Chosen

Kline peered down the corridor, his left hand hidden under his cloak and resting on the hilt of his dagger.  It wasn’t that he was afraid, just…well, a little nervous.  He wasn’t a Deathspeaker yet.  In fact, he had several months of preparation before he would be inducted into the organization.  Trainees were forbidden to witness most of the secret goings on of the group, but he had been invited to the ceremony about to take place.  THAT made him nervous.

The corridor was damp and smelled strongly of mold and oil.  Torches sputtered in sconces along the walls, sending up faint plumes of greasy smoke.  With nowhere to go, it hung in the air, creating a haze that burned the eyes and throat.  Thought it was out of sight, at the end of the corridor was a door.  Once through that door he would be in a meeting room.  He’d never been down here before, and his curiosity was one of the reasons he’d decided to come. 

Kline wasn’t even sure where ‘here’ was.  Six months ago he’d been a lowly cleric of Melkor in Knightsford, a small city in the wilds of Barony Hindragel.  One day as he’d been performing his drudge duties he’d been approached by a woman calling herself Adena.  After several conversations (during which she asked him many uncomfortable and pointed questions) over the next few days, Kline had agreed to ask permission of the local Painmaster to accompany Adena on her journey back to her temple.  He had never met a woman like her; she paid attention to him, and seemed genuinely interested in him.  He’d spent his life as the butt of rude jokes because of his appearance.  Girls shied away from him and called him names.  He knew it wasn’t his fault his face was partially covered by a scarlet birthmark, or that his skin was scaly and prone to flake off, but he hated them for it all the same.  The acolytes of Melkor had raised him, taken him in as an orphan and made him one of them. 

He and Adena had been on the road for three days.  He’d prepared a light meal and began his nightly prayers with Adena.  She’d gotten up from her supplications and gotten something out of her pack.  The next thing he knew he’d felt a sharp pain in his neck.  When he tried to stand he’d fallen flat on his face.  Desperately trying to get up, he’d rolled over to see Adena standing over him, a long wickedly carved talon in her hand.  As darkness enveloped him she had knelt down beside him and gently stroked his forehead, whispering “Sleep now, child of darkness.”  Kline had not seen Adena since that night.  He’d awoken in an ancient underground complex of caves and corridors.  The complex was the home of the Deathspeakers, a cult of Melkor, and he’d been informed that he would be inducted into that group.  They’d said he had shown promise, that only the elite of the elite were invited to join.  With no other options, he had readily agreed.

He made his way down the corridor.  The smoke from the torches almost made him cough and he was forced to squint, eyes watering.  The last few feet to the door were dark; no torches lit this end of the corridor, and he would have ran straight into the door if his hand had not been stretched out in front of him.  He stood there for a few seconds, steeling himself for what was to come, then rapped sharply on the door three times.

A small slit opened in the door, allowing a flickering red bar of light to play over his face, and he heard a muffled voice on the other side.  The slit was closed, and the door creaked slowly open.  Someone grasped his elbow and dragged him through the doorway.  The stench of sulfur assailed his nostrils as he peered around.

The room was a small oval, maybe 30 feet across on the long axis.  There were eight cloaked and hooded figures inside.  One of them pushed the hood back from its face, revealing the one they called Phorcys.  Phorcys was one of the High Priests; Kline had never spoken to him, but had heard many whispered stories.  Everyone seemed to be afraid of Phorcys.

“You’re late, Kline.”  The High Priest’s voice was a sibilant hiss.  “You need make no excuse.  I assume you are wondering why you are here?”

Kline nodded, his voice having deserted him.

