Rituals

by Ryan Hastings

  The elf approached in her casual and cold manner, brandishing an envelope while she stood at arm’s length from the mavericks. “I’ll save you the hassle of breaking the law,” she said, handing the document off to Barred. “In fact, with this profound sense of boldness of yours, we believe you could be well suited for a certain task that has come to our attention.” Both mavericks shared a subtle, dumbfounded look.

  “How did she know what we were going to do?” Barred whispered. “It’s rather quiet on the docks right now,” the elf replied casually. “I could hear you from some yards away.” “This isn’t some suicide mission, right?” Barred sighed. “You are to proceed with usual caution,” the elf stated. “Terribly helpful,” Barred mumbled.

  “Can we at least know who we’re working with?” Sahja asked, setting a low bar for the answer he expected. “No,” the woman plainly replied. Then she once again took her leave. There was silence left between the two mavericks. Finally, Barred cleared his throat. Sahja immediately spoke up. “Not one word, old man. There are about five statements I can imagine coming from you after that, and none of them are relevant.”

  Barred chuckled and took a sip from Sahja’s flask. “Since when have we cared about relevance?” Sahja examined the documents he’d been given (coordinates and a vague synopsis). He handed them to Barred, who examined them about as briefly as his comrade had. “Not far from where we were,” Barrad commented, “and whoever is paying for this is about four times more generous than our imperial employer. However, it’s a suicide mission,” he added jokingly.

  Within the hour the rest of the crew returned, and the ship was en route to the town of Pomeu. Pomeu rests in the breaches between Mera and Yuli and is home to this hunting party. The town’s population was only about forty thousand people; and, due to its proximity to the merchant roads between Mera and Yuli, Pomeu was known as the ‘ittle green heart. Neither the structures nor the people were flashy.

  The stars still replaced the clouds when their airship came into the cleared pasture that served as its launch pad. The grass and small trees gently danced as the whirl of the propellers became gentler, and certain members hopped down before they were totally on the ground. Goodbyes were said in passing as the crew went their separate ways throughout the town.

  Sahja, not knowing that his long-time lady-friend, Fiaria, was asleep there, entered his dark house, dropping a pile of heavy equipment on the couch. “OW!” Fia cried out, slowly rolling over to dump the weapons and things on the floor. “What the hell, Sahj!” she hollered.

  “What the hell, me?” Sahja replied in shock. “How did you even get in? Why weren’t you asleep in the bed?” “They’re in the same room, babe. I don’t think it matters all that much,” Fia moaned, peering tiredly at the dirt that now covered her clothes. She shuffled over to a pile of clothes and sniffed a shirt, swapping it for the one she wore.

  Fia was a petite athlete and part of a long-standing political family in Yuli. She had deep brown hair, hazel eyes, and naturally-tan skin. Her father had been pleading for the two to marry but had been given a list of well-spoken excuses by both parties. Fia turned on an arcane lantern near the bed and plopped back down, lighting what was left of a skunkweed cigarette.

  “Everything okay?” Sahja asked, having gone to bathe in the next room. “You mean, besides my back?” Fia replied. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” Sahja answered. Fia smiled but took the time to let some tears out while Sahja couldn’t see them. “Stuff is a little crazy back home,” she said. Sahja wouldn’t have been able to hear the slight tremble in her voice. “Crazy?” he asked.

  Fia would go on to explain the situation in neighboring Yuli and that her father had ordered her to leave the province altogether. They didn’t recognize it as a plague that had infiltrated their cities, but that’s what it was. It’s documented among humanity as “madness,” but it hasn’t been seen on a massive scale in quite some time.

  The most recognizable physiological symptom is in the eyes, where the black of the pupil appears to bleed into the rest of the eye. The eyes will be completely blackened out in matured cases, partnered by primal behavior and increased adrenal activity. The longest recorded life span of an afflicted individual has not surpassed three weeks, succumbing to death in one way or another.

  Unfortunately, our friends are having to learn this the hard way.

  “Can you think of absolutely anyone who would have some answers I could take back?” Fia asked. Sahja looked at her with exasperation. “Take back? Are you mad?” he asked. “That will not have been the last time I saw my family, Sahja,” Fia said softly, yet with determination. “We’ll figure it out,” Sahja replied confidently. “We’ll talk to Iris and her folks tomorrow morning.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I Wouldn’t Call it a King’s City

  Emi-Shet, the imperial capital of Mol’do, is situated in the dead center of the continent, with three former provinces amalgamated into a single massive city-state. The outermost walls stretch well into the surrounding breaches for thousands of miles and are unbelievably well protected inside and outside. Emi-Shet is structured so that the Old Blood Terrace occupies the northeast of the region. It is encircled by the working and commons divisions, with the servitude expanses being the quarters that meet the great walls.

  The OBT retains about ten million Fo’hemut officials and families, including the Emperor’s Limits being at the off-center bullseye of this system of nationwide rings. The working and common residence accounts for forty million at any given time, while the servitudes have nearly reached ninety million men, women, and children.

