by William King
The old words in the Old Tongue came easily to him. Unlike most of those present Balthazar understood what they meant. He enjoyed that feeling of secret knowledge. He even enjoyed watching the prisoner squirm.
Focus, he told himself. You are about to perform the most dangerous act you are ever likely to be called upon to perform. You will need your wits about you when the Lord of Skulls arrives. “If the Lord of Skulls arrives”, a small mocking voice in the back of his head said.
He felt the slow burn of anger at that. The voice reminded him of the father who told him he would never amount to anything if he did not “get his nose out of those books”. His father would be shocked to see him now. His father would be appalled at the power he had found in some of those volumes. He could almost see the old man now. He could picture him as he lay on his deathbed, even then unable to give any sign of approval to his wayward, scholarly son.
Focus. Now was not the time for such memories. Now was the time to draw upon his learning and do that which he had been set upon this earth to do.
He chanted the words of submission and allegiance and all around him the cultists pledged their souls. They might not know the meaning of the words, but they knew that they were abasing themselves before a greater power. Their worship was one of the things that would draw Xothak from the Outer Dark.
Balthazar looked within himself and found the core of power. He drew upon it as he chanted the words. His voice acquired grandeur and resonance. It thundered through the hidden cellar echoing off the basalt walls.
He heard patterns within the sounds that spoke to him. They resonated within his bones. They whispered secret meanings about the universe and its nature. He felt that if he only listened hard enough, he could learn the secret of everything. He pushed such thoughts aside and concentrated. It was almost time.
Balthazar’s voice was now louder than the voices of all the other coven members put together. They shrieked as if they were competing with him but it did not make any difference. No matter how forcefully they chanted the words, his voice all but drowned theirs out.
The chains clanked, drawing his attention back to the prisoner. He ceased to writhe. Balthazar brought the blade arcing downwards to pierce flesh. He found the heart and twisted. Blood spurted forth over his hands. It spread across his face and dripped down over his upper lip onto his tongue. It tasted warm and different from that which had been on the blade earlier. He swallowed it, enjoying the metallic taste on his tongue then continued to speak.
His breath came out in a cold cloud. Gooseflesh pimpled his skin. The shadows cast by the lanterns deepened and became pregnant with evil life. They shifted and moved at the corner of his eye.
Shadows crept forward towards the sacrifice. They bore no relation to the light source. They had taken on a hungry life of their own and stretched out towards the dying man as if seeking sustenance.
The shadows flowed over him and clung to his body. His flesh darkened, turning more grey and then blue and then black. His blood looked like oil.
The sense of presence intensified. The cold air swirled around Balthazar like the breath of an ice dragon. He knew there was something there, that something had answered his call. He just could not see it yet.
The sacrifice’s eyes opened. They had no whites. They glowed a terrible green. Strange laughter hissed from his mouth. He sat upright and tugged against the chains. They bent and strained but seemed to hold. Balthazar got the sense that that was only the case because the entity possessing the man’s body wished it to be. If it wanted to break free, it could.
The Lord of Skulls was present and ready to work its will. Balthazar began to speak.
Rhiana looked up with a dreamy expression on her face. Her eyes sought out Kormak’s, and for a moment she smiled. Kormak could see her pupils were pinpoints. It was as if she was under the influence of some drug. Then the translucent eyelid dropped into place over her eyes, and she looked alien.
“Something’s out there,” she said. “Something dark and powerful. I can sense it.”
Zamara looked up from his wine. His pupils were pinpoints too, and his voice was slurred. “Not again. Not here. Can’t a man enjoy his wine in peace?”
“What is it?” Anders asked. He looked drunker than the Admiral, but he was more nervous. He was the one who had been kidnapped by cultists, so that was hardly surprising.
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” There was an edge of hysteria to her voice that alarmed Kormak. This was a woman who had swum into the belly of Leviathan. She had hunted a deadly Old One through the labyrinths beneath the Palace Imperial. She was not a woman given to panic.
Anders stood up. His hand went to his sword. “It seems our enemies have caught up with us even here.”
“Will this never bloody end,” Zamara said. He pulled himself from his chair. “I suppose we had better look into this.”
Kormak nodded. “Yes. We’d better.”
Xothak picked through the memories of the sacrifice and identified the place and time. It looked at its summoner, seeing the glow of the man’s spirit as well as his physical form. It was a powerful soul and one steeped in sin. It was exactly the sort of delicacy that Xothak hungered for, but it still had need of Balthazar. There was a mission which it had entrusted to the man.
The others were not quite so useful. Commonplace worshippers of the sort who had attended its summonings over a thousand centuries on a thousand worlds. They would provide some nutrition.
Its servant had mentioned the man Kormak, who most definitely needed to die. Xothak had plans for the people of this tiny world, and that man had stood in their way. It might as well grant the boon its servant desired.
It drew upon the part of itself that dwelled deep in the Outer Dark, pulling power through the pinhole that had let it enter this world. Energy flooded in, saturating the sacrifice’s brain with power and pleasure.
Xothak needed to be wary. It was all too easy to let its thoughts be shaped by the form it wore. In this world, it was as limited by its host brain’s capacity to think as it was limited by its host body’s capacity to wield magic.
