Ravenfell Chronicles: Origins

by Brand J. Alexander

  “Araxxis, I have come seeking your gift,” he demanded as he thwarted the queen’s first assault.

  The spider queen clicked with irritation and sent another stream of webbing at the intruder, but he scorched the substance midair with Hellfire.

  “I’m not sure she is in a very giving mood,” the raven announced as he returned to Beaumont’s shoulder from the shadows.

  “Then I will just have to take it,” Beaumont declared.

  The raven was right. There was a certain thrill to facing off against unknown dangers. Each new threat was a chance to test the skills mastered over a lifetime. Though he didn’t come prepared to face off against a demonic spider queen, his training had given him the tools he needed. Now he just had to prove himself smart and fast enough to use them adeptly.

  Beaumont still wasn’t certain what the gift was or how to coerce her to give it. The witchdoctors weren’t particularly upfront about that. Although, she didn’t seem like the type of creature that could be negotiated with. His only choice was to force her to submit.

  Her brood seemed particularly vulnerable to his flames, so Beaumont raised a small wave of Hellfire to clear a path towards the queen. He only used a trickle of corruption to maintain the blaze, expanding its reach with every step. If she was really attached to her progeny, perhaps that would be enough.

  The spider queen raged at his offense but did not move from her throne as he seared a path through her children. She spewed her webbing in great gouts, forcing him to expel more corruption to burn them from the air, but beyond that, she displayed limited resistance. Perhaps, the beast was unprepared for a powerful warlock, Beaumont reasoned.

  “If your children mean so little to you, then perhaps you will give up this gift for your own life,” Beaumont challenged. He continued his approach, driving his wall of Hellfire before him, ever closer to the egg sac covered trees.

  Araxxis grew more frenzied as the warlock closed with her. She focused her spewing webs upon the small wave of Hellfire, smothering it in vomitous blasts. As the flames died, her horde of stealthy children attacked. They came from the ground and the trees above in a constant surge, drawing Beaumont’s Hellfire in nearly every direction away from his frontal assault.

  Though Hellfire was Beaumont’s earliest mastery, it still required a great deal of corruption to use in such a fashion. Maintaining the flames in a single form like a wall sapped a lot less energy than igniting new flames in random directions in an instant. Every spark he cast drained his well faster, and he knew that when he ran out, he would be swarmed.

  Though the spiders’ venom could refill his Well of Corruption, Beaumont wasn’t sure how much he could handle physically. Even with his mastery neutralizing the venom, the bites had still left significant necrosis of the flesh. It would take weeks of Hildey’s salves and poultices to restore his hand sufficiently.

  Time was running out, but Beaumont was getting better at adapting mid-catastrophe. He had more than just Hellfire at his command. He just needed to redirect his resources.

  If the beast was truly demonic, then there was a fair chance that an Overlord’s command could work on her. If it could work on the crazed mind of a Mawgrithe, there was no reason he couldn’t figure out how to overwhelm the mind of a spider.

  “Try to keep them off me,” Beaumont announced.

  “Without the veil, there is little I can do,” the raven croaked.

  “Then, eat anything that gets through the flames.”

  Beaumont called up a revolving wall of Hellfire to shield them, fueling it with a thin trickle of corruption, then he summoned his Overlord mastery and propelled his mind into that of the queen.

  For a demonic mind, Araxxis was surprisingly refined. It was not the maddened rage of a Mawgrithe or the vile mischief of an imp. The spider queen’s corruption was like a finely woven web, delicate and intricate, and intended to bring death.

  Araxxis was not a rampaging beast. She was the mother of death. Her mind was directed towards tending new generations of her kind; each one better evolved to kill and spread her corruption. But she was more than a mother, Beaumont realized in horror.

  The spider queen was aptly named. For in her quest to breed a better generation of lethal offspring, she had achieved a hivemind with her brood. There were millions of minds all connected to the queen, and each of them sensed the danger Beaumont posed to their mother and responded.