  Collectively, the rulers at Emi-Shet have represented the wealthiest 23 percent of all mortal rulers across Harth in the last 400 years alone; but that means little when streets are filled with blood and riots are occurring on a regular basis. I suppose I should give credit where credit is due, because even those in the servitudes could buy plenty of good times.

  Emi-Shet has done well in erasing the Light from every aspect of life. In fact, I could count the number of believers here on two hands and a foot. And before you criticize the number, you should probably know that across the region another fifty-five thousand were black-bagged the night before last. The only relatable item would be a massive pit that was dug outside the southern walls.

  Elemental energy provided sustained power for the lights and parties to go indefinitely where they would, while the air in the city grew increasingly toxic in more ways than one. It’s well known that Emi-Shet is placed in a palpable nether stream, but it has been lost on human ignorance.

  On a quiet street, among the “common” quarters of the city, was a small two-story building. Its sign read “Botanist,” but the inside brandished all sorts of odd trinkets and goods. There was a quite large, kindhearted troll at the counter, wearing fine robes and accessories. His skin was a blue hue and he was relatively aged. The troll was discussing plant feed with a young lady at the counter while his protégé arranged a bouquet behind him.

  The young man arranging the bouquet had a dark complexion and was built like a natural fighter, a gifted warrior. He was dressed in modest wears, with a chain bearing a Light’s glyph. He clearly took perfection in his work, carefully snipping details away as he knelt so that the plant was eye level. “Ah-ha!” he exclaimed, presenting the arrangement with confidence. “Very nice, Xavus!” the troll said with a smile, sliding the vase across the counter to the young lady.

  Their customer was grateful for the bouquet, even paying an extra thirty piece for what she considered “artistic value and expertise.” The troll and the man high-fived after the lady left. They weren’t in need of money, but they enjoyed the recognition. Both the troll and the glyph preferred being awake at night, so they ran their shop at odd hours. They were well known around the area; but now, unfortunately, most of their customers seemed to be going to a gravesite for a burial.

&n
bsp; They named the place “Good Mourning.”

  Our troll friend is Genri. He adopted Xavus when the boy was too young to remember, saving the baby’s life as a result. Unfortunately, Xavus’ status was still an issue. Genri trained Xavus to fight as a gladiator, winning his freedom across 20 years’ worth of taking lives to the sounds of crowds and music. It’s been seven years since Xavus was removed of his mark, but now it’s the faith he holds that could be the end of him--in fact, both of them.

  Genri was not originally from Mol’do but had now been there just shy of 300 years. His strength is one thing, but he has the wisdom to match it! Xavus was raised to not only mirror Genri’s strength and wisdom, but also his combat expertise.

  Genri puffed a long pipe, organizing the counter spaces. “Did you pray today?” he asked. “Of course,” Xavus answered. “You think I’d forget after everything?” he added with a smile. “I doubt they’ll come looking again anytime soon,” Genri grunted. “It’s just good to get at least one prayer in a day, in case you die.” Xavus laughed. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that statement now?”

  Genri crouched behind the counter and opened a small safe. He took the device in his hand inside, watching the movements of a small spectral ring. Genri looked upward, sighed, then put the device back into the safe. Xavus noticed his friend’s expression. “What is wrong?”

  “It worries me that there is such a nether tributary above Emi-Shet,” Genri commented. “I actually think the streams are moving closer together.” “What of it?” Xavus inquired curiously. Genri didn’t answer because he wasn’t sure of his own guesses. He sighed, motioning as if to disregard the matter.

  The bell at the door rang, startling the two shopkeepers. It was another woman, but this one did not look like she was from anywhere they’d recognize. She wore a long scarlet and blue coat with rose-shaded spectacles covering her eyes. Her skin was fair with glistening azure tattoos visible on her neck and hands. Her hair was brownish blonde, braided, and adorned with feathers and beads.

  She walked around casually, examining the place like any curious buyer. The shopkeepers watched awkwardly and listened to what sounded like greaves lightly walking across their floors. The lady walked with a rather ornate cane, but she appeared to have no physical need for such an object.

  She eventually approached the counter and rested her elbows next to the register. “How much is the thing in the safe?” she asked. Genri fumbled for words. “There’s no safe! What safe? Xav, do we have a safe?” he exclaimed. “Nope!” Xavus added. “No safe! It’s actually amazing we’ve never been robbed!”

  The woman sighed and rolled her eyes as she held her hand over the counter, instantly causing the small safe to crash through the solid wood and into her hand like a ball. The two men stepped back, confused, and wondering if they should feel threatened or not. She set the safe down, and the door simply popped open. “That’s strike one for both of you,” she muttered.

  The woman took the small device in her hand, set it on the counter, and then looked at the two shopkeepers with an innocent grin. “Who are you?” Genri muttered. “I’m just making some rounds to a few places around town,” replied the woman. “It just feels like the property value is about to really crash, ya’know? So, consider me something of a relocation agent,” she added with a wink.

  “Show us your eyes,” Genri stated. “What’s the magic word?” the woman asked defensively. “Please?” Xavus added. The lady removed her shades, revealing the iris of her eyes to be a shining gold. Genri instantly fell to his hands and knees, bowing with his face down. “Oh, get up,” the woman said, lifting the large troll by the back of his robe with ease.

