V. BLOOD MOON
Osric tightened his scarf against the wintry gales, pausing to turn towards the grey skies above him. While cold, there was no hint of snow just yet. The courtyard of Aglaë castle was aglow with autumn foliage that danced in the chill wind like a blazing inferno. The feeble light of the sun glistened off of the glass tower, a twenty-story monolith built in the manner of men before the collapse, made of stone and walls of glass over a steel frame. He still opted to wear the black silk tippet of the academy at Asketill, complete with long, hooded hempen robes and the purple sash with insignia of his former position; the head instructor of the school of black arts. Days like this often reminded him of his days on campus, bringing with it the faint twinge of regret, and a tight knot in his chest.
He put his hands into his sleeves and continued on, his military operations were done for the time being; the snow was not an issue in that regard, he’d still rather not see snow for at least a while more. The halt in military advancement came about due to a lack of a military and an inability to strike at his target. The beasts and Demons of the Dusk served their purpose well enough, but amounted to little more than a natural disaster. He could generally point them in a direction, but they were neither capable nor had the inclination to follow more nuanced order. Then there was that damnable forest, shut off from the world at large by ancient magic he could not begin to unravel. Any push into that bewitched wood would leave him to wander till death or spit him back out hundreds of miles away from where he started.
Osric briefly wondered how Xanavene fared, he’d left nothing but the most minimal of garrisons in the capitol, no doubt his enemies had already razed his homeland to the ground. While unfortunate, the ruling class of Xanavene had never looked after her people much to begin with, and in the grand scheme of things, such ideals as nationality and borders were irrelevant.
He brushed a strand of his silken hair from his face and cast his golden eyes across the courtyard. The stone pathway was littered with fallen leaves and the occasional limb of his undead staff that bustled about to carry out his directives. He now relied exclusively upon the reanimated corpses of the townsfolk he had slain, his army from Xanavene completely annihilated in the journey here. While the silent obedience of the undead was preferred anyway, they were limited in what they could do, particularly on the battlefield.
Osric's meandering stroll came to a stop at a circle of stone benches around a brackish koi pond; a now dead willow tree leaned over the still waters. He inhaled deeply the scent of decayed foliage, and exhaled a cloud of vapor. Autumn had always been a favorite season, serving as the start of the school year and harvest festivals. Osric reached into the satchel at his waist and retrieved his flute. He placed it to his lips and began to play a lilting tune of sorrow and despair that seemed to capture the essence of the songbird at dawn; only the morning never came. Enraptured in his playing, he let the music carry him through the dead garden, his eyes shut to the world around him.
Unconsciously, he allowed his magic to flow out of his breath and manifest as the song, a song he neither heard or played before. Leaves fell from their trees, disintegrated and floated away as dust on the wind before they hit the ground, a ground now coated in creeping frost. Overhead, clouds thickened and darkened, mist turned to rain, rain turned to sleet and finally a gentle snow as the sun was smothered by blackness. The bows of trees quickly filled with powder and icicles as several inches of snow blanketed the garden in an instant. His miserable tune froze the water of a nearby fountain, leaving a sculpture of ice that seemed like it had merely been frozen in time. Birds flew down and perched upon the frozen water and trees, adding a sweet chorus to his wintry song of despair.
Black flames erupted before him and melted a circle of snow. The path split, and the birds took flight in a start, leaving only Osric’s haunting melody. He continued to play, oblivious, as a man rose up from the fissure before him. The ground closed beneath the robed wraith, leaving the soil scorched and barren. The frail figure was shrouded in the blackest of black, a frayed hood cloaked his face, leaving only a beard that fell nearly to his waist. His hands were mere bones covered in skin; geometrical black tattoos covered his visible flesh.
Osric ended his song; the clouds retreated as the snow returned to the heavens whence they came. Leaves rose from the packed soil to return to their branches under the impotent rays of the sun behind the overcast skies. He slowly opened his eyes to the muted autumn sun; they briefly held what one would call humanity, before the fire of madness slowly returned to them. They shined like polished gold, as a grin crept across his lips. The old man grunted and folded his hands in his sleeves before him.
“Master, this is most unexpected.” Osric put away his flute and bowed in deference to the figure.
“Silence Osric.” The old man’s booming voice sent shockwaves across the garden. “Why does thy current endeavor still surprise me so? Thou hath taken a nation and reduced it to ashes, populating the ruins with undead and The Dusks spawn; yet here I find thee, playing music in blissful ignorance to the hell thou hath unleashed. I know not if it is arrogance or the mark of a callous heart.”
