Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One (16 page)

The villagers now gathered in small groups, talking and pointing at the odd clouds and smells. Dogs growled with their head held low and their hackles high. Cats arched their backs and hissed at things people couldn’t see. Sheep and horses bleated and whinnied, pushing into tight knit groups within their corrals. The clouds above broke open, like the belly of some ethereal beast, and insects the size of household pets rained down.

Hue Blueaxe reached over his shoulder and loosed the weapon of his namesake – a magical double bladed axe that fed on the corruption he hunted. They would both feast today, so that the people may live.

Grenedal Dragonblood flew over Everyway, his sharp eyes scouring the streets. Nothing was right anymore. Nothing made sense. Just a few years ago he had been a young man with prospects of marriage, attending balls, and rebelling against his parents. His father had mistresses on the side, and his mother spent way too much time gossiping and meddling on the affairs of others. As the only son of a minor noble, Grenedal was in line to inherit a fortune and a place in society. He had a small group of friends he spent time with, and they were going to change the world, but he never imagined it would change like this. Kaht, a woman who was a plain but talented sneak thief; Churl don, a man who was a low ranking city guard; and Lyliad, a woman who was a follower of druidic paths, all followed his lead in adventures in this maze of a sullied city. They revealed plots, corruption, and helped those less fortunate than themselves.

Once the Talisman appeared in the sky - and didn’t continue on its celestial path - things changed. He began to display minor magical abilities, he journeyed to a Tower of Onyx and gained a powerful item of magic, and then the cult found him. Found him, and dragged him into a labyrinth under the streets of Everyway that shouldn’t exist. A warehouse of basements, lined with tables that held men and women who could channel different magics.

Grenedal had no magical abilities, but he had the gift for them. The machines he was strapped to drained that gift, and most people died within a week of being caught. Grenedal did not. A floodgate within him was shattered and magic coursed through him, feeding their infernal devices with power beyond their hopes. A constant stream of magic energy flowed through his body, drawn from a source that the man didn’t know existed. Once he was rescued by his friends – destroying the slave laboratory in the process - the abilities began to change him as they manifested. The cult pursued the four, and succeeded in capturing or killing – he wasn’t sure which - Churldon and Lyliad before they were done.

Kaht knew the dark alleys better than any though, and had contacts that were beyond the others. She had helped hide Grenedal, and assisted him hone his new abilities. He sought her out now, preparing the next step in his plan.

The demon Kez’et-dual crouched over the body on which it gnawed. The unidentifiable corpse was still warm and the sticky blood steamed in the cool air of the subterranean cavern. The chanting crowd that surrounded the beast watched in awe as the misshapen creature dragged out another soft, slimy organ with its four knuckled fingers and slurped it down. The bat-like wings of the demon had more of an insect-like structure to them than mammalian, and its legs bent backwards at the knee. Its neck stretched more than five feet and its large milky pupils were the size of plums. The eyes flashed malevolence as it swiveled its head to look around the natural arena in which it fed.

One person stepped forward. He was a grey, and bred to control beings from other dimensions. He was superior to the greens, and he knew it. His large almond eyes shone black in the magical light that lit the cavern. In a tongue that had been hidden for generations of humans, the priest who was one of the remaining descendants of the Troöd Ancients began to chant. The runes around the demon glowed a sickly green and flickered like fireflies that were dying. They burst to life and radiated light, casting an eerie glow from the floor into the assembly in their tiered benches. The priest stepped forward to the edge of the protective circle as the whole assembly took up his original chant. He spoke in a clear, firm voice in the Ancient tongue.

“Kez’et-dual, I have summoned you, treated with you, and you have accepted my sacrifice. I now demand the tribute and devotion of your breed. Serve me and my people to bring us to power unrivaled!” The priest finished in a measured frenzy, knowing that to lose control was to give up his life.

The demon Kez’et-dual cocked its head on its long neck, hissed, and revealed row upon row of pointed teeth - like a shark’s - as he opened his mouth, which was nothing more than a hinged flap on the front of his ovoid face. His large flat nose looked like a pasty hunk of skin and it flared wide, as he scented the air and the magic surrounding him. With a mind of its own, a long snake-like tongue flicked out between his bloodstained teeth and sought something.