  She put her glasses back on and then drew some glyphs on the counter with her finger. It was a timer of some kind, clearly counting down. “Less than five days,” she said. “I’m not holding anyone’s hand out the door.” “What’s in five days?” Xavus asked. “Less than five days,” the lady repeated casually. Genri and Xavus looked at her with a strange and growing sense of trust.

  The young woman smirked. “Emi-Shet is set for annihilation,” she said, turning towards the door. “Which one are you?” Genri asked. “Does it matter?” she replied. “Then, can we at least know what to call you?” Xavus added. “Swae,” she answered with a wave on her way out.

  The current ruler of Mol’do is a Fo’hemut by the name of Beshelle Zogette, one of the more deplorable kings to have sat on a throne there. This is the fiftieth year of his reign, and he is still a young man among the Fo’hemut lifespan. The number of “illegitimate” offspring of a Mol’doan emperor has been known to reach the thousands, and a select few are kept within the surviving bloodlines.

  A lone guard (a woman with rather unique features) stood outside the king’s chamber at this hour. She was dressed in imperial knight regalia, with her helmet at her side. Her otherwise fair skin bore patches of ashy-grey. One of her eyes was a natural brown and the other was white. Despite being a mortal 31 years old, her short hair was a deep grey.

  The Fo’hemut half-breed’s eyes were those of a killer, staring off into the darkened halls. There was torment in her heart and mind, though she presented no such conflict in her composure. She rested the ornate halberd against the wall and looked it over. Then she held out her hands in front of her, examining herself in the same way.

  “Why do I feel like I’m waking up from a dream?” she thought to herself. “Why do I feel so terrified?” Images of the recent slaughter for which she had been a part began to flood her mind--all the bodies that now lay buried on top of each other. The girl’s legs began to give way, but she was able to quietly rest her knees on the ground.

  “Don’t you fucking cry,” she thought to herself, genuinely unsure what this emotional spell was. Moments went by, and eventually the sensation subsided. The kings guard stood carefully to avoid any rattle of her armor. She took the halberd in her hand with a frustrated motion before resuming her stance, taking a more professional position outside the doorway.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Old Temple

  Tristen is the largest province in Mol’do and was claimed as the Fo’hemut ancestral home before the dispersion. Much of the northern and eastern borders are jagged peaks that overlook the seas, while the inland is composed of dense forests. Tristen pitchwood is among Harth’s finest resources; its diameter can exceed 20 feet, and its height averages 220 feet.

  Many parts of the province are only speckled by sunlight. Ancient merchants once said, “Follow the stars,” but they were referring to the ground. If you were in the woods with no stars, you were in trouble. The shrouded canopies are home to carnivorous fouls, while agile claws and fangs roamed the floors.

  Most of the population is spread out among smaller towns and outposts with one walled city, Deshaelyu, that was home to a massive and impressive temple. The old temple is at the northeast point of the province, overlooking the ocean. It was originally called “Kel-Naavi.” “Our hope” would be the literal Fo’hemut translation.

  There is nothing of the Light left there. It’s a shell used for hollow rituals and pagan sacrifices. The fools have forgotten their history.

  Three riders came through the streets of Deshaelyu, shrouded from head to foot in tattered cloaks. They rode too quickly for the common folk here to take much notice of their weapons, bladed armor, and frightful steeds. The very dark followed these riders before they even rode into Tristen. The sun seemed to be blotted out quickly in an eerie way.

  The horses came to a sliding halt. Their riders dismounted, immediately making their way up the steep stairs that led to the temple doors. There were only fanatics in the temple--those that maintained the structure and paid homage to their idols. There were 537 cultists present when the 3 riders stepped through the heavy doors.

  The doors closed on their own, and any amount of light became red in the building. The people i
nside were intoxicated and slow to become alert. By the time they realized that evil had finally come to answer their calls, it was too late.

  The three painted the walls with blood and the ground with entrails. The cultists were literally butchered. Their killers seemed set on making this onslaught as painful and bloody as possible. The blade of one cleaved a man in half; and before the torso could even fall, the “being” ripped the head from it--quite a combination.

  Another of the three dug the claws of his gauntlets into a man’s chest. He broke the ribcage apart. It was a marvelous little spectacle. One after another they fell like sheep to the slaughter. Their angels of death had arrived. HAH!

  Their weapons danced in blood, sending these fools to the homes of fire they had built. As the fanatics’ numbers began to dwindle, they’d slip over blood and trip over body parts trying to run. Perhaps I’d feel sorry for them if they hadn’t done such wicked things. BUT I do not, ladies and gents!

  The apparent leader of the group took the last fanatic by his head and impaled him on the obelisk that overlooked the altar. One of the “beings” spoke in the demonic tongue, and he then removed a strange device from a chest in which they had carried. It was magical, mechanical, and biological in nature. Nether streams were already responding to the necrotic power coursing from the apparatus.

  The “being” set the machine down where there was a large mass of blood. The blood seemed to react to the device as soon as there was contact between the two. The leader uttered a few words in the demonic tongue, and the other “being” activated the device. Blood began to levitate from the ground and form patterns in the air.