The air was thick with fog as the two apprentices shuffled home, caked in mud. They were fully aware of why Lady Crow lived out here—she was banished from her old village for necromancy, she didn’t bother to conceal it either. Her house was littered with necromantic tomes and books of divination.
Umbra had taught himself the tree root spell after pursuing dinner, day in day out. Micah would rarely win in these contests but he was sure to rub it in Umbra’s face when he did. They were not just rivals, they were friends as well.
At the end of the trail ahead the house became visible, or rather the dilapidated shack, which sat across from a monument to a long-forgotten war.
The war was ancient, so the monument and its cemetery were abandoned to history books, swallowed up by the contagion of the swamp. This was perfect of course, for Lady Crow’s brand of magic. With all her necromancy spells over the years she had probably unearthed enough skeleton minions with her dark magic to have emptied the cemetery. The overturned soil from the plots was proof enough of this.
These minions would serve their purpose for an hour or so then crumble as the magic faded, leaving a pile of dust for Umbra and Micah to sweep up. When they were animate though, they were terrifying to behold. Their glowing eye-sockets, pulsing browned bones and stiff movement would terrify any who saw it.
Umbra and Micah were used to seeing these animate skeletons around from time to time; they were even capable of reviving one or two at a time with necromancy. It was a simple ritual, a blood circle; some candles, an incantation and the dead would rise as slaves to the practitioner. Lady Crow’s prowess in this art meant she did not require a ritual to revive them. With her black gem bracelet and a moment of concentration she could unearth dozens at once.
As the wreck of a house emerged through the fog, Micah and Umbra decided to let Umbra’s root trick be kept secret. Lady Crow would scorn them for using other schools of magic saying: “You came here to learn necromancy! Don’t waste your efforts on those pointless childish tricks!” The last thing they needed after this exhausting chase was a lecture.
They stepped onto the squeaking step of the battered, old, wooden porch only to see a rat scurry away. The candle-lit house was welcome only in the sense it was slightly warmer than outside. As they crossed the threshold they were acknowledged by Lady Crow with a stern look, she shook her head with a deep sigh when she saw the shredded carcass.
“What took you so long? You were gone for a whole hour!” she complained. Umbra held back his frustration with a reassuring glance from Micah.
Lady Crow stood there—a wrinkled old woman leaning on her twisted, old bone cane. She always wore a tattered old dark dress and a purple shawl over her shoulders.
She expected her two students to wear black necromancer robes when in her presence. The robes were uncomfortable and did not fit the boys but they got used to them. They would chuckle to themselves about how they looked like undertakers.
Lady Crow pointed to the kitchen and sat down on the squeaky old couch and watched the smoldering brick fireplace. Her wrinkled face illuminated by the crackling fire was eerie to say the least.
“Umbra won again I presume?” she predicted not even turning to face her students. Umbra caught a glimpse of sadness on Micah’s face from Lady Crow’s assumption. She had come to expect Umbra winning. She sat down on her old dusty couch in the dimly-lit room. Peeling navy-trimmed wallpaper hung on the old plaster walls and the occasional framed picture of Lady Crow in her youth dotted the room.
It was curious, she would often make Umbra and Micah clean the house, but within an hour it would be right back to its original spooky state. The house seemed to resent being cleaned and would dirty itself. She eventually stopped asking them to do it and simply ignored the conditions.
“Micah, you cook that deer in a stew and Umbra, you sit,” she ordered. The two students obediently complied. Micah dragged the carcass past the kitchen to the pantry to butcher it being careful not to mess up the carpet. Umbra wondered why be bothered, the carpet was a mess anyway. “Don’t expect dinner to be ready soon,” Lady Crow continued in her miserable tone.
Umbra, although hungry was used to waiting long periods to eat. “So how did you catch that deer?” she inquired, turning around to eye Umbra suspiciously.
“Well, we didn’t use weapons. It was more a collaborative effort. Micah cornered it and I dealt the finishing shot with a blood shard.” He was referring to a favored spell by Lady Crow where a small droplet of blood was magically hardened into a sharpened projectile and cast at the victim. Lady Crow’s suspicious expression remained.
“Show me your blood vial,” she demanded stretching out her wrinkled old hand. Umbra handed it over and watched her roll it around in her grip. Sure enough, the vial wasn’t full. She tossed it back at him satisfied with his story. She stared into the fireplace once more. “I hope that fool hasn’t wasted the valuable parts of that deer.”
“Micah does try, you never acknowledge it though!” Umbra snapped at the bitter old witch.
“When he does something worth acknowledging, I will! Go and clean up for dinner!”
TWO
That night Umbra and Micah slept on the dusty old couches. A rusted chandelier hung loosely, swaying in the wind by the open window. The noises outside were soothing, if not a little creepy. Umbra stared at the gentle swaying of the chandelier as he drifted off to sleep.
A familiar nightmare crept into Umbra’s head. One he had suffered from for years now and vivid enough to feel real. It was his childhood memories of tragedy and isolation. It was the very reason he traveled out to this swampy wasteland to learn magic from a miserable, old witch.
The images were as clear as ever. Umbra was once again walking through the woods carrying a basket of apples he had gathered from a nearby orchard.
It was peaceful back then, the autumn breeze bringing its sweet aroma of flowers into his nostrils. The crisp apples still beaded with dew as he carried them in a small thatched basket. The sun was dipping over the horizon as he strode carefree through the pine woods, oblivious to the world.
His mind always pondered the same question when he was alone.
Where had Father gone to?
It had been a whole year since his father had up and left.
He remembered it vividly; rain was storming, lashing with unusual ferocity. The dripping gaps in their roof had woken him. He awoke only to see his father don a beige trench-coat and flat-cap, and march out the door. His steps were heavy like he was carrying a great burden. Breaking eye contact with Umbra in a saddened gaze he had disappeared forever.
It wasn’t a feeling of anger that swept over Umbra, but a nostalgic feeling of uneasiness. His father seemed to be running away from something, but Umbra couldn’t tell what it was.
His fonder memories were of his father, teaching him some sorcery as a child, watching him proudly with his illuminated smile as Umbra grew more adept. He began with simple tricks: reviving small flowers, shooting down apples with magical darts, stirring tea with levitating spoons, creating small snacks for food. They were all charming little spells he used to impress his friend Marin with.
He had a crush on her as far back as he could remember, and thinking of her always brought a smile to his face. They had been friends forever and he was too shy to tell her how he felt. He still held dear her playful laugh and flowing blonde hair. He loved her and still did.
He was content with the simple magic for a while, but one of his father’s books had always caught his eye. Grimoire of the Damned, it was named, a book on necromancy. Umbra was sure there were others, but he hadn’t gone into his father’s study since the night he had walked out. There was still dust on the brass doorknob to the study door. His father had always scorned him for looking at his more ‘occult’ tomes. This had only inflated his curiosity further.
&n
bsp; His mother cried endlessly when his father left, she wouldn’t get out of bed for days on end and would break into hysterical crying when his name was mentioned.
“No Umbra, father isn’t coming home,” she would say tearfully whenever he asked.
She finally came to terms with it after crying a river of tears for him.
Life for them continued on after that. His mother ignored the gossip circulating around their small town of Brie and lived life as though nothing had happened.
She would always wear a smile and that red dress was her favorite. She kept her dark, flowing hair tied up.
Umbra had inherited that dark hair, but he kept it short. Although recently under orders from his teacher he had grown a braid to signify his apprenticeship; For the most part things in Brie were happy.
Rumors of strange happenings going on outside the town began to circulate. Stories of children disappearing in the middle of the night and whole cities set ablaze, but that world seemed far away to the simple folk living in the lush foothills of this small hamlet. It was, to them, another world separate from their own.
It was a typical early evening. The night-washed sky was setting in and Umbra had left to gather some fruit for dessert. He had enjoyed a great hearty dinner and stepped outside with a beaming smile on his face.
The sun was just setting when he stepped out of the modest little cottage. The straw-thatched roof rustled in the wind and the shadows danced on the bricks as he strode off towards the orchard on the other side of the woods.
However, something tainted was in the air today; Umbra couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was subtle but sent a chill down his spine. Uneasy, Umbra set off to gather apples, unable to shake that feeling.
About half way back from the woods, Umbra heard screaming from the direction of the town. He looked ahead curiously to see smoke rising. Glinted with embers, flames raced towards the evening sky, their tips licking like serpents’ tongues on the heavens. The houses ignited one after the other; the town was awash in an eerie glow.
Citizens were running in every direction screaming, terrifying dark-cloaked figures chasing them, not running, but gliding. The figures were taller than the people; they wielded dull swords and axes. Their shriveled grey hands clutched their weapons as they sliced mercilessly through everyone in their path.
Umbra could only look on in horror from the edge of the darkened forest as these monsters cut down the men, women, and children he had known his whole life. Their screams echoing in the night sky as their worlds were torn down.
After a few minutes, the figures assembled in the town square forming a circle. The darkened figure of a sorcerer stood in the center and cast a spell array, lighting up the square with a purple eerie glow. The figures vanished suddenly into a black haze, leaving the devastation of their brutal killing spree and the flaming houses in their wake.
As Umbra gathered his courage, he bolted down the shallow hill towards his mother’s cottage. The devastation, the screaming, crying, fire, and smell of death seemed distant to him as he raced towards his destination.
He barely got into view of his house when he saw a bloodied figure lying face-down on the ground. Dark hair was flowing in the wind and a hand was outstretched, frozen in a gesture of desperation. His mother lay lifeless and bloodied in front of him, a dagger in her side. Umbra could only look on in horror as tears poured down his face and he broke down.
Nearly half the town was taken that night, it became known as the Night of Flames. A memorial was placed in the town cemetery behind the chapel to serve as a constant reminder. The attackers’ identities still remained unknown to the citizens. They had never seen creatures such as these before—skeletal and withered, armed with weapons and gliding silently as they moved.
Town meetings were called for ideas on how to defend against another attack, but after realizing the futility of any defense they could muster they simply prayed it never reoccur.
Umbra stood alone in his empty house, it was silent and every room was full of memories that now seemed like distant past to him. Everything reminded him of his mother, her perfume still lingered all around the house.