It riffled through the language embedded in the corpse’s mind, matching the patterns to one of the million tongues it knew. It found the words it was looking for.
“My blessings upon you, beloved children,” Xothak said. The panic among its worshippers subsided. It had managed a simulacrum of reasonableness with its voice. More than that, it had found the tone of compulsion to which these peculiar monkeys would respond.
They looked at their Lord now, children expecting a treat. “I will grant you power beyond your wildest dreams. You have been judged and been found worthy. You shall be elevated above all other mortals in my sight and rewarded with a portion of my divine strength.”
As always the formula of the words got the desired response. The mortals no longer looked frightened. They looked enraptured. They believed what was said and not just because of the magic woven into the spell. They genuinely thought they were deserving.
A white-haired man flopped down at Xothak’s feet.
The Lord of Skulls’ cold dead finger touched the lead amulet on the man’s chest. Lines of fire illuminated the etched eye and made its pupil burn, a greenishly glowing cat-slit. The old man’s back arched as the power flowed into him.
Xothak reminded itself to be careful. These mortals were frail. Too much power would consume them like paper thrown into a fire.
The man screamed orgasmically and rose to his feet. A sheen of shadow emerged from the amulet and flowed over his body, obscuring the lines of his face, masking him in pure darkness. His eyes glowed with green balefire. His hands became claws.
Balthazar’s mouth was open in awe. “Shadowborn,” he said.
“Testify, my child,” Xothak said, lifting the hand of the transformed human.
The shadow-man opened his mouth. His teeth were dark. “I am filled with your divine power, Lord of Skulls. It has made me young ag
ain and strong, and I thank you and abase myself before you.”
“You shall live forever in Shadow,” said Xothak. “Your soul in my keeping.”
“Thank you, Lord,” said the Shadowborn. “I live to serve you in Shadow. Forever.”
Xothak beckoned to another of the cultists. The one called Orm took a step forward, but Balthazar held him back.
A flicker of annoyance passed through Xothak. Who was the mortal to come between the Lord of Skulls and its worshippers? Still, for now there were plenty to do its bidding, and it would provide an appropriate service for Orm to perform later.
A woman advanced. She was young and beautiful as these mortals judged and she moved with a sinuous stride. Xothak repeated the ritual gesture, charged her amulet and transformed her too.
One by one it summoned coven members forward and changed them. “Go,” it told them. “Go out into the castle, find the Guardian and those with him and slay them.”
The last two Xothak beckoned forward at the same time. It had something special in mind for them.
Soon they were screaming.
Kormak heard terrified cries from below. Servants ran shrieking through the corridors. Soldiers took up weapons. Somewhere nearby an alarm bell rang. He doubted it was because there was a fire within the keep.
A servant girl ran by. Kormak grabbed her arm and said, “What is it?”
“Demons, sir. There are demons in the castle.” She strained to break his grip, but he held her.
“Demons? What do they look like?”
“Demons, sir. I did not see them, but Chef did. He shouted the demons were coming and that we should flee as he bolted out of the castle.
She clearly knew nothing, was simply part of the growing panic. He let her go.
Zamara looked at Kormak. “Lead on, Sir Guardian. This is your field.”
His words were still slurred by wine and dreamroot but at least he did not sound afraid. It looked more and more like they had been deliberately drugged to slow them down.
Kormak lengthened his stride and made his way towards the loudest screams. It sounded like a massacre was taking place down there.
Balthazar watched in horror and awe as the Lord of Skulls extended its power. It drew the last two coven members to it, wrapping them in its embrace. Each of its dead hands touched an amulet, and each sprang to glowing life as all the previous ones had. Shadows flowed out from talismans and covered their bearers’ bodies.
The shadows flowed out from them and over the form in which Xothak had manifested. For a moment, it looked like a strange three-headed hybrid.
The ecstatic screams of the coven members continued, muffled and not quite so joyous. The flesh concealed within the cloak of darkness liquified until an amorphous mass pulsed in the dim lantern light.
Slowly, it took shape, becoming man-like but much larger, half again as tall as it had been and almost twice as broad. Its arms were as thick around as a strong man’s thighs. On each bicep was the cultists’ lead amulet, pulsing with deadly power. The face resembled that of a carved skull. The creature’s eyes glowed with a hellish green intensity.
The monster moved towards Balthazar, looming over him, large as a giant. The Count flinched as one massive claw reached out and touched his amulet. He fully expected to be absorbed into the Lord of Skulls’ form as the others had been.
Instead, he felt the sensation of power flowing out of Xothak and into the amulet as it had at the previous ritual. He was being granted another pool of sorcerous strength. The gift of magical power was being renewed. Gratitude mingled with fear.
Booming laughter filled the cellar, a mirth as alien as it was chilling. “Do not worry, beloved servant. I have no need of your essence. It has been long since I wore mortal form and bestrode this world and I would do so again. I would bring the word of the coming of Shadowfall to those who most need to hear it.”
“Thank you, great one,” Balthazar said and meant it.