“Have you never wondered why you were brought to us?  You, a sniveling acolyte performing slave work in a weak shrine to the Dark One?  What purpose could you possibly serve for us?”  Phorcys hesitated a moment, apparently enjoying Kline’s discomfort.  “You are here not for your ability nor your power, but because of the blood that runs through your veins.  The blood passed to you by a creature of the darkness, the creature that raped your mother and instilled a part of himself in her that one day became you.  We are here tonight to harvest that blood.  In the process you will either die, or you will earn your birthright.”  Phorcys turned and motioned to two of the other priests.  Kline fumbled frantically for the door, fear almost overcoming him.  He was seized by the arms, rough hands picked him up and began to strip him naked.  He tried to reach his dagger but it was pulled away from him.  They took him, struggling and screaming, and laid him across the block of cold black stone in the center of the room.  Through the fear  clouding his brain he saw the arcane symbols carved on the stone block, the blood (both old and fresh) that had cascaded down its sides and collected into a small trough covered by a rusted iron grate.  In a few seconds he was shackled across the block, naked, with arms and legs stretched wide.  A rough leather gag was buckled around his head and he gnashed his teeth, chewing desperately against it to no avail. 

Phorcys stood over him, a stone knife in his hand.  The other priests arranged themselves into a circle around Kline and began chanting a prayer to Melkor.  They were joining their powers to cast a spell.  Phorcys drew the blade across his own palm, drawing blood and letting it drip onto Kline’s forehead.  He also began to chant, casting a spell, and slowly raised the knife in his injured hand. 

As the chanting grew louder, the rough stone walls of the chamber seemed to ring with the power of the prayer.  Dark ropy shadows seemed to slither along the surfaces of the stone and the altar itself.  The muscles in Kline’s neck tightened as he strained to scream.  The chanting reached a crescendo and abruptly stopped.  The priests stood stock still but the shadows continued to swirl slowly about.  Phorcys, eyes seeming to burn with red fire raised the knife higher.  He drew his lips back into the rictus of a smile as Kline stared up at him, delirious with fear.  The High Priest’s eyes widened even further and with a screech drove the knife downward into Kline’s chest.

Kline’s mind almost ruptured with the pain as his body convulsed.  He felt the blade dig through his heart as his vision faded to red.  He felt himself being consumed by the agony as his blood was drawn from his body by the force inhabiting the chamber.  Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw what awaited him.  He screamed.  And screamed, and continued screaming as everything he knew faded to black.

 

When his eyes opened again, he thought he was in blackness still.  Slowly, ever so slowly, the walls of his cell came into focus.  There was the box containing his robes, his dagger hung on the wall, the chamber pot sat in the corner.  There was a single black candle burning on the small, rickety writing desk.  His rough straw mattress was as uncomfortable as ever.  He groaned and passed his hands over his eyes to clear them.  His throat felt parched, as if drink hadn’t passed his lips for several days.

“It wasn’t a dream.”  The voice was quiet and calm with the ring of authority at the bottom of it.

With a start Kline sat straight up, then wished he hadn’t.  His body ached all over and his wrists, mouth, and ankles were scored by friction burns.  He rubbed his eyes again, then probed at his chest with his fingers.  There was no wound there, though the area was tender and inflamed.  He looked down and saw a small shape burned into his flesh in the shape of an hourglass.

“You passed the test, Kline.  You’re very much alive, though I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it through or not.”

Kline squinted and saw the man sprawled lazily on the stool in the far corner of the room.  His throat was sore and his voice came out as a squawk when he spoke.  He tried again, and managed the words this time.

“How long have I been lying here?”

The man chuckled.  “Here?  Two days.  You lay on the altar for five though.  Thirsty?” 

Kline nodded and the man picked up a small wooden pitcher and cup that sat at his elbow.  When he stood up Kline saw that he was of average height and dressed in plain clothes.  Stained green breeches were stuffed into scuffed, calf-high boots.  He wore a plain white shirt under a black vest, and his sandy hair was cropped short and uncombed.  He slowly walked toward the bed, poured a cup full of water, and drank it down in two gulps.  When he brought the cup down, Kline saw the glint of humor in his eyes.