The old man lowered his hood to reveal a face covered in the same geometric tattoos of his arms, his head completely shaven and his eyes like jet black coals. Osric regarded his former master with a look of nostalgia, a sly grin upon his face. His teacher by contrast was quite severe in his expression.
“Master Drogo, was it not you who introduced me to the wretches of the lost civilization?” Osric replied with a whimsical almost mocking tone.
“This is no jest Osric!”
Shockwaves roared past Osric at his teacher’s outburst. He shielded his face as his robes fluttered about in the mad wind. Osric sighed and took a seat upon the nearest bench, looking up to his teacher in anticipation of further reprimand.
“I do not jest master, I am taking the first steps to freeing our race, to return reason and sanity to the planet. Did we not spend hours discussing this very thing?”
“...Yes, but the stakes always kept such collusions at talk, it was never meant to become anything else. Abigor is the antithesis to life; no good can come from this Osric.”
A six-eyed crow with reptilian tail and legs perched itself next to Osric. “I do not like to waste good ideas on idle fantasy. Was it not you who taught me ‘do or do not’? Were you not the one who claimed there are no taboos? Only those fools from The Order would talk as you are now. What has become of you?” Osric stroked the crows head and fed it scraps of flesh that he had found on grounds.
Drogo disappeared in a wisp of smoke and reappeared next to Osric on the bench, causing the crow to take flight with a shriek. “These are indeed my creeds and teachings, but I fear you have over extended yourself this time my apprentice, forces beyond space and time conspire against this ill-fated race of man and elf. To go against their machinations will not only end in death, but a lifetime of suffering followed by an eternity of agony. Neither Libitinia nor I can protect you now, the Asketillians have allied themselves with Briternica and The Order; they pressure us all to reveal your location to them. If we continue to remain obstinate, they may feel the flames the rest of the world set beneath their heels.”
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“And if they must burn, so shall you. Yes, yes, I am aware of the politics in that damned valley.” Osric hissed, and turned a questioning gaze upon his teacher. “The question is will you betray me? Or have you done so already?”
“The necromancers are a few and isolated people,” Drogo rose in fury; waves of energy emanating from him killed the nearby flora and turned the waters black. “How dare thee accuse me or any other of breaking the sacred blood oaths?”
“Then why have you come?” Osric asked flatly.
“Thou need take on an apprentice of your own, before the sun rises on the thirty-first of Bloodmoon.”
Osric laughed at his former master’s discomfort. “But I have taken an apprentice…”
“That woman is no student; nay, that being is neither mortal nor woman.” Drogo paused, biting his tongue as if having said too much.
“She was your student, wasn’t she?” Osric pressed.
“Ages past, yes, though she is more versed in the ways of magic and Dusk than even I.” He shook his head, “She is more ancient than any, it’d be best to use caution amongst that one.”
Osric frowned at the flimsy pretense. He knew just as Drogo did that taking an apprentice would put an end to the conflict. He would need to be fully invested in his student if he were to pass on his substantial knowledge.
“I cannot, I’ve too much work to be completed.” Osric waved a dismissive hand in Drogo’s direction. “Now is an inopportune time for the passing of trades.”
“Then my friend, you know what fate awaits you.”
Osric chuckled and clicked his rings together beneath his chin. “So I am constantly reminded; a pity one cannot commit suicide of the soul.”
“Is that not what thou hath already done?” Drogo disappeared in lazy cloud of acrid black smoke, leaving a smoldering black ember on the scarred soil.
No sooner had he left, Morana stepped out of thin air, her slender arms were wrapped in tattered sleeves affixed by tarnished silver armlets. Her skirt bore a slit all the way up, exposing her pale thigh and whispers of the lace undergarment beneath. The road worn fabric fell off her curves onto the ground like an ink spill. Her shimmering black hair seemed to swallow the wintery light, adorned with snowflakes and ice, her skin was as white as fresh fallen snow; lips as bloodstains on white marble. Osric’s whimsical mood instantly evaporated with her arrival. He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eyes and quickly turned away. The feelings of dread welled up from the pit of his stomach at her passing, a sort of primal terror followed her; yet, so too did other primal urges.
“So, he lives yet,” She purred, her voice conveying equal parts whimsy and contempt, “fear runs deep in that one. Such an existence seems so meaningless.”
“How much have you heard?” Irritation returned to Osric’s voice at Morana’s sudden intrusion.
“Enough.” Her smile was both a challenge and a provocation as she glided towards the bench. “You certainly are an arrogant one to consider me your apprentice.”
Osric could not shake the words of his former master, that the woman was not mortal, but rather some sort of being. He looked up and shivered, her glacial blue eyes were boring into his very soul. He squirmed and caught the hint of a smile cