'll straighten you out." Kurn tried to lift the amphora to his painfully dry lips, but found that he couldn't. His arms felt like they were encased in lead and impossibly heavy. "I'm so damned tired." Kurn mumbled, or did he just think the words? Uncertain, Kurn repeated his statement, carefully pronouncing each word. "Just a little longer," the old man assured him, taking the amphora from Kurn's nerveless fingers. "A little more, and then you can sleep, aye, sleep long." The old man brought the flask up to Kurn's mouth and tilted it back. Rich red fluid poured over Kurn's lips, passed his teeth, and down his throat. Kurn sputtered and choked and coughed up the draught of wine, which spilled all down his already sodden front and onto the old man's stained robes. Blindly Kurn's hands flailed out, knocking the amphora from the old man's grip. Glass shattered as the amphora hit the ground, spilling its crimson content onto the hard dirt floor. "N-no no more .... so tired, weak ..." Kurn managed, the words almost impossible now to get out. "Here Kurn, lie down. Close your eyes. It will soon be over." "D-don't want to -" "Nonsense." The old man said, pushing Kurn back. The world seemed to spin as he reclined, seemed to spin and throb and pulsate with the shadow-casting candles. The world was a womb - warm, moist, without any sense of direction or form or substance or .... Kurn tried to get up, but failed. The old man's hand was on his chest and somehow - in some way that Kurn's dizzy, confused brain couldn't understand - it kept him down. "Close your eyes." The old man commanded. those words echoed through the chamber, echoed through Kurn's head, bouncing off the walls, off the altar, off the ceiling. They slammed into Kurn, pummeled him from above, from below, from all sides. As the words echoed and reechoed their composite sounds seemed to separate themselves from their natural place and reform themselves, reshape themselves until it had all come together into one sound, one great and powerful sound that made no sense, yet the weight of which forced Kurn's eyes to close. They opened one more time. And then he was dead.
The old man examined Kurn's lifeless body with awe. There should have been enough poison in the wine to drop a man of Kurn's size and build after three hearty draughts, yet the Northern barbarian had quaffed nearly half the amphora before it had really had any effect on him. It mazed the mind and defied all logic, yet it had happened, and Kurn was dead. Finally. The thought came to him: what if Kurn had suspected something and sought vengeance? How could he have stopped such a man, a veritable iron man? Could he even have? The old man still had a task to perform and could not waste his time in idle thought. He drew a small dagger from the folds of his robe and went to work on the clothes that bound Kurn's frame. Before long the giant Northerner lay on the stone altar completely naked, crimson wine glistening in the tawny curls that covered his chest. Next the old man sheared Kurn's thick locks, tossing the discarded hair on the pile of rags which had been his clothing. When Kurn's pate was bald as a Khymerian's, or almost so, as the old man's blade was dull and did a sloppy job of it, the old man returned the blade to its hidden sheath and collected the mass of rags and hair. These items the old man discarded in a far corner. He then collected a ceremonial blade - longer and more intricately wrought than the one he had used to hack off the Northerner's hair - and a large silver goblet tarnished black with age and ill-use. These he held with reverence and awe as he carried them over to the altar. The old man then began to chant, his angry, discordant words culled from a tongue long forgotten by men, a tongue that rang with a dark and unholy power. The flames of the five black candles seemed to recoil at the sound of the chant, flickering and guttering though no breeze blew in the dark cellar to cause them to perform in such a manner. The old man placed the wide-mouthed goblet down on the altar beside the body of Kurn and his strange chanting came to an end. For the next portion of his task, silence must reign supreme in the dark abode - including silence of the mind - for until he had lifted the barbarian's heart from his chest, a bond existed between this world and the next, and the vengeful spirit of Kurn might be drawn back, by even the slightest noise. The old man held the shining, jewel-crusted knife over the body, his hands trembling with anticipation. The old man fought that anticipation, for it is a lesson every wizard must learn well - the importance of performing a ritual carefully, correctly, without the distraction of errant thoughts. Slowly the blade descended until it touched Kurn's abdomen. The sharpness of the blade parted flesh and a crimson wash spilled over. A finger's width of blade and then four disappeared within Kurn as the ceremonial dagger slit him up to his chest, stopping as it grated on the hard bone of his ribcage. The old man withdrew the dagger and touched the blade reverently to his thin lips, smiled into the dark, and then plunged the dagger back into Kurn's chest with all the force he could muster behind the blow. Ribs gave beneath the blow, crushing audibly. The old man wrenched the dagger out and placed it on the altar beside the silver chalice. With bare hand, the old man dug the black muscle of Kurn's heart from the bloody ruin of his chest. Clutching it triumphantly, he held it high above his head. He intoned words in that long forgotten tongue, sinister blasphemies that caused the candles to gutter. Then his fist clamped shut about the heart, crushing it. Flinging bits of gore from his hand, the old man took up the silver chalice and caught the spill of crimson that seeped from the ruin of Kurn's body. When the red liquid filled the cup the old man walked the circle of candles, letting the blood spill to form a True Circle, a place for conjuring. At each of the five candles, which represented the four cardinal directions, and their elemental guardians, plus the Door to A'lakoult, Abode of spirits which unites the four, he paused and spoke a prayer in the ancient tongue. When he had finished creating the Circle, he took a step back, held the chalice aloft, and spoke: "Hear my words O ye Vile Spirits, O ye Watchers of the