The Contracted Soul

by Luke Antony Baker

  “To subdue the beast, one must turn his powers against him. Once that is done all the essences he has absorbed will return to their original hosts leaving him weakened,” his grey eyes continued to scan the passage.

  “How do we do that?” Gladius inquired with a sigh of impatience.

  “One second,” Astralode looked over the passage, scratching his bearded chin thoughtfully. “It says here that he is burned by holy water, if any of his spit gets on him he will be put under his own spell. He can also absorb fear from those around him to grow stronger,”

  Astralode flicked though the pages, stopping at a useful passage. “He is bulky and slow, but his power is immense,” he concluded. “Good luck heroes; For Myst City!” Astralode declared.

  “For Myst City!” the heroes saluted. The orb retured to its clear form as the light faded from it.

  “So what’s the plan?” inquired Fletcher.

  “Simple, we storm the place. I use my shield to defend from that fiend’s spit and we simply destroy him,” Gladius explained.

  “Simple…” Fletcher groaned pessimistically.

  FOURTY THREE

  Astralode marched down the lavish marble chambers towards the king’s throne room. His cloak dragged behind him on the floor, in his haste he didn’t notice. His mind was burdened with important information.

  He approached the tall arches of the doorway. The royal guards uncrossed their pikes and beckoned him in.

  Their faces were barely visible under their loose-fitting helms. They were lavishly outfitted with shining armor and colorful tabards emblazoned with the symbol of Myst City—a lion with a crown and scepter.

  With an exertion of strength Astralode pushed open the tall doors and stepped into the threshold.

  Stain-glass windows illuminated the marble chamber. Vivid tapestries hung on the walls depicting the rich history and myths of Myst City. Stone busts of the former kings lined either side of the red carpet. The King sat on his ebony, jewel-clad throne, lost in deep thought.

  “My liege,” Astralode addressed the king.

  The King slung his magisterial cape over his shoulder and sat up. His fine silk clothes gave off a sheen topped only by the crown nestled on his head. His troubled expression was evident.

  The King must have a lot on his mind Astralode concluded.

  “What can I do for you today, my loyal chronicler?” the king inquired warmly.

  “My liege, I have news from Gladius,” Astralode began. The King raised his eyebrows curiously.

  “I hope it isn’t another request to release a condemned criminal,” he sighed, referring to Umbra’s royal pardon.

  “No, your majesty, Gladius and Fletcher have encountered a demon lord out west and are about to engage it in battle,” Astralode explained as he bowed with respect, his beard hanging.

  The king stood up and walked over to the nearest tapestry. The bright, intricately woven drapery depicted the Twilight Wars and the battle at The Great Fields. He hung his head. “I hope he knows what he’s getting himself into. Those vile tyrants almost destroyed this land once. They’ve been a thorn in my side for too long,” Without turning around he continued. “Which demon is he fighting?”

  “Gluttony, one of the lesser,” Astralode replied. The king sighed.

  “Thankfully it isn’t Greed or Pride, or gods forbid, Wrath,” he sighed. “Those abominations are near invincible, and I can’t afford to lose our best. Our list of allies grows thin, and our defenses were shattered after the vampires attacked,” he mourned, running his fingers through his silvery beard.

  “I have been contacted by Magister Lunaris of Darkwoods. He’s pledging his loyalty to our cause in lieu of his debt to the Golden Sun,” Astralode announced.

  The king did not share his enthusiasm. “How do we know we can trust them?” he inquired sternly, turning to face Astralode.

  “At this point we can’t be picky with our few allies, we need all the help we can muster,” the old wizard replied grimly.

  FOURTY FOUR

  Pride’s swing took Umbra by surprise. Despite his size, Pride moved swiftly. Umbra was knocked back by a solid tackle into one of the cheering ogres.

  “You get back in ring!” the ogre grunted, shoving him.

  Pride stood with his arms crossed, a sinister smile across his dragon-like face. His cold, dead eyes met with Umbra’s.

  “The little lady here put up more of a fight than you. Isn’t that right, my dear?” Pride motioned towards the now pale-as-snow Marin, hanging loosely in the arms of an ogre.

  Umbra looked at her. What choice do I have? He clutched his hand, igniting his scar.

  Sharpened spears emerged from his shadow and flew towards Pride, he dodged them effortlessly.

  “Pathetic,” taunted Pride. “Still not ready to fight for real?” he inquired devilishly. “That’s fine, maybe you need more persuasion,” he pointed at Marin and fired a thin red beam through her shoulder, she jerked violently, howling in pain.

  “STOP IT!” Umbra boomed in an unfamiliar voice. He ran towards Pride, every step he took, the more visible the demonic runes on his body became. When he reached Pride he was crackling with energy.

  Umbra’s eyes faded to a deathly grey identical to a demon’s. The pain of his wounds faded and his anger raged.

  With one deft tackle he knocked Pride onto his back. Jumping to his feet, Pride grabbed him. The two were locked in a grapple, neither side yielding.

  Umbra’s now hulking muscles tensed and shook. Blood began to drip from Umbra’s nose as he strained. With a terrifying roar he took hold of Pride’s arm, tearing it off from the elbow.