The assembled chanted louder and stronger, slim grey bodies swaying in time, feeling the strength of the trapped being. They prepared the next sacrifice to be shoved from the tower built next to the circle. They would not break the wards by crossing the lines or breaking the carefully etched runes that were burned directly into the rock bed.

“What would you have of me?” Kez’et-dual hissed, still eating from the body under his clawed feet.

“We would have your knowledge and help opening the gates of Hell itself to bring more of your kind to this world. They will be our mighty army, conquer lands, and mate with the fae of this realm to create a new race of both worlds! We demand you do this, by right of allegiance and might! We will bring you sacrifices of virgins and children, holy men and pure women. We shall hunt a unicorn for you to feast upon!” The priest was now caught up in his fervor and raised his arms to the dark roof of the cavern. This was the holy temple where his ancestors first raped the dark fae of their energies, so that the Troöds’ magics would continue to grow. The shadow Aeifain had been corrupted, and it led to the demise of their race.

Kez’et-dual growled out a few words, and the priest thought he heard, “I prefer whores and sinners, much tastier when your meat has fat, not just gristle.” Then Kez’et-dual’s hand shot out and tore the throat out of the slim dusky-skinned Troöd. The other hand followed and scooped up the body, lifting it over the glowing runes, blood pouring out, drizzling over the magic etchings and spattering the closest of the chanting crowd. A gasp rose from the crowd and the Second Priest stepped forward, waving his arms to keep the crowd chanting its protective words. He was now High Priest and turned to the circle, untying his ritual robe and exposing his nakedness to the demon as the previous High Priest had done. He watched as Kez’et-dual pierced the abdomen of the still living priest and pushed his claws upward into the soft cavity under the ribs, tearing upward, breaking the ribs, pulling them free in gory strings from the rest of the body and raising them to his mouth.

“You are our servant!” the new High Priest demanded of Kez’et-dual, trying to look formidable in the face of the demon that just reached across the strongest magic circle in the living memory of the priest’s people and ate the old High Priest.

“Of course,” Kez’et-dual growled, “you believe and I follow what you tell me you believe. This guy,” Kez’et-dual held up the head and spine of the old High Priest, a kidney falling to the ground, “he just said some wrong word, and his heart wasn’t right, and his mother fucked some nice guy once. He was all wrong, so I had to eat him.” He reached down, grabbed the fallen organ and stuffed it into his mouth as if to prove the point. “See? I didn’t even hurt the circle you guys took weeks creating.” Kez’et-dual reached over and wiped the blood off the glowing runes, and the newly raised priest stepped back as the demon’s overly jointed fingers caressed his toes. “That blood will come out with no problem. I can even lick it up, or you can give me a nice child, or a blonde maiden to mop it up. Whatever.”

The crowd watched as the demon swiveled its head to regard them, picking his teeth with one of the dead man’s three fingers, and they each hoped that he was not choosing his next feast. A demon summoned from another realm was bound to obey, but the Troöd summoners looked at each other, unsure for the first time in decades.

Rondarius the Foul turned from scrying upon his ancient rival in the murky water of the well and spat into the face of the rotting corpse that stood next to him, holding a tray of moldy cheese and sour wine. He slapped it out of the creature’s rotting hands and sent the tray spinning across the room. A skinny dog darted forward to eat the fallen cheese, only to come face to face with three hissing rats that bit at her face and neck. The bitch ran back under her master’s chair with her tail between her legs. Rondarius screamed into the night under the broken roof of the smithy that barely protected him from the storm.