  Beaumont had overcome numerous threats while mastering demons, but he never faced so many minds at once. He fought the urge to retreat back into his mind. There was no other way. He had to overwhelm the queen for this to end, and he had to do it before his corruption ran out.

  He directed his Overlord mastery across the smaller minds in a blanket to suppress them, but there were too many to handle all at once. As he worked to neutralize them, he kept his focus on the larger presence of the queen. Strangely, she remained calm through it all as if merely waiting.

  But waiting for what, his mind screamed in warning.

  Beaumont sensed the second large presence hidden among the minds of the queen’s offspring too late. It was behind him and close.

  He heard the frantic cries of the raven as his mind returned to his body. He tried to respond, but a searing pain like two molten daggers thrust into his back, and venom flooded through him. His Well of Corruption roared to overflowing with demonic essence while his body and soul withered faster than he could respond.

  “The Spider Queen never eats alone,” a mad voice called from the enveloping darkness.

  “A consort shares her web.”

  “Aranax. Aranax. Aranax,” they chanted and cheered.

  Chapter 9:

  Death Mask

  Beaumont abandoned any hope of salvaging his body. Aranax’s venom moved too quickly through flesh, and his warlock resistance wasn’t strong enough to stop it. His only hope now was to protect his spirit from the corruption. His entire existence was at stake if he failed.

  Beaumont instinctively reinforced his essence against the onslaught, but the venom burned through his defenses like acid. It was like no demon essence he’d faced. His only chance was to flee.

  He threw up barriers as he went, fragments of himself sacrificed to its hunger, but the venom devoured them all, and there was only so far that he could retreat within himself. He was trapped, and there was no way to escape the venom’s spread.

  His efforts only slowed the progress by mere moments. Then a second assault began within him. Something tugged violently, attempting to drag his soul free from his flesh. Had death come for him at last?

  “Let go!” he heard the raven cry.

  Let go of what, he thought. He had lost the ability to speak moments after the venom withered his lips, so there was no way to ask. Perhaps the Raven King could stand to watch his suffering no longer and was telling him to give in to death and pass on. Yet Beaumont refused to let go so easily. He would fight until the end.

  “Let go of your body, you fool. I’m trying to save you.”

  Everything about being a warlock required fighting for control. Every ounce of power was a struggle to contain and command. So, giving in to the raven’s insistence went against Beaumont’s entire experience. It felt too much like death to truly be salvation. Yet, he had no choice but to trust the raven.

  Beaumont let go, unclasping the tendrils of existence that bound him to his corporeal form, and once more, he felt the raven’s wings lifting him from the darkness. His spirit departed his withered husk and rose above the scene of his demise within the lair of the spider queen.

  He was standing once more with the raven upon his shoulder, though he was nothing more than a spirit now. The clutch of the raven’s claws somehow held him bound between states of existence.

  “Am I dead?” Beaumont asked.

  “Just short of it,” the raven admitted. “I hold you tethered to your body through the Raven’s Fel in your blood.”

  “How is that even possible?” he asked.


  “Yes, raven, tell the warlock how you hold his soul,” the weaver’s voice echoed around them.

  “The raven soul of Ravenfell,” the drummer chanted.

  “What do they mean?” Beaumont demanded, but he was beginning to sense the truth of it even as he asked. “What have you done to me, raven? Why do I feel your essence entwined to my own?”

  “It was necessary to shield you from the Guardians. To hide your fragment of death when you opened yourself to it. The veil between worlds is part of me. To stop them from dragging your soul through, I had to merge a piece of my essence with yours. We are now bound spiritually. At least, as long as I must hide you.”

  “This is a violation,” Beaumont raged.

  “You already carry the gift of the Raven’s Fel in your blood. Now it blesses your soul as well. Unless you would prefer that I let the Guardians take you? Or the spider queen, perhaps. She still looks hungry.”

  “The queen has already eaten well from your gift,” the weaver’s voice called from nearby.

  “A feast of death,” the drummer chanted.

  The two witchdoctors shambled into the queen’s lair, appearing through the web-draped haze. The Spirit Weaver held his serpentine staff aloft, casting the red glow of its crystal headpiece across the skittering occupants, while Death’s Drummer followed behind, dragging something through the underbrush.

  “You fiends,” Beaumont snarled at the newcomers. “There never was a mask, was there? It was all a trap.”

  “I warned you they were not to be trusted,” the raven offered.

  “Shut your beak, raven. I don’t trust you either. Not after you violated my spirit.”

  “Saved you,” the raven uttered before snapping his beak closed dramatically.

  “Trap? You requested her gift,” the spirit weaver replied.

  “A gift she has given,” the drummer crooned.

  “Your queen offered nothing but death,” Beaumont countered.

  “Precisely,” the weaver hissed.

  “Mask a life in its death.”

  “Do you enjoy your feast, my queen?” the weaver asked as he patted the overgrown spider on the head. She was currently being preened by her slightly smaller consort.

  “I will not let her defile my body any further,” Beaumont stepped forward defensively, though he wasn’t sure what sort of fight he could put up in such a state.

  “She does not want your body, warlock. She only desired to taste your death.”

  “A sip from your passing.” The drummer cackled.

  “Every death releases energy,” the weaver explained as he approached Beaumont’s corpse. “Most remains intact as the spirit.” He nodded to the warlock’s ghost. “But there is a residue left behind, more powerful depending on the tragedy of demise, that emanates from death even after the spirit has departed.”

  With a wave of his staff, the weaver revealed the elusive residual energy around the body. It hovered like a thick haze across the still form and seeped in tendrils over the surrounding earth. A small stream of the essence flowed in sipping strands to feed the queen and her mate.

  “Not too much, my dear,” the weaver cautioned his pet. “We still need some for the mask.”

  The whole time the weaver talked, Death’s Drummer was meticulously dismembering the bloated corpse he had dragged into the clearing. He removed the organs one at a time, draining their fluids into an old blood clotted crockery. When finished with the vile infusion, he skinned the victim with carefully practiced slices.

  “I demand to know what you’re doing,” Beaumont insisted as he stepped forward. He could barely look at the shriveled remnants of himself. The skin was grey and lifeless, and his features were locked in a horrific paralyzed agony. It was hardly recognizable. Yet he could perceive a few familiar qualities even beneath the guise of death, and it chilled him.

  “Silly spirit,” the weaver croaked with amusement. “You are in our world now. A world where the spirits heed our command.” The gemstone glowed even more fiercely, and Beaumont felt himself bound in place by ethereal tendrils.

  “A mask you desire. A mask you shall have.” As he spoke, Death’s Drummer deposited the peeled layer of flesh across the shriveled face of Beaumont’s corpse and began to smooth it out, shaping it to the grotesque features. Then he upended the thick chunky contents of the crockery across the skin in a viscous stream and smeared it in with his hands.

  As he massaged the lifeless flesh, he glared up at Beaumont and smiled a dead toothy grin as if daring the warlock to stop him.

  “Now, to weave the essence of your death into your guise.”

  The weaver tapped his staff, and the haze around the body funneled upward along the shaft forming in his open hand. He leaned down and traced his fingers across the putrid defilement, infusing the misty essence into the form. The power fused with the flesh merging the entire mess of skin, goo, and haze into a single layer. When all had settled, the weaver lifted the mask away from the face to reveal the agony of Beaumont’s final moments captured in the perfect replica.

  “This will hide your actions from the Guardians as long as you wear it.”

  “Masked by your death.”

  “That doesn’t do me very much good, considering I am already dead,” Beaumont snapped.

  The witchdoctors cackled amusedly.

  “In this realm, we decide death. The queen’s gift does not have to be permanent. Simply return to your flesh.”