The Lord of Skulls turned and flowed from the cellar. It was the only word Balthazar could think of. Its lower half did not have visible legs.
Orm grabbed Balthazar’s arm. “What just happened here? Why am I not granted immortality?”
Balthazar looked at him with contempt. “The only immortality those wretches are going to get is having their souls absorbed into the corpus of Xothak. He has granted them power for his own purposes.”
Balthazar sincerely hoped he was right. He would hate to have missed out on his own chance for eternal life.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Wearing its newly transformed body, Xothak flowed through the corridors of Helgard Keep.
It took in a breath of the night air. It made small adjustments to its sensory organs and drank in the pheromonal tang of terror. It adjusted its eyes and probed the shadows.
It had modified this form to its needs. It could perceive more than any of the mortals could. It could sense the flows of magic all around and scent the souls of mortals. It tasted the beautiful tang of fear in the air as the Shadowborn spread terror and chaos.
Pulsing delicious life swarmed around it. Many souls congregated in this keep. There were more in the town below and more and more spread out across the world. Xothak dimly sensed the remnants of the network of runestones that had once drained life from the land and fed it into the Outer Dark.
The Auratheans had ended that, but it could all be built again. The entire globe would become a vast morsel for Xothak to consume until all life was gone and only the walking dead marched across the pock-marked face of the desolate world. The beauty of the vision brought a smile to Xothak’s lips.
It sniffed the air with senses both physical and spiritual. There was nourishment here. Soon its faith would spread once more from this place, and this world would begin to die.
Kormak raced round the corner and found himself face to face with a demon. It was about the height of a man but appeared more like a living shadow than a creature of substance. That it could harm mortals was made evident by the corpse at its feet and the red blood staining its dark talons.
It reached out for Kormak and the chill intensified. He threw himself backwards, away from it, reaching up for his blade. Zamara dived forward, slashing with the cutlass he had already drawn. The weapon sliced through the demon’s flesh as if it were made of gossamer, but the disrupted flesh knit behind it, leaving no trace of the Admiral’s blow. Zamara himself lurched off balance. He had expected to hit something much more solid.
Kormak’s dwarf-forged blade blazed in his hand, the runes responding to the presence of evil magic. He lashed out at the shadow-creature. It evaded his blow with contemptuous ease, flickered backwards and away, stepped in the shadows and was gone.
“What in hell was that?” Zamara asked.
“Shadowborn,” Kormak said. “A soul possessed by a power of the Shadow.”
“Just once I wish you could not answer my questions about these beasts quite so easily.”
“How did they get past the elder signs?” Anders asked.
“They could have been summoned from inside.”
“Traitors?”
“Most likely.”
A scream sounded from behind them. Kormak turned and saw a single arm had emerged from the shadows and gripped Anders’s throat.
The mercenary’s face had turned grey. His eyes were wide and horrified. Darkness clung to his skin and seemed to be spreading.
Kormak threw himself forward, blade flashing down. The smell of ozone filled the air as it contacted the gossamer arm. Light blazed and what was left of the arm retracted into the shadow. A moment later, a humanoid form tumbled out of the murk, falling like a man who had just lost a limb. Kormak aimed his blade at where the heart would have been and lunged. Torn shreds of shadow flapped away to reveal a man garbed as a soldier.
“At least your blade affects these things,” Zamara said. “Mine didn’t.”
Kormak bent over Anders. There was what appeared to be a black hand prin
t on the man’s throat. The soldier was pale and shivering. “So cold,” he said.
“They devour souls,” Kormak said. “It took a part of yours. Hopefully, it flowed back when I severed the demon’s limb. We’ll need to wait and see.”
Kormak took out his elder sign and pressed it against the handprint. There was a smell of sizzling flesh. Anders screamed. The dark hand print faded into a ruddy raw patch of flesh.
“I feel a bit better,” Anders said. He sounded very shaky.
“You were lucky. Left to its own devices that thing might have transformed you into something like it.
“You’re not reassuring me, Guardian,” Zamara said.
“You should be safe. You are wearing your elder sign.”
“I am not,” said Rhiana.
“Then stay close to me. You would not want to be caught by one of those things.”
She did not argue.
Laughing, Xothak strode through the keep, drunk on terror and made ecstatic by fear. It revelled in the banquet of horror, and it sought ways to intensify it.
The Lord of Skulls drew upon its power, shaped it like a potter moulding clay. Not for Xothak the need to howl spells and make strange gestures. It was a being of natural magic. It drew on the darkness within itself and spread its hands. A layer of shadow flowed from its skin onto the ground forming a second larger shadow. Xothak poured more and more power into it, and the darkness spread up the corridor.
The shadow swirled over lights, extinguishing them. It touched mortal souls and filled them with terror. The temperature dropped, and the air misted. The Lord of Skulls was creating a perfect hunting ground for its children.
The wave of shadow raced towards them up the corridor, a tide of darkness that seemed bent on overrunning the world.
“What the hell?” muttered Zamara. The wave passed over around them. The torches guttered and died away to embers. The air chilled. Kormak felt the amulet on his chest grow momentarily warm as it combated some evil magic.