“Why should that piece of fetid shit get such adoration? Those Ancient Troöd progeny are idiots. Their magical ancestors would cut off their own breasts and cocks, if they had any, if they knew they had spawned such gullible imbeciles! How can they not know? They did not summon Kez’et-dual; he was already in this world. He has been here since the day I was freed from my imprisonment. I was bricked inside the wall when the fools opened the portal he came through! It was that portal that freed me. He just heard them calling to him. They thought he came from somewhere else, but he didn’t. They have no control of him at all!” Rondarius ranted to the dead man who shuffled towards the tray that had deserted him, his hands held out in front of him. Rondarius’ wispy white hair flew as he turned and stormed over to a broad table covered with magical paraphernalia. His bony hands scattered powders, bottles, and odd pieces of mummified parts as he searched for something.

“He has them now. He has the army he sought for the past four score years. Well, I have my army too. The Talisman saw to that. I will not let that pretender take my glory and power. I will rule this world, not some foreigner! Aha!” He cackled as he found what he had been looking for, a small silver platter carved with a spidery script that was faint and old. He held it high over his head and hooted. “I was imprisoned by them, now I shall bring my revenge upon them!”

He clutched the valuable artifact to his chest and looked around the room with a wild and paranoid gaze. The animated cadaver was picking up the remains of the cheese as rats fought for it, biting at the zombie’s fingers, and running away with pieces that they tore off.  The necromancer kicked at the undead servant and, a piece of its rotted flesh stuck between his toes and sandal.

“Get up, you heap of trash!” Rondarius screeched and slapped the tray from the creature’s hands again. “Get up and find me eggs. Blood eggs; make sure they are blood eggs. Now, go now, leave the damned cheese.” The stupid zombie watched as the tray spun across the room and, with what would be as close to a sigh as the dead could do, turned and left the room to do as his master commanded.

When the zombie returned, Rondarius sat slumped in his throne-like chair, his head was in his hands as he leaned on the one remaining armrest. He sobbed and mucus dripped from his nose and over his lips. He looked up when he heard the sound as an egg dropped and smashed on the stone floor.

The zombie stood in front of him, its arms full of broken and whole eggs. Its flesh was torn from chicken spurs and beaks, and the beast was littered with chicken spoor. Rondarius leapt up and yelled, “Don’t move!” at his undead servant, who shivered and straightened to tighten its deteriorating muscles. Another egg fell to the floor. Rondarius, watching the hope of his spell plummet, screamed and charged towards the zombie.

He ran the five feet to the undead horror and skidded to a halt, stopping in front of his creation and stared at the remaining unbroken eggs cradled by his servant for long minutes before he began to move with painstaking care. He plucked three eggs from the arms, then took one more as an afterthought, carefully carried them to the table, and set them in a tarnished silver tray.

He turned to the undead that was still standing still, and staring straight ahead. He stalked towards it, hands clenched at his sides, and stopped in front of it. In a flurry of temper, he screamed and flailed at the thing. Eggs broke and flew in all directions, a tooth sailed to the left, and hanks of hair fluttered to the ground. Panting, Rondarius stopped as suddenly as he started.

“Good work, Vicktor,” he said. “You may eat the dog.”

He turned back to his worktable as the zombie growled and lurched towards the skinny dog that was trying to lap up the broken eggs on the floor. The dog yelped and ran from the room, the zombie followed in cold pursuit.

Rondarius broke three of the blood eggs into the silver tray, poured in some wine, and added what appeared to be random portions of different herbs and body parts of small animals. He stirred the whole concoction with a fresh cut branch from an olive tree. The necromancer chanted words from a forgotten language, and began his spell, the spell that would harness the energy of the Talisman and awaken the awareness of a God to Rondarius’ existence. A spell that Rondarius had once written while trapped behind a wall, in an alcove no larger than a farmer’s outhouse. He had written it in his own blood in letters smaller than his fingernail. It had covered every inch of his tomb.

Far away, the earth churned. Insects scrambled free of their long sleep. The bodies of the dead heard the call. Something deep inside them forced them to stir and they awoke, clawing their way free of their earthly prison confines. Other dead answered also, darker things, more powerful things, things that had never wanted to die. These did not lurch and lumber across the countryside to answer the call; rather they moved swiftly and killed as they went, feeding to make themselves stronger to better serve the powerful necromancer who woke them against their will, and demanded their servitude.