He couldn’t stand the pain of being alone anymore; he raced up the stairs to his father’s study, kicking open the door and browsing his bookshelf.
He found exactly what he was looking for: Grimoire of the Damned—the solution to all of his problems. He remained isolated by himself in intense study, feeding only on conjured snacks as he scoured the tome for a solution.
THREE
The months flew by, and the town returned to its normal, peaceful state. The townsfolk had left the empty houses untouched to serve as memorials to those lost families, occasionally leaving flowers on their doorsteps. The townspeople assumed Umbra was a victim of that massacre and were unaware of his absence as he stowed himself away in his father’s study, books open everywhere.
Umbra studied relentlessly from the grimoire and the other books on the dark arts he had found in his father’s collection. Until, at last, he had stumbled across a ritual—a revival ritual.
Umbra knew that in a town as religious as Brie, what he was planning was a criminal act. Necromancy was a condemned school of magic, but he was desperate.
He knew that if he went through with his plan to resurrect his mother and was discovered, he would be condemned as a heretic and hated by all of his neighbors. If he could succeed, and concoct a believable yarn to conceal his actions he would have his mother and normal life back. He continued to indulge in that fantasy as he studied tirelessly the rituals of demonology, a magical school detested by the populace even more than necromancy.
He reminisced of his mother waiting on the porch for him to return with a basket of fruit, welcoming him with a loving smile and open arms.
He had to do it!
As a few months passed and he was confident of his abilities he decided he was finally ready.
The moon was full and the town darkened. As the village snoozed, Umbra crept from his house. He carried with him a small brown sack and a shovel. He knew what he had to do, and he was determined to follow through with his plan. His mother would be alive again and life would return to the way it was.
Down the darkened alleys he crept, careful to not make any noise. When he finally reached the cemetery, storm clouds began to gather. Swinging open the old iron gates, he winced at the squeaky noise they made.
He scanned the gravestones, finding his mother’s plot immediately. A weeping willow hung over the grave, sighing in the wind as he gathered himself. His memorial lay next to it, and he glanced at the empty plot and wondered why they had buried an empty coffin. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead as he returned to his mother’s grave and stuck the shovel into the soft earth to begin digging.
The moon hung over the cemetery, peeping curiously between the clouds, the night was as quiet as a hushed child. Only the sounds were of dirt turning out of a growing hole and the rustling willow tree. Umbra ignored the worms, the mud on his clothes, his blisters from the shovel, and the rising damp chill he felt. He dug tirelessly until he finally struck the wood of his mother’s coffin. He rummaged through his bag until his hand felt the cold iron of a crowbar.
In one swift movement he unhinged the coffin’s lid and peered under it. The smell! It was overpowering, he wasn’t expecting it to be so pungent. He covered his nose, and gagged. All he had to do now was sketch a circle around the grave and begin the ritual. He shambled out of the grave with his nose pinched.
Hovering over the grave like a ghoul, he opened the grimoire and began reading. Following the tome’s instructions, he drew a circular array with piece of chalk. Once the circle was drawn and lit candles had been placed strategically on the array he formed, it was ready.
Next the ritual called for a few drops of his blood. He looked nervously at the gl
immering dagger tucked under his belt. Putting the book down and placing a small iron goblet at his feet he unsheathed the small dagger and held it reluctantly over his palm.
He took a deep breath and reminded himself that it was for his mother, flinching as he dragged the cold steel across his quivering hand. He held the dripping wound over the small goblet and continued to read, glancing down. Next he tossed the goblet into the pit. As the blood spilled in, the array lit up fiercely in the darkest crimson. The moon too, began to match its ferocity as his surroundings blurred and churned like he was in the eye of a storm.
The air around Umbra grew thick, warm, almost like breath. The smell of rot was replaced by the smell of sulfur.
A hulking figure rose up from the grave and swirled in a cloud of red, finally condensing, forming a glowing red demon, illuminated further by the raging light of the array. He had called forth the contract demon, Belphagor.
The demon’s arms were crossed and his red wings were outstretched, muscles covered his body. He was a terrifying sight to behold. Umbra, taken back by it fell onto his rear. The demon’s glassy eyes scanned Umbra up and down and with unmoving lips a growling voice boomed: “You have summoned me, mortal! What do you want?” The smell of sulfur from Belphagor’s breath was nauseating.
“Restore this woman to life and vitality, this is all I ask of you,” Umbra piped up, nervousness stricken in his voice. The bargaining had begun. “What do you want in return?” Umbra inquired with a gulp.
“I know exactly what I want from you, boy!” the demon chuckled. “You have three years and then your soul belongs to me!” the demon demanded.
“Three years! I’m not agreeing to that!” Umbra shot back at the demon, his fear had been replaced by frustration, though he was still hesitant to step forward.
Belphagor’s eyes narrowed into a harsh glare. “Then surely you won’t mind if I burn this corpse, it’s stinking up the place, I’d be doing you a huge favor,” the demon pointed down at the exposed corpse of Umbra’s mother as his finger lit up in flame.
The Contracted Soul Page 2