Four Infernal Gates and the Formless Abyss, hear me and hearken for I am Fasil ibn'Alhazred, thy Master! "With the blood of the salt-eating White Lamb have I Cast this Circle, by the blood of thy favorite food and by the Power granted me by He who Walks in Shadows have I cast this Circle of Power and Protection! "This Circle is but blood on stone here, but in the dark of the Abyss is doth shine with Vibrant Flame, a beacon to guide thee Elok, Tokal, Eru, Surat, and Kothar, aye to guide thee from thy Hidden and Lofty Abodes to this ancient ruin, that thou may'st do my Bidding! "Heareth my words, O spirits that I call, heareth my words and hearken, in the Names of the Great and Terrible Ones, heareth and hearken!" As the old man's words became louder the flames of the five candles began to grow until each stood over a foot in length, guttering and spitting with demonic life. Sounds like thunder clapping and the screech of birds resounded through the dark of the room as the old man's words rent the Veil between the Worlds. Black flame traced the circle he had cast and rose from the chalice he gripped above his head. "Thy flames art Life; Blood is Life. I quaff both! Ayeeeeeiiiiiiiia!" With that cry the old man brought the flaming cup to his lips and drank deeply of it. The black flame did him no harm, for he was one with Darkness that he had Called, he was Fasil ibn'Alhazred, the great-grandson of the Necromancer of Khymeria, who in years passed had invoked the very same Forces upon this spot, and upon this spot shed blood in the very same rituals. When he had drunk in full the blood of Kurn he cast aside the silver chalice and threw up his arms. "O spirits of the Veil and Shadow, appear, appear! Tale up residence in this unbaptized vessel which I have provided for thee. Appear, appear in the Name of the Goat Who Walks on Two Legs, appear - for this is my commandment!" The flames began to spin around their candle-wicks, spinning against the sun. The sounds of thunder and bird-cry increased until the old man was almost deafened by it. The old man felt the shadows darken and take on a presence - an angry and ancient presence. The shadows seemed to press upon him from all sides, shadows hungry for the vital spark of his life. And then all stopped. The sounds ceased. The flames blew out. Fasil ibn'Alhazred was alone. And then he was not. They eyes of the body on the altar opened - eyes of red flame - and it sat up. For a moment the animated body and the old man remained there, each meeting the gaze of the other, surrounded by darkness, separated by a Circle of blood and magic. Then the corpse spoke, its voice cold and distant and undeniably inhuman. "Why have you called me from the Abyss?" "In ages past your kind aided my great-grandfather, who was called the Necromancer of Khymeria. As his blood flows through my veins, I have inherited the legacy of his powers. Now I seek that which is mine by birth - a pact with your kind, that you may serve me here on this plane." The demon laughed then - a sound like steel on steel and just as unhumorous as that. "I will not serve you, mortal, for I am no slave - but elanin!" "I have conjured thee, Spirit, by the Lord of the Shadows, I have conjured thee!" In a blinding flash, the room was bathed in light. "Foolish mortal - you did naught but open the Doorway! I came through of my own volition." "Nay, nay! I conjured thee and once conjured, thou must do my budding - else I shall consign thee to flaming A'lakoult!" The demon stood and smiled. "Doddering fool - you shall do no such thing." Never in all his years had Fasil ibn'Alhazred felt such fear. "Go no further, spirit, or I shall speak the True Name of God! Aye, I shall tell it to you!" "Go ahead." The old man spoke it the, the ancient and forgotten True Name of God, and the demon stood there, smiling his cold and inhuman smile. "How is this?" Fasil cried, falling back. "How can you not tremble before God's True Name?" The demon continued forward and easily stepped over the blood-cast circle. Fasil dropped to the ground, crying and shaking. "How? How?" he repeated. "I am Ouriel of the elanin, a race of demons who existed long before your pitiful Watchers and shadow-treading God came into existence. Your magic, which was created long after us, has no affect upon one of my breed. For your error in calling me, you die." And with that, the demon fell upon Fasil ibn'Alhazred. The claws of razor-sharpness which sprang from his human hands tore out Fasil's throat in a meaty, red spray. When he had finished it was difficult to tell what the ruinous corpse had been, for it bore no semblance to Fasil. Panting in his bloodlust the demon stalked back to the bloody circle, only to find it no longer there. The drying crimson was there, yes, but it was no longer a Circle. With the wizard's death, the Gate Between the Worlds had closed, trapping Ouriel here. The demon dropped to his knees and threw all of his arcane power into prying the Door open, but to no avail. The elannin were a warrior-race - not a magical one, and even his minimal powers were diminished in this human shell. He was, indeed, trapped here, with no way to return to his abyssal home. No. "Nooooooo!" Ouriel cried, his hands tightened into fists. Blood welled up in his hands as his claws tore at his mortal frame. In a blind rage he leapt up and attacked the altar. All of his demoniac fury went into his attack, blow after blow landing upon the ancient stone altar until it began to crack and finally gave under the titanic assault. Animal cries tore themselves from his throat as he stalked about the room, knocking over the five black candles and destroying everything that lay in his path. When there was nothing left for Ouriel to destroy he fell to the ground and howled his rage and torment. Eventually his human throat wearied of the keen and the red mist of rage passed from his inhuman, cat-like eyes. Ouriel stood and clothed his naked frame in the bloody rags of the wizard's robes. Somewhere out there he would find other wizards, wizards perhaps who had the knowledge to send him home. Ouriel would seek them out, no matter how far the journey, or where it led him. With that resolve in his breast, Ouriel left the decrepit abode and wandered in the direction of the rising sun. And so came the one called Ouriel into the world of
mortals. |
