Blackest Spells

by Phipps, C. T.

  Nearby, a couple turned over a dead calf over a spit. Fuck, that smells good.

  They went under a creaky wooden bridge, and beneath that, carved into the rock was a tunnel, leading deep into the mountain.

  “In there,” Samuel whispered. Unuch took the torch off the guard at the entrance.

  Inside, the corridors were pitch black stone, and dripping with mildew. They walked in silence for a while, Talmoc feeling the tunnel wind left and right, the flames licking the walls, tasting the dew.

  “The house is close by,” Unuch’s voice wavered slightly in the echoing path. “Alberich thinks it’s demon worship. Could it really be Jatar?”

  “Who knows?” Samuel shrugged. “Let’s just…let’s just get going.”

  They don’t speak of it, Talmoc thought. They fear him. They came to a halt at a heavy stone door carved in the right hand side. The tunnel continued onward for some time ahead, swallowed by darkness.

  “They lead into our crypts. Some say the body of Altnor himself lays in there. We can’t go in though, forbidden,” Samuel scratched the back of his neck with a free hand. “Shall we go?” He hesitated.

  “Craven. He’ll die by my hand,” Unuch snarled, panting for breath. The light flickered, showing his pustule-covered face, cheeks dripping in sweat. Unuch shoved his way into the room. Breathing deeply, Samuel followed him in.

  Slowly, Talmoc got used to the darkness. The room was small, and barren, nothing inside but a few rotting pieces of wood. The floor was cold stone drenched with a glutinous red fluid. Blood. Then they saw the bones, littered everywhere. Two skulls, pale yellow. Pieces of rotting flesh hung from the eye sockets.

  “Altnor preserve us!” They drew their swords. The door slammed shut, blocking their only means of escape.

  “No!” Unuch snarled, running to it and pushing on the door. It wouldn’t budge. Then somebody cackled from ahead. He wheeled round, wielding his blade. A discarded lamp rose suddenly into the air, hovering. With a beam of glowing light, it burst into flame, revealing a passageway.

  “Show yourself, madman! You die today!” Samuel brandished his sword.

  The voice. The same one as in Talmoc’s dreams. “Let us begin. Kill them. Crush them all!”

  Samuel uttered a low, feral moan, weak as a kitten, as Unuch spun round.

  “We need to get out of here!”

  Nightmare chanted in Talmoc’s grip, vibrating hard and glowing a violent purple. It had never reacted like this before.

  “Kill or die. Only the victor leaves this place alive. But what’s this? My blade?” The voice chanted, the giggle shrill and child-like, echoing ever deeper around them. Unuch let out a howl of rage, feral. Talmoc readied himself for a fight, but it never came. Unuch charged at Samuel.

  “It’s you!”

  Samuel didn’t even raise his weapon to defend himself. In a single stroke, Unuch’s sharp blade took off Samuel’s sword arm, sending both it and the sword flying in a wave of blood. Samuel fell to his knees with a scream, not even as Unuch turned round, recognition dawning across his bloodlust. Talmoc stayed calm. Unuch’s cold eyes hardened.

  “No. You’re the enemy!”

  Too late for you. Talmoc charged. “That was your mistake.” Nightmare slipped through the man’s open grasp and pierced his chest in a fluid movement. Two more quick stabs, and both men lay dead on the ground, blood pooling at their feet. So easy, Talmoc mused. Now how do I get out of here? He was still locked in.

  “I’ve come. I know you’re here. I’ve answered your call!” Only silence met his declaration. “Show yourself!” Talmoc screamed into the dark, spit flying from his mouth.

  Something on the floor scuttled. Unuch’s corpse floated into the air. His eyes, blank in death, burst into life. The man’s bowels loosened in death, the smell of shit rank in the dusty tomb. The corpse’s mouth tore open and began to speak.

  “Welcome Talmoc. It’s a shame I cannot see you face to face but I cannot manifest physically in this realm. This mortal will do. It has been long since I’ve seen such talent. Disposing of such honorable men. Delicious.”

  Talmoc stood his ground, aware of how dry his mouth was. Slowly, he lowered Nightmare. “The monks mentioned a madman.”