“Sorry, Kline.  I’ve been waiting for you to awake so long I got a little thirsty myself.”  He poured another cupful and held it out.  “Here.”

Kline drank, the lukewarm water feeling cool on his throat.

“What happened to me?  What was it I saw?”

A grin quirked one corner of the man’s mouth.  “You saw your place of origin, and I imagine a few of the denizens who inhabit it.  As to what happened to you…”  The man shrugged and walked back to the corner to retrieve the stool.  He plunked it down beside the bed and sat on it.  “Perhaps I’d better start at the beginning.  Phorcys has been looking for one such as you for a very long time; he’s found several but you are the first to have survived the ritual.  You see, Kline, you have a very special bloodline.  Your mother was a priestess of the Dark One.  Your father was a creature of the Abyss.”  He spoke nonchalantly, as though he were asking the time.  “You’re a half-breed.  Sometimes the blood of the demon manifests itself early and destroys the child, sometimes nothing happens, and sometimes, as in your case, the demon inside the child can be awoken with a certain ritual.  Once your true powers are fully awakened, Phorcys will bend you to his will and you will be of great use to him.”  He stood up and gave Kline a friendly smile.  “Now, you need rest and healing.  I shall have someone look in on you.”  He clapped Kline on the shoulder and strode to the door. 

“Wait!”  Kline choked the word out and the man turned, one hand on the door.  “Wh-who are you?”

The man grinned and a malicious light glowed in his eyes.  He brought a hand up and ran his fingers through his hair, and Kline saw long, black talons in place of fingernails. 

“Call me Gan.”  He grinned again and was gone.

 

Gan strode through the hallways of the complex until he came upon his own chambers.  Though he spent very little time there, his status afforded certain luxuries.  There was a note pinned to his door.  He looked about him, then cautiously sniffed the paper.  There seemed to be no poison present so he ripped it down and unfolded it.  As he read an inhuman snarl escaped his throat.  It was a summons from Phorcys, that pompous pig in silk robes.  The man demanded an audience with him.  He crumpled the paper up and headed for the High Priest’s chambers.

 

Phorcys was expecting him, but he still made Gan wait for twenty minutes while he read and made notes in a book bound in human skin.  He did not offer Gan a chair.  Finally he laid his pen down and leaned back in his high-backed chair.  Phorcys was a vindictive, cruel man, and he enjoyed the displeasure of others.  Gan had no respect for him.

 

“How does our little half-breed?”  Phorcys took a sip of red wine from a crystal goblet and regarded Gan with his porcine eyes.

“It will take him some time to digest all that has happened.  What do you intend to do with him?”

The High Priest snorted.  “Do?  I intend to use him to his fullest potential.  When his usefulness is over I will sacrifice him.  His blood will prove valuable in dealing with others of his kind.”  He stabbed a finger at Gan.  “Not that it is any of your concern.  Your presence here is at my discretion, and your duties are at my whim.”

Gan bowed his head, rage seething in his brain, and it was all he could do to control his voice.  “You are correct, High Priest.”  He hesitated before adding “As always.”

 

Phorcys gave him a tight-lipped smile.  “Remember your place, Scourge.  You come and go, but I am the true power here.  You, Gan, will never be more than a wandering vagabond.  My work here inside the walls of this temple is much more important than you spreading the Word to others of your ilk.”

He picked up his quill and turned toward the tome he had been writing in.  “Now begone.  You have taken enough of my time.”

 

Once in the corridor Gan’s anger faded.  The High Priest’s words faded until they were barely a dim memory.  He made his way to his chambers and readied his gear for departure, then lay down on his cot to rest.  His dreams were delicious, full of death and pain.

 

Since childhood Gan had realized he was different than other boys his age.  He had been orphaned in an orc raid on the tiny farming hamlet where he had been born.  Taken in by a traveling cleric of Etrusca he had demonstrated a propensity for divine magic.  Incantations came easily to him, and he easily learned at a much faster rate than his fellow acolytes.  Etrusca’s clerics taught nobility and honor, and the martial arts, both armed and unarmed.  At the age of 16 he became a full-fledged priest.  His powers began to grow and he learned the arts of diplomacy and deception.  At age 15 he had committed his first murder on a fellow acolyte.  The other boy had taken a piece of bread from him at the evening meal.  Gan killed him in his sleep by strangling him with a wire.  He had blamed the murder on another who was subsequently flogged almost to death.  Gan watched the flogging and as he did, a dark seed that had been planted in his heart years before took bloom.  An evil whisper had sounded in his ears, beckoning to him, and he had succumbed eagerly.  From that moment on he served Etrusca in name, but his allegiance belonged to Etrusca’s greatest enemy, the dark god Melkor.  With his new master’s help he had risen quickly through the ranks of the priesthood.  Finally he was discovered and forced to flee, but not before murdering over 30 of Etrusca’s priests in a period of 5 years.  He delighted in their deaths by poison, blade, and magic, though oftentimes there were large gaps in his memory whenever he performed such an act.  He would sometimes awaken in a strange place with hands and clothes covered in blood.  After his exile from the church he was approached by the Deathspeakers.  The other members of the splinter cult left him alone, perhaps sensing that this one was even more evil and tainted than they themselves.  The dark whispers in his mind persisted and grew stronger, and he felt his power growing.  He took up a wandering existence, spreading the word of his master to those who listened.  Those who didn’t often never awoke from their next sleep.

 

It was fully a year before Gan returned to Phorcys’ compound, a year he had spent wandering.  He made a few preparations, bathed, and made his supplications.  He was barely halfway through his prayers when an acolyte delivered a summons. 

 

When Gan entered Phorcys’ meditation chamber the High Priest was seated behind his desk with an expression of smug satisfaction on his face.  Adena knelt beside Kline, who lay in the center of the circle on the floor near the back of the room.  The half-demon was naked and appeared to be unconscious.  His skin, now sooty gray, was scrawled with sigils which matched those around the edge of the circle.  Adena was tying his hand to the iron ring affixed to the floor.  His other hand and feet were already restrained.

 

Kline’s appearance had changed since Gan’s last visit.  His lips had shriveled and receded to reveal yellowed tusks, and two black horns, fully a hand’s span in length had sprouted from his forehead.  His nose had flattened and his hair was stringy and long.  A faint stench of brimstone was about him.  His shoulders had hunched slightly, he had grown fully six inches in height, and long talons had replaced his the fingernails on his knotted hands. 

 

Phorcys stood and walked slowly toward the circle, motioning for Gan to come closer.  “As you can see, Scourge, the half-breed has progressed far down his destined path.”  He almost spat Gan’s title.  “No matter, since tonight I will harvest his blood and his spirit, and I will do so with your help.  As much as it pains me to admit it, your knowledge in the realm of demons and their magicks will prove useful.  You will wield the knife.”

 

Gan lifted one eyebrow in surprise.  “You need my help, High Priest?”  Phorcys nodded.  “To what end do you harvest his blood?”

 

Phorcys cut him off with a sharp gesture.  “As I have told you before, my plans do not concern you.  Suffice it to say that this will be your last visit to my compound.  After you assist me in this ritual you will be exiled from here and sent to Barony Chandreskahr to serve the Deathspeakers there.”

 

“If I am to be exiled, why should I help you?”  Gan’s contempt dripped from his voice.  “If my reward for my service is punishment, then I shall take my leave of you now.”

 

The High Priest smiled cunningly.  “Because to deny my request is to risk falling from grace, something you know I would enjoy.  I would not hesitate to have you cut down before you got to my door.”  He gestured to Adena who drew a black knife with a long, thin blade from its sheath at her leg and moved to flank Phorcys, glowering at Gan.

 

Gan shrugged.  “So be it then.  Give me the knife and tell me what you need.”

 

Phorcys nodded and turned toward the rack upon which hung his collection of sacrificial instruments.  Gan grinned at Adena.  As Phorcys moved past her she suddenly turned and grabbed the High Priest by the throat.  As she did so she drove the dagger into his stomach, jerked it out, then kicked his feet out from under him.  With fluid grace she drew the blade across the back of his ankle to sever the tendon there, then straddled his chest and pressed the dagger against his throat, leaving a line of blood on his darkening skin. Unable to scream, Phorcys struggled but was quickly losing strength.  When he tried to gasp the words to a spell, Adena clamped her free hand over his mouth.

 

Gan strolled nonchalantly over and squatted on his haunches beside Phorcys.  He gently stroked the thinning hair back from the High Priest’s forehead as he softly uttered the words to an incantation.  Phorcys’ eyes rolled back and closed as he lost consciousness.  Gan stood and strode toward the inert form of the half-demon on the floor.  “Come, mistress of pain.  We have much to be done before Phorcys awakens.”  He knelt and began to free Kline from his bonds.

 

Working quickly Gan and Adena levered Kline off the circle and dragged Phorcys into it.  Adena cast a minor spell of healing that stanched the bleeding of the wound in his abdomen, taking care not to close it.  She then drew his tongue out and impaled both it and his nose on a splintery wooden skewer.  Blood welled up and ran down the High Priest’s throat until she cast another healing spell on his face.  Held in such a fashion Phorcys would be unable to speak, and each time he tried to draw his tongue into his mouth it would cause him excruciating pain.  She slashed the tendon behind his undamaged ankle and wrapped bandages around both of them to stanch the bleeding there as well.  Gan shackled him spread eagled across the circle and Adena cut the clothes away from his body, leaving him naked, and cast them into a pile beside the circle.  She would have a use for them later.  Gan carefully fitted an unusual apparatus across the fingers on each of Phorcys’ hands.  They were made of wire and wood, with a small steel crank at the end of each one.  He worked the crank until the wires were tight enough around each finger to cause them to swell and darken with blood.  They completed their work in silence.

 

A few minutes after their preparations were completed Phorcys’ eyelids fluttered and he let out an agonized, muffled moan.  Gan knelt beside him and drew a short dagger from his boot.  The High Priest’s face contorted and he tried to scream, then choked and coughed.  His eyes opened wide with terror and pain.

 

Gan ran the point of the dagger down the High Priest’s abdomen and casually sunk its tip an inch into the flesh above his waistline.  Phorcys tried to scream again but only a garbled moan came out.  Gan ran his finger up the blade of the dagger, collecting the blood that ran down its tip.  He held up his bloody finger and Adena ran her tongue along it, tasting the blood.  Her eyes shone with evil glee as she blew Phorcys a kiss from bloody lips.

 

“Adena says you’ve been eating too much sugar, Phorcys.  Your blood tastes like honey.”  Gan’s tone was that of a parent admonishing a naughty child.  “The good news is that you won’t have to worry about that much longer.”

 

He rose and walked to the desk, retrieving a small wooden crate from it.  “Phorcys, you intended to exile me, but I know you meant to have me assassinated.”  He sat the crate down where Phorcys could see it, then continued speaking as if he were calmly discussing the weather.  “I’m going to introduce you to misery tonight, but before I do so…meaning while your mind is still intact…I want you to know a few things.”  He motioned to Adena, who wheeled over an astrolabe stand.  The astrolabe had been taken out and replaced by a wooden cask.  A hole had been drilled in the side near the bottom and a long wick protruded from the opening.  The wick was supported by a wooden dowel, and the end of it hung down to within two feet of Phorcys’ forehead.