  The demon howled in agony, clutching his wound.

  The dripping blood excited Umbra, he licked his lips.

  What’s happening to me?

  He knew what he was doing was inhuman but he couldn’t stop. He wanted to lick up every last drop of Pride’s blood from the sandy floor.

  Umbra glared at Pride, the demon lit up in a burst of purple flame, howling and shaking as the flames dissipated.

  Before he could get up, Umbra was on top of him holding him by the throat. He squeezed until he heard the snap of Pride’s neck, black blood sprayed him.

  The ogres in the room fell silent as they saw their master die. Pride had an odd smile on his face, taking a deep breath he whispered to Umbra. “I’ll see you in the pit soon enough,”

  The demon’s body quaked and shook, finally stiffening into solid stone, the twisted smile still frozen on his face.

  The ogres fled for the door.

  “Not so fast!” Umbra growled. The ogres burst into purple flames collapsing as charred skeletons.

  Umbra looked down at his blood-soaked hands, horrified with himself.

  He looked over to Marin. She was deathly pale, lying limply on the sandy ground. He rushed over to her, scooping her up in his arms.

  He ran his fingers through her blonde hair. A tear dropped from his glassy eyes as they faded to normal.

  Out of sheer impulse he scratched out a summoning circle around Marin in the sand.

  “Contract demon! Show yourself!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  FOURTY FIVE

  Withered claws of wood reached painfully into the lightning-ridden sky. A greenish mist drifted eerily over the magma and stone below. Razor-sharp rocks jutted towards the sky calling out for blood while lava flowed through the winding veins fueling this craving.

  This was the domain of Wrath, the greatest and deadliest of Zuul’s generals and easily the most powerful of the demon lords.

  Long ago this nightmarish hell-zone was a lush forest teeming with life; it had been a sacred forest honoring the gods.

  Now the only evidence of any life was the marching path of Wrath’s troops ca
rved deep into the raw rock.

  There stood the former Temple of Destiny, now known as the Temple of the Damned. The formerly proud, golden tribute to the divine was now a twisted black abomination depicting the macabre evil it contained. Carved monsters and skulls of the unfortunate covered the towering columns.

  The roof was high enough to humble a man, but the vastness of this domain of evil would strike fear into his heart.

  Wrath had seized control of the demon lords eons ago when their mistress was taken away. The loyal demon lords bowed to him, whereas the others rebelled or sought unbridled destruction.

  Wrath sat atop his razor-sharp black throne peering into a dark scrying orb perched beside him.

  He had been watching Umbra, and was pleased with the evil power now surfacing in him. Soon enough his plans will come to fruition, Zuul will be released and unify the demon lords once more. She would resume her campaign of destruction that she had started during the Twilight Wars.

  For ages he had waited, watched, influenced and plotted: burning hamlets, enslaving races, wiping others out, and now he was close. His mistress and creator would return and unify the rebellious demon lords.

  Those pitiful traitors!

  Their divided strength was easily kept in check by the power of the cities of men. Only a unified front led by Zuul could overcome these kingdoms and bring Turbulus under control of the demon lords once more.

  Zuul herself had unimaginable power. Once she was free from the underworld there was nothing that could stop them from exacting revenge on those who caged her in the pit like an animal.

  Men, he hated those detestable beasts. How small, puny and ignorant they are. They hid in castles like cowards and attacked his brethren from afar.

  Even their noblest soldiers were always willing to join Wrath’s ranks for a false promise of power and immortality.

  They call us demons a plague on the land, but men continue to sow more destruction, even against their own.

  These once noble soldiers that joined him became living shades, lacking any compassion, mercy, or even free will. They were the perfect soldiers and additional men just continued to line up to join their ranks. Their withered hands and rusted weapons hung loosely from their hooded, ragged robes. They hovered silently in the night, never rest, or hunger; they desire only for death, they were the shadow-fiends.

  The shadow-fiends were one of Wrath’s greatest creations, once men, now monsters.

  The desires of men are so easy to twist, their will so breakable.

  Once their evil nature was cultivated they rapidly lost any shred of humanity, naturally falling into the ranks of Wrath’s minions.

  These eerie beings glided silently across the hellish lands of Wrath, not even stirring up the clinging green mist. They cut through the mist effortlessly as they paced the landscape. Without the need for rest they had patrolled endlessly for centuries.

  Wrath sat patiently atop his throne, dreaming of the end of the world, eyeing the small glistening obsidian chess board perched on a nearby stool.

  “Soon enough she will return, and on that day my reward will be infinite,” he stirred restlessly, fidgeting with the dark board pieces.

  The players were well on their way to fulfilling their roles perfectly. He needed only to find Pandora’s Box and the key to Zuul’s power.

  A devilish smile lit up his demonic face.

  EPILOGUE

  Back at the bone-littered chamber of Pride’s camp Umbra stood impatiently, pacing past the demon-summoning array.

  “Show yourself!” he demanded at the pitch of a yell. Marin lay lifeless at his feet.

  The array finally lit up and a plume of smoke encircled the room like a shark circling its prey. After collecting and forming itself, it dissipated to reveal a familiar figure.

  The hulking form of Belphagor stood there once more, arms crossed, towering over Umbra. His hulking body crackled with glowing embers.

  “You again?” the demon chuckled, gazing directly into Umbra’s eyes. “Here to make another deal with me?” the demon inquired casually.

  “No games, no tricks. I want you to return Marin to life. I offer my soul to you right now, no waiting time, right now,” Umbra stared intensely at the demon.

  The demon raised an eyebrow and exhaled a wave of sulfurous breath. “Just your soul? You’ve already given me that. You have to offer something… more substantial,” a devilish grin lit up his shadowed face.

  Umbra swallowed hard, a bead of sweat ran down his cheek. “What else can I offer?” he inquired nervously. His time was running out.

  “Offer me your mind, body and every fiber of your being. Or no deal, I’ll just leave her to rot,” the demon demanded, breathing heavily.

  Umbra looked down at Marin after hearing the demon’s ultimatum. She lay lifeless on the ground; the color of her face was a deathly grey.

  He knew what he had to do.

  “Then I want to know you haven’t cheated me. I want to see with my own eyes that she’s okay,” Umbra declared, “then I’ll hold up my end of the deal.”

  “Fine,” the demon snorted, his eyes flashed red. He faded away in a wisp of smoke leaving echoing laughter in his wake.

  Umbra let out a sigh. What have I done?

  He had sacrificed himself to save the woman he loved. He looked down at Marin longingly. It had been a long time since he had been so selfless.

  Marin stirred and rolled over as if waking from a deep sleep. The color had returned to her face, her life restored.

  “Are you okay?” Umbra inquired softly. He offered his hand, helping her to her feet.

  A tear rolled down his face.

  A loving smile colored his expression as he looked longingly at Marin.

  “Umbra, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” she inquired, embracing him tightly.

  “Everything will be okay, Marin. I have given you the greatest gift—a second chance,” Umbra whispered in her ear, drawing back with a solemn expression, tears glistening in his eyes.

  Marin was stricken with concern. Something was terribly wrong, it was as plain as day.

  “I died, didn’t I?” she asked. Instead of answering, Umbra leant in and kissed her on her lips.

  “I’ll miss you,” he whispered softly as Marin wiped a tear from his glossy eyes. His face was darkened with deep sadness.

  His body faded, dissipating into the wind like dust in a breeze, every inch of him fading away.

  Tears streamed down Marin’s face when she realized what had transpired. It was just like the vision she saw inside Umbra’s mind back at Astralode’s library.

  “Umbraaaaaa!” she wailed hysterically into the dead air, falling to her knees. She looked down at her finger to see the single beaded teardrop he had left behind.

  To Be Continued in:

  The Myst City Chronicles II: Twisted by Hate

  The sun gradually retreated over the horizon as the villagers of Birchwood town strolled merrily around the market square while the merchants closed their stands. The straw roofs rustled in the wind as the mild breeze swept by.

  Pierre, a young man and father of a small family strolled briskly to gather water from the town’s well. He carried an old wooden bucket in his hand.

  However, today he had an uneasy feeling as he neared the oil lantern that hung by the well. The market was empty now and the moon was peering over the horizon. The cold, damp feeling stiffened the hairs on the back of his neck.

  Was this just a Chill? He wondered, attaching the bucket to the pulley system of the well. The feeling was still emanating as he wound the crank and lowered the bucket into the darkness below.

  “Hmm, this is weird,” he thought out loud. The water level was much lower today as he continually felt the tension in the crank. Finally, he
was relieved when he heard a small splash. He cranked the bucket up slowly, feeling the weight of the water he had gathered. As the bucket came into view a sparkle flashed from the pale.

  The creeping sensation was overwhelming now. It pulsed like heavy breathing, growing more intense as the bucket ascended closer.

  Pierre hoisted the water-laden pail out and peered curiously into it. A peculiar dark object glinted from the bottom. As Pierre reached in to extract the dark object from the pail the intense cold, empty feeling was overwhelming.

  It was a blackened, shiny box, small enough to fit in one’s hand. Pierre looked it over curiously. All of a sudden the surrounding area went silent. No crickets chirping, no owls hooting, it was as silent as a tomb.

  A sturdy lock kept the box sealed etched with a strange symbol. Pierre rolled the box around in his hand. In an entranced state he returned home with a blank expression leaving the pail behind.

  He arrived home to the soothing sounds of his wife and young daughter snoozing peacefully. The crackling of the log fireplace sent out a soothing sound as it consumed the wood.

  Pierre placed the curious, glinting box on the mantle-piece above the fireplace and turned to walk away.

  “Freedom!” hissed a voice startling Pierre. The box once again emitted an un-nerving breath of cold dread. Pierre stared dumbfounded at the old relic.

  Back in Wrath’s tower, the Demon Lord stirred. Suddenly he was hit by a rush of realization and shot to his feet.

  “Mistress!” Wrath exclaimed. He felt her presence a long way off.

  She had returned.