  “Oh yes, him,” The disembodied voice was bored. “I promised him power, but it seems I drove him mad with my visions. He died some time ago. He ripped out his own guts with his bare hands, poor thing. I made him think he was being possessed. Weakling.” The puppet threw its head back and laughed. “No loss. But you are different. And you wield my weapon too. Nightmare.” Uluc’s head lolled from side to side. “It has been a long time.”

  The pommel grew white hot. Talmoc dropped it, cursing, only for it to hover upright in front of him, glowing red. “This is yours?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said the bored voice. “The First Ones stole it from my vaults during the rebellion, right before they escaped. I’ve been watching you ever since you plucked it from its resting place.”

  “That was a long time ago.” Talmoc stared at the body. “Who are you?” The necromantic monk began to giggle.

  “Who am I? I am only a small prince amongst the Flame’s realm. But you can call me Jatar. The Scourge, I am called to some of you little sky-dwellers. Little nobles, I think that’s what you lot call yourselves in the land above. I…” The puppet convulsed, vomiting from its putrid mouth. The air stank with blood, so thick Talmoc nearly retched. “Heheh…you know the legends of creation of course?” It began to sing;

  “And the Octane of old, and new, called into the power of the Balance, and so the great Shadows of the world were thrown back, their blades and corruption receding, as the world breathed life again.”

  Talmoc felt his strength leave him. So it was all true. “There are more of you?”

  “Too many. Your realm should be ours, but we’re forbidden to enter it thanks to the powers of the First Ones. My brothers and sisters bicker endlessly on how to proceed. The fools.” Jatar’s sneer was cold and harsh. “The Flame does not care though, and neither do I. We are all his children. We will be one eventually. Time is nothing to us.”

  “I’ve had enough of your games.” He turned to leave, but the passageway was still blocked. “Let me out.”

  “You cannot bargain with me, Talmoc. Besides, I’m here to help you. This is what I desire. I want to see Alberich destroyed. I want to see his faith burn before his eyes, before he joins me, and swears off this Altnor forever. Can you do this?”

  Talmoc felt his lips twist into a sneer, almost controlled. “Very well. Since you give me no choice, I accept. How do I proceed?”

  “Lure him here. You will show him the true meaning of the word pain.” A creak of open rock scraping against stone, and light filtered into the room again. Talmoc was free. “Go. Find him. You’ll find a way, I’m sure. And Talmoc…do not betray me.”

  Talmoc fled the tunnel, heart hammering in his chest. The guard moved to join him, white.

  “What happened?”

  Talmoc grabbed his shirt. “They’re all dead!” He shook him. “It’s the Jatar…he’s killed them all. I only barely escaped…” He made his voice waver, feel the tears in his eyes. “We need Alberich! Your leader!” The guard was young, his face green with fear.

  “He’ll be at the inn. Come, we need to hurry!” Talmoc panted, injecting the fear into his voice. He wasn’t even faking it this time.

  The guard quickened his pace to match his. Bursting through the door of the inn, they found Alberich sitting alone, nursing a cup of wine. Talmoc hurtled towards the elder brother.

  “What happened? Where are the brothers?” Alberich’s eyes widened, stone melting.

  “It’s Jatar, or whatever his name. The madman attacked, killed Unuch and Samuel. I only just managed to kill him, then I heard the chanting…the terrifying chanting…” Talmoc paused. The demonstration of the things power made him sick. He pushed his honor aside. This is me or him. “I managed to break free, run
away, but it’s still down there. It was issuing a challenge. I heard its voice. It mentioned you by name, Alberich.” On his back, Nightmare stayed dormant.

  “Very well. The demon wishes to challenge me, I will face him.”

  “But sir-” the guard began, but Alberich bullied over him, grabbing a war staff from the corner.

  “You, you’ll come with me,” he ordered Talmoc, who nodded, eyes wide. “I shall purify that ruin in Altnor’s name.” He stalked out of the inn, and Talmoc followed. That was easy.

  The chamber was exactly the same as it was when Talmoc had left it, although Unuch’s corpse no longer floated. He lay still, drained and withered. It’s as though he’s been dead for weeks. The air was thick with dust, but heavy with something else, a foul presence. He’s here. Waiting. Alberich drew his staff to killing height. “Draw your weapon,” he said curtly.

  As predicted, the slab closed in on them, bringing them into darkness. Talmoc drew Nightmare. Still it lay dormant. Now, we shall see. He took deep breaths, waiting. Then he heard Jatar.