  “A draught to rose your cheeks?” the drummer asked as he prepared another concoction. Then he shambled over to Araxxis and coaxed her fang for a single drop of venom for his brew.

  “Only the queen can take back her gift,” the weaver offered as the drummer forcefully poured the mixture into the corpse’s mouth.

  Though Beaumont was separated from his body, he could taste the foul substance as it bubbled its way down his desiccated throat. It ignited a blaze of demon essence within his spiritual form as it filled his Well of Corruption. Clearly, he was more connected to his body than he thought.

  The venom’s effects slowly retreated from the flesh as a semblance of liveliness returned. Yet the body still appeared quite dead. The absence of a soul left Beaumont’s form empty and breathless.

  “How do I return?” he asked.

  “This is exactly what I feared when I agreed to Hildey’s ridiculous bargain,” the raven remarked. “What good is a Ravenfell who knows absolutely nothing about the ways of death?”

  “Then I need to learn,” Beaumont demanded. “Who better to teach me than the Raven King.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to violate your soul,” the raven chastised.

  “Show me how to return to the flesh.”

  “Let go,” the raven whispered in his ear.

  Beaumont closed his eyes and felt the wings of the raven carry him away. When he opened them again, he was once more within his body, staring up into the canopy of the spider queen’s jungle.

  He retrieved his dagger and stood to face the witchdoctors. Neither spoke a word as the Spirit Weaver held the mask out towards him. It wasn’t until he accepted the gruesome disguise that either broke the silence.

  “In death, there is a moment where a soul exists neither within flesh or the land of the dead. For that single moment, it is hidden from the eyes of both worlds.”

  “Not alive. But not quite dead.”

  “The mask shields you with that state extending the moment of your death for a while, at least.”

  “Masked by your death.”

  “Your staff can repel the Guardians. It turns their eyes from your life. But the mask hides your existence from both sides. While you wear it, you are neither living nor dead.”

  “I guess I should thank you for your assistance,” Beaumont replied. “Although, you did kill me.”

  Death’s Drummer laughed uproariously in response.

  “You fear these Guardians. It is why you hide like this,” Beaumont declared. The raven settled
upon his shoulder once more as he spoke. “Why not help me then. Your bargain with the raven only works if we restore my legacy. Help us cast down the Guardians as my ancestor Dorga once did.”

  “Curse Dorga. Dorga made this possible. These new Guardians never wanted the veil to be created, but they were overruled. Long have they plotted its unraveling. Dorga’s folly and the Raven’s Fel gave them their chance.”

  “They were warned. They were warned.” The rhythm of the drummer’s words grew fierce.

  “With our gifts, they wouldn’t even need that. They could unmake the veil and merge the worlds once more. So, we have hidden away since weaving it into reality. Keeping our secrets. Keeping it safe.”

  “They come for our secrets. They seek what we hide.”

  “Then join me and help us stop them. You won’t have to hide anymore,” Beaumont insisted.

  “What if you lose, Ravenfell? Death has nearly claimed you twice since you entered our realm. Death looks for you even now. The mask may hide you, but they will know when you face them. What will you do when your demon blood runs out then?”

  “Dead, dead warlock. What will you do?”

  “Ancient ones,” a deep threatening voice resounded through the jungle. Araxxis and her consort grew disturbed and skittered back into their tree, protectively over their clutches of eggs. “We thought we sensed your tricks, old ones. Are you helping that cowardly bird and his cursed progeny?”

  “We let our guard down. Quickly, summon the spirits while I reweave our world,” the Spirit Weaver called. The drummer hastily began a haunting beat, and the weaver’s staff lit up fiercely.

  “It’s time to try that mask out,” the raven warned. “And time for us to go.”

  Beaumont heeded the bird’s suggestion and felt the cold, clammy clutch of the mask tighten across his face. But he wasn’t yet ready to flee. The witchdoctors knew too much and apparently were important to whatever plan these Guardians were up to. He needed to see what happened.