In the Darkest depths of the night layers, deep cave systems that might have well been called hell, an inhumane being crouched in the darkness. Its twisted form was hunched like a mantis. Watching. Waiting.
There was a faint crunch of gravel in the distance that caused its ears to prick up. Crunch. There it was again. A heavy echoing set of footsteps, accompanied by the clatter of a cart.
The creature, whose name was Gilver, salivated with recognition of the sound. “Kelters,” it faintly muttered into the darkness. Swallowing. “I haven’t eaten in days”.
Gilver looked down at the ugly withered stump on his right wrist. Once a normal human hand, the fingers had been mangled and twisted together like a gnarled ancient tree. It was a sign of magic overuse. “I can worry about the consequences after I’ve eaten.”
Closing his eyes, a vast space opened around him. Fractals of light that looked like shards of broken glass slowly danced around him. Some formed intricate networks, assembled together in panes that dragged his attention with gravitas.
These were aspects, building blocks of magic that could be assembled to cast spells.
His attention focused on the largest, and he pulled it closer.
Then he connected to his magic, the energy that resided in the centre of his core rushing out, pushing itself into the spell with force as it torrented through his being.
He faintly glowed red as his gnarled fingers elongated and morphed together, a sheen covering them as they stretched into the shape of a silver blade.
From his vantage point, he looked down into the cavern below.
A dark chasm split through the rock, carving a maw into the ground, across the darkness ran a narrow stone bridge, stretching from one crumbling edge to the other.
He didn’t have to wait long for his prey to appear, soon the convoy entered into the light of the luminous fungus that dotted the cavern, taking cautious steps onto the bridge.
The short creatures had matted black fur and long horse-like heads, eyes spaced far apart. They accompanied a rickety wooden cart, two at the front, two pushing the cart forward with their hands and a final two bringing up the rear. Six prey in total.
Gilver eagerly licked his lips, waiting until they reached the middle of the bridge where they would be unable to turn back.
“All are wretched under the eyes of god, I will do what I must to survive,” Gilver whispered as he looked at the thin bridge twenty feet beneath him. If he misjudged the jump, he would fall to his death. “No matter how much I risk my life!”
Heart pounding, he leapt off the cliff top, flipping forward as gravity brought him down. The bridge rushed closer and his thoughts slowed with tachypsychia*.
The hard ground met him as he slammed onto it, his legs absorbing some of his momentum and redirecting the rest as he rolled toward the convoy.
The kelters screeched as he leapt up to his feet, the dim light flashing off his blade as he swung it, arcing through the darkness as it claimed the first beast’s head like a reaper's scythe.
“Become my sustenance!” he yelled, flicking the grey blood from his blade as he dashed towards the next with superhuman speed.
The creatures finally broke free from their initial shock, scrambling back. The next one moved its arms in front of its face, a futile barrier his sword overcame as he cut through its forearms and neck with a single swing. Its body collapsed as it lost motor function.
Behind him, one of the kelters finally reacted, bucking him hard.
Gilver shot backward towards the edge, threatening to fly into the abyss. An almost instinctual pulse of fleshmancy pushed spurs of bone through the skin of his feet, granting barely enough traction to stop him before he flew into the chasm.
Wincing with the pain from his torn skin, he dug his feet in and leapt towards the kelter, bending his body midair to avoid its next kick. He crashed into it, knocking it and the one behind both off their balance.
With a fluid punch-like stab, he impaled both their hearts in one motion.
The final two kelters proved to be easy work, they were immature and slow to react as he vaulted over the cart and sent them to join their companions.
He glanced into the cart once to check its contents before he pushed it over the edge, watching in satisfaction as it plummeted down into the depths. Then he brought his sword over to his mouth, licking some of the grey blood off.
Silver tentacles sprouted from his back and stabbed into the beasts, pulsing with red light as the energy from the beasts absorbed into his body, making his veins glow purple.
Gilver gasped as the vibrant cocktail of energy flowed into him. He had long since given up food, sustaining himself only on the energy of his prey. This meal would tide him through the next warlock conclave.
“Oh yeah, I need to hurry, Conclave starts within the hour.” He frowned. He hoped Soul Stitcher wouldn’t force another apprentice on him. The last one hadn’t lasted very long.
He paused and looked down at his blade, taking a deep breath before releasing the spell, withdrawing the magic. The blade shrank and wrinkled, his fingers separating from each other as they regained roughly the right shape they had been before. “This is not the world for idealistic kids,” he whispered.
He would have to avoid using that spell again for a few days at least.
Gilver turned to the kelter and spat on its desiccated husk. “Nor does it belong to you.”
Setting a fast pace, he marched on towards the conclave—and whatever Soul Stitcher had in store for him. He may hate the conclave, but the consequences of being late were far worse.
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All too soon and with a bitter scowl, he reached the so-called devil's maw, a gloomy fortress that was headquarters to generations of warlocks, built into the side of the wall of one of the largest caverns in the abyssal barren that was the sixth-night layer.
Not pausing to look up, he stalked up the shined and well-worn stones that were the only marker of the path that led to the fortress.