  “Ah yes, my adversary.” A flicker, and the room burst into light, their own torches snuffed out at the same time. Alberich stepped forward, whipping his warstaff around his fingers.

  “Jatar! You will leave this place.!” He took a step closer, then another.

  Talmoc didn’t see the spikes coming. He yelped and jumped aside as great bladed spikes came out of the floor with a grinding noise. Alberich responded only a second too late; his fingers grasped one of the spikes and came away bloody. Like an embalmed tomb, the spikes encircled Alberich, pinning him in place. He struggled to get to his feet, but the trap made it so he was forced to kneel.

  “What is this? I won’t be quelled by this, Jatar. I’ve defeated you before!”

  “Oh yes. But now I have a new power by my side.” Jatar cackled, and the bodies on the ground came back to life, rising into the air. Alberich’s mouth opened in a sob as the two fallen monks flanked him on each side. Talmoc took a step closer to the cage. Alberich’s eyes widened.

  “You!” The cage began to twist, the bars curling around Alberich’s arms to pin him in place. The path to him was open. “Fucking traitor!” His bare arms slowly turned red, the blood running down his body in rivulets.

  “It’s time for the breaking,” Jatar’s voice boomed. The corpse that was once Samuel limped slowly over to Talmoc, holding out a large, rusted club. Talmoc took it, the metal warm to the touch. It purred.

  “No … Samuel, what you doing? This is blasphemy!” Alberich moaned. He began to cry.

  “He can’t hear you, old man. Now Talmoc. Beat him.” Jatar commanded. The fire returned to Alberich’s eyes as Talmoc advanced, mace raised.

  “You’ll never defeat me! And you, when this is done, you will burn!”

  With a smile on his lips, Talmoc held the mace high above his head. Samuel and Unuch’s rotting eyes bulged, lips torn wide as they urged him on in Jatar’s voice.

  “I am your god now, Alberich.”

  The first blow collided into Alberich’s left shoulder with a sickening crunch: it exploded in a gout of pus and blood. Alberich screamed in pain, letting loose a barrage of abuse. The chanting grew louder around Talmoc, echoing.

  “Shatter his pulp!”

  “Excellent!” Jatar shouted above the man’s screams. “Again! Again. Destroy him.”

  “I will … never give in,” Alberich sobbed. The Elder Brother, reduced to a squalling infant. Talmoc readied another blow.

  Not his face. Not yet. Jatar’s voice was silky in his ear. Crush him. I know just the place.

  The second blow caught him between the legs. Alberich howled, blood flowing freely.

  Just as well the Altnor Order are celibate, Talmoc thought with a chuckle.

  Again and again the blows rained down, on his legs, his arms, his body. Bones snapped, hilt of white poking through his limbs, ribs tracked like snapped branches. Despite it all, Alberich was still alive. Finally, his face remained.

  “End it. Burst him like an orange. A blood orange.” Jatar jeered. Talmoc brought back his arm for the final swing. Alberich started crying, his voice faint.

  “No more … no more. I give. I submit to you.”

  “You offer me yourself?” Jatar demanded. His puppets repeated it, their voices hoarse in the flickering light.

  “Surrender. Surrender. Choose. Choose!”

  “Yes. I am yours … Master.” Alberich murmured pitifully. He’s broken.

  “End him.” Jatar sneered, dismissive. Talmoc readied for the final blow, staring into Alberich’s dead eyes. There was nothing left.

  “Excellent work, my champion,” Jatar murmured as Albernich slumped to the ground, his once handsome face now an unrecognizable pulp. The two reanimated brothers fell to the ground discarded.

  “You sound unimpressed,” Talmoc said shortly. He inspected the cudgel, smeared with blood and bits of brain. He threw it to the ground.

  “Not at all. People just bore me, and he was weak. But you did as bid. Your reward.” Suddenly, the exit cleared again.

  “You will have to fight to escape. The Order will fight to avenge their leader. They are coming.”

  It was only then Talmoc realized what was missing. Nightmare.

  “Here.” Jatar’s voice was soft.

  A sword appeared in front of Talmoc; one he knew well. Nightmare, in all its glory, but it was different, its blade shorter, thicker.

  “Take it.”

  As Talmoc’s fingers wrapped around the hilt, something heavy wrapped around his body. He was encased in obsidian black, heavy armour from head to toe, his gauntlets clamping into his skin. He gritted his teeth with the pain, great long talons bursting from his fingertips.

  “Nightmare, restored to its own glory. Your power is mine. Go into the world. Kill in my name, and your boon will be infinite,” Jatar crooned in his ear. Loud voices were coming from outside, panicked shouts.

  You brought them. You planned this. Talmoc should have been angry. Instead, he smiled. Inside his new skin his body began to burn. The price, he knew it. No matter.

  He had come this far, after all.

  About Our Authors

  Michael R. Baker studied history at the University of Sunderland, and it only took five years for him to find a use for his degree. Alongside his passion for storytelling and worldbuilding, Michael is a video game writer by trade and a cartographer in his spare time.

  Allan Batchelder is the author of Immortal Treachery, a series of dark fantasy books that culminates in Book Five: The End of All Things.

  C. H. Baum is a diabolical mortgage professional. By night, he dons his superhero outfit (made up of exactly one pair of worn underwear) and goes to bed early, ensuring that he gets a full eight hours of sleep. All this discipline keeps him refreshed and ready to wrestle with your loan application. He lives with his two boys and his stunningly beautiful wife in Las Vegas, Nevada. What happens in Vegas, usually happens without him. He loves to write, ride his bicycle, make furniture, and read. He does all that while avoiding pickles, eggplant, and hummus; because everyone knows those things are just gross. Other works by him include Gods of Color and many more to come.

  Matthew P. Gilbert, in addition to being a fiction author, is a professional video game developer; a veteran; a columnist for his local newspaper; and the father of three wild boys and two wild girls. He was born and raised in Woodbury, GA, and has been on watch for zombies ever since. He is the author of the Sins of the Fathers Series, which you can find at https://www.aethonbooks.com/matthew-p-gilbert. You can follow him on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/mattgilbertwriter), Twitter (@AmrathOfNihlos), and on his personal site, http://www.nihlos.com/.

  Matthew Johnson is a current student in the MFA Creative Writing program at University of Riverside Palm Desert. He has published stories in both fantasy and horror genre, Lazarus Rising, a zombie play, and is currently working on two novels and another play. He resides in Riverside California wit
h his wife, director and actress Wendi Johnson, and his two loveable puppies. You can find more about his works at www.matthewjohnsonauthor.com

  S. D. Howarth spends daytime as an I.T. Manager at a civil engineering consultancy where he is banned from using humour. At night, he deserts wife and children to edit scrivenings in the attic. His first fantasy novel The Tryphon Odyssey will soon be inflicted on an unsuspecting editor and Halidom has evolved into a steampunk side project. The Angry Cumbrian may be found on Facebook and Twitter.

  Christopher Keene has quite the backstory. Growing up in the small town of Timaru, New Zealand, Christopher Keene broke the family trend of becoming an accountant by becoming a writer instead. While studying for his Bachelor of Arts in English Literature from the University of Canterbury, he took the school’s creative writing course in the hopes of someday seeing his own book on the shelf in his favorite bookstores. He is now the published author of the Dream State Saga, as well as his new fantasy epic, A Cycle of Blades. In his spare time, he writes a blog to share his love of the fantasy and science fiction genres in novels, films, comics, games, and anime at www.fantasyandanime.wordpress.com

  Paul Lavender has been lied to all his life. He thought he was born in Gateshead, England when really, he was born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. This may seem like a small thing (the two places are about 200 yards apart) but it means Paul is a true Geordie. Of course none of this matters as he now lives in Worcester with Sam, his very supportive wife, and Ryan their son.

  When he was younger, Paul was heavily influenced by the dark arts of comics, RPGs, fantasy novels, power metal and computer games. It really is amazing that he’s turned out so well adjusted. You can find more about The Orcslayers at http://pslavender.wixsite.com/the-orcslayers

  Frank Martin is a comic writer and author that is not as crazy as his work makes him out to be. He writes and produces the biblical mythology comic series Modern Testament, which features a wide ensemble of artists throughout its four volumes. His most recent novel, Mountain Sickness, was published last year by Severed Press. Frank currently lives in New York with his wife and three kids. www.frankthewriter.com