 

“You have become lazy about furthering our master’s goals and introducing him to those ignorant of his power.  As such, I have deemed you unfit for service.  Do not believe I am doing this to take over as the leader of the Bloodspeakers.”  He paused speculatively.  “They will answer to a higher being than myself.  I am merely a weapon in our master’s hand.  I am the paingiver, the point of his spear, and the deliverer of his words.  You meant to sacrifice the half-breed and then kill me.  Now I am going to cleanse you.”

 

He clapped a hand against the side of the casket.  “This will serve to keep you conscious.  Once it is full of water, it will allow a drop to fall on your forehead every few seconds.  When you pass out, it will help you come to much faster.  Now this”  he picked up the crate and opened it, carefully withdrawing a blotchy green lizard about five inches in length “is a little prize I had brought to me from the Savage Coast.”  He indicated the row of small spikes running down the reptile’s back.  “This is an Ozatl.  A most exquisite creature.  When in distress, its body makes a mildly potent acid, and forces it out the tips of these spikes.  The trick is, to put them in enough distress to ensure a good amount of the acid is exuded.  After enough exposure, it will dissolve flesh.” 

 

Adena handed him a tube made from parchment.  Gan inserted it into the wound in Phorcys’ abdomen.  He slid the lizard into the tube and slowly rolled it down, driving the creature into Phorcys’ body cavity.  Phorcys went berserk, saliva and blood flowing down his cheeks.  The cords in his neck constricted as he forced a wail from his throat.  Gan removed the tube and Adena expertly inserted a needle into the edges of the wound, suturing it closed.

 

“Now the good thing about this is that its skin also produces an agent that will numb you as he tries to find his way out.  You’ll know he’s there, but you won’t feel pain:  at least until that goes away, at which time parts of your internal organs will have been turned to liquid.”

 

Phorcys’ eyes were almost closed as he began to lose consciousness.  Gan turned to Adena.  “Painmistress, if you please?”  She nodded and left the room, returning with two buckets of water which she dumped into the casket.  The wick quickly swelled with moisture and a drop formed at its tip, hovered, then fell to splat against Phorcys’ forehead.  Immediately the High Priest’s eyes opened wide.  The glassy orbs were wild, and had an unhinged look.  The skin of his abdomen bulged as the Ozatl moved around, digging to find an exit.  His fingers were black now, and swollen to almost twice their size; the tip of one had burst open and blood flowed from it in a slow trickle.

 

Gan lowered himself to his knees and put one hand on Kline’s temple.  He whispered slowly, eyes closed.  When he stopped Kline’s body convulsed once, stiffened, then went limp again.

 

Phorcys was moaning, lolling his head back and forth.  The skin around the wound in his stomach was black with bruises which spread slowly outward.  The two clerics could see movement under the skin as the lizard trapped there grew more frantic.

 

Gan sighed and slipped an arm over Adena’s shoulders, turning her face to his and bringing them close.  “Alas, I must leave you my darling.  There is much work to be done tonight.  When Kline awakens he will know what has transpired.  Have no fear of discovery; the others will not oppose you.”  He kissed her deeply, then strode quickly toward the door.  Once there he turned and smiled at her.  Kline was beginning to stir.  Phorcys lay motionless now in the circle, his breathing labored and shallow.  He continued moaning deep in his throat, though his voice was leaving him quickly.  “I will return in a fortnight.  Put the maggots on his fingers in the morning.  Heal him only if you have to, to keep him from dying.  With your expertise I know you can keep him at death’s door for a long time.”  He paused and his smile disappeared.  “Upon you return if he is still alive you will be greatly rewarded.  If not, you will join him and in the same manner.”

 

Walking quickly down the corridor toward the exit from the complex.  He chuckled to himself.  An observer would have noticed his eyes glowing faintly crimson in the darkness, but there was noone to see.  Those who had disagreed with him were dead, murdered in their sleep by those whose loyalty he had gained.  He held up his hand and touched it to his face, feeling the wetness of  the blood spattered there.  He knew now that he had truly been chosen.