It was vital that he stayed on this path as the protective magic of the fortress smote anyone who strayed, meaning invading soldiers could not launch an effective offensive easily.
Reaching a barred opening that was more a gaping mouth than a doorway, he fumbled along the edge, grasping for a metal bell pull that was hidden in the darkness. It was shaped like a knotted snake—mid-bite with a chain piercing its long tongue.
As he pulled it down, somewhere inside the fort, a bell tolled. Its deep reverberations felt like something was coming to an end. It was an odd premonition, he didn’t usually get feelings like this. Shivering, he wondered if it was a good or bad omen.
The bell slowly echoed into silence, he didn’t allow himself to breathe for a second.
Then with a loud screech of metal on metal, the portcullis that protected the devil's maw rose, the void beyond beckoning.
Straightening his hunched back and assuming a large towering posture, he put on a facade of confidence and walked into the void, the portcullis sealing his fate by silently sliding back into place with a gentle thud.
Gilver found himself in a long torchlit tunnel that stretched into the distance. As he walked forward, it seemed to elongate. Frowning, he remembered the method needed to get through. He closed his eyes. One could plod forever down this tunnel, however, the moment their eyes were closed, it became only a short hallway. “Stupid spatial magic,” he muttered.
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After a few minutes of walking forward, he felt something in the air change. Opening his eyes, he found himself in a fork, with two paths branching in front of him. The right path descended steeply, vanishing into the darkness, and the left rose sharply, disappearing into a warm orange light far above. He went right. It was down. Always.
At the very bottom of the right branch was an aged solid door, holes marred its surface from gouges so deep that they had penetrated right through. Idly he wondered what creature had been trying so desperately to leave.
He opened the door, revealing a well-lit cavernous arena. Hundreds of benches looked down upon a central pit, the walls marred by weapons and captured beasts. Often the fights held here had not stayed where they were meant to.
In the centre stood a tall, willowy creature with obsidian skin. Its whole body was gnarled and twisted like a decaying tree. Its head swept back into an almost tapered sharp point.
Upon his entry, the creature, known as Soul Stitcher, spotted him. Its angular face was marred by a wide smile full of pointy grey teeth. And two sunken gashes where eyes used to be.
Gilver shivered as he met its non-existent gaze, then it rasped loudly in a gravelly voice.
“Gilver Knine Kron, So nice of you to grace us with your presence!” it drawled, drawing out the last word.
Gilver grunted in acknowledgment, unwilling to give a verbal response.
Looking across the arena, he saw several groups of other warlocks sitting together on his right, most had congregated into two large groups, but there were a few solitary warlocks spaced out.
There were four main Warlock bloodlines, excluding the outcasted families, and of those four, only two actually remained with healthy populations. He was the last of his bloodline, the Krons, all the others having been wiped out several decades ago. His mind returned to his family, but he shook his head. It would not do to dwell on their deaths, those who might have been responsible were long gone.
The conclave arena was massive because there once were thousands of warlocks. However, twelve hundred years of holy crusades had slowly whittled that number to just over a hundred.
It was obvious they would never get back their previous numbers, but it was probably better that way because there would be no new civil wars with such a small population. Also, he did not fancy the competition he would face if there were more of his kind around.
Luckily the crusades had been a double-edged sword for the paladins, the ancient nemesis of the warlocks, both sides losing soldiers until they were forced to stop fighting.
They didn’t even have the numbers to defend their territories—which had receded. Each side reduced to a single layer of their previous twelve as more populous had claimed the old unused territory. The underground was a dog-eat-dog world.
He made his way across the seats to the other side of the conclave where the other warlocks had gathered, scowling as he recognised a few ugly faces whom he hoped had perished.
He continued past the largest groups, scanning the solitary figures until he spotted the one he was looking for. He then made his way to them and plonked himself down on the bench.
Tarron Vit Shan, his only friend among the warlocks, turned his horse-like face to Gilver. “Any luck hunting brother?”
Tarron was the last of the Shan bloodline, one of the other four main bloodlines. He and Gilver had that much in common, in fact, it was probably what had originally brought them together.
Gilver allowed himself a smirk before speaking, “Indeed, I found a Kelter convoy this morning, I painted the walls with them.”
Tarron let out a snort, his equivalent of laughter, as he slapped Gilver on the back. “You’ve better luck than me!” His expression went dark “I haven’t feasted in almost a month. Not much available for those with a kelter aversion. I had hoped Soul Stitcher had some leftovers. Sadly no luck there.” He pointed to a fresh pile of bones in the corner of the conclave.
Gilver looked over, they were human bones. He frowned in disgust, although he did not like humans, he preferred not to kill the race that had birthed his bloodline. It was a kind of taboo for the bloodlines to hunt the race who had birthed them.
All warlock bloodlines were birthed by other races. Krons from Humans, Shan from Kelters, Vorts from the Goliaths, and Nocks from the dwarfs. There were a few other outliers, like Soul Stitcher, who used to be Fenrik. Of course, warlocks were so twisted that none of their original races recognised them, so it was not like it mattered.
Gilver glanced around, tallying the members present. It seemed like only half of them were here on time.
Before he could ponder more upon that, Soul Stitcher spoke up, his rasping voice echoing through the colossal room unnaturally, hinting at a spell's usage.
“Our numbers are down. Several Fenrik hunting parties took out forty or so of us, leaving not even resurrectable corpses left.”
The conclave was filled with angry shouts as the warlocks made their outrage known. It wasn’t like they cared much for the missing, they didn’t. But it was not comfortable to think that someone had taken out half of them casually in one go. Especially as the Fenriks was Soul Stitcher's origin race.
Gilver frowned, this was very unusual. Fenriks had not been seen this far up in centuries. His frown deepened as he realised where this might be going.
Soul Stitchers' voices rang out again.
“I am no longer confident we can keep our ancestral territory safe, so I require each of you present to take a full copy of the mind seed and get back to your branch strongholds. I do not care if you don’t choose to honour your kind by making new conclaves, but I am placing an order that each of you in this room selects an apprentice to pass your teachings on. I have not managed to find recruits as I have been keeping the stronghold secure, so that is something you must do yourself.”
Gilver felt dark chains press tightly against his soul and mind as his soul oath recognised the order Stitcher had given. He was annoyed about the order, but that was paltry in comparison to the complete collapse of the warlocks.
Someone from the Nocks group spoke up in a deep dwarvish accent. “But what are you going tae do, how’ll you survive without us tae help protect the conclave?”
Soul Stitcher’s smile deepened, the hideous crack of his mouth in his thin face slowly stretching up further.
“I will wait until the first of the intruders reaches the inner sanctum and then I will redirect the fort's magic reservoirs into my mind space and use it to power a detonation spell”
There was a collective gasp as the warlocks understood the implications, everyone immediately going silent. Generations of thousands of individuals' magical energy had been invested into the magic stores that powered the fort’s great protection magics. The detonation would be unparalleled in size, akin to the power of gods.
No one tried to argue with Soul Stitcher’s decision, for this was not something he would decide upon lightly. Also they all secretly wanted to witness the size of the explosion that would be unleashed.
Gilver asked the first question, breaking the silence: “Is this all, have you decided to forgo the usual trials conclave entails?”
Soul stitcher gave a shrill laugh at his dismissive attitude, “We will not need them, after all it will be challenging enough escaping alive.”
This time it was a Vort who spoke up. “YOU MEAN WE’RE ALREADY SURROUNDED??!! You daft old fool, why did you invite us here if the ship was already sinking?”
Soul Stitcher didn’t verbally respond, he just carried on laughing. When he eventually stopped a few minutes later, he spoke into the uncomfortable atmosphere he had created.
“Indeed we are, they will not put too much effort into catching you though, it’s me they want. And it’s me they’ll never get!”
The spaces where eyes had then glowed white with magic, and everyone felt a long-dormant mental tether they had almost forgotten they had pulse.
Gilver closed his eyes as what looked like a spider crawled out of the mental tether in his mind, he could tell it did not mean him harm but still shivered as it crawled through his mind to his mind space and took up position beside his other spells.
The mind seed was extremely large, it was vaguely spider-like in shape and so complex that he felt his mind start to strain as he looked into its infinite depths, where his other spells looked like fractured panes of glass, the mind seed looked like an infinitely spiralling hole that seemed to suck into his mind.
Sensing the start of a headache, he opened his eyes and left his mind space.
Soul stitcher spoke up again, “This is the coveted mind seed, many of you will not know what it actually is or what it signifies, but it is the culmination of our species long history of efforts, a spell-thought construct capable of shifting itself to suit any individual, containing the construction parameters of all spells discovered by warlocks. If cultivated carefully it is capable of taking root in your consciousness and providing many valuable revelations about improving your other spells. I kept them from you because I felt other races would be less likely to attack us to torture them out of you if you were unaware of it.”
Gilver considered the gift, this was perhaps the most valuable thing he had ever been given, and he could see why it was not given out lightly. The mind seed would allow him to form spells from a collection of thousands of researched aspect combinations.
Gilver stood up. There was no point waiting around. Who knew how large that explosion would be? He wanted to be nowhere near when it occurred, although maybe he would come back to look at the damage after it had occurred, but he wanted to get home desperately first as it would attract large amounts of attention.
Seeing his example, the others followed suit, filling out behind him and Tarron. Upon reaching the exit of the conclave, he turned and gave a nod of respect for Soul Stitcher. It was not a sacrifice he would willingly take, but he would give his thanks all the same, no matter how much he hated the ancient warlock.
Then he turned and left the arena.
When he reached the entrance, he came face to face with an advancing army, and an onslaught of thunder as they were constantly smote with bright energy such that he couldn’t even make out the invaders' appearances through the bright flashes.
Luckily there was a secret exit out the back that Soul Stitcher had told him about many years ago. Motioning to follow him he led the other Warlocks back into the fortress to find it.
The captain may go down with his ship, but it’s not an obligation for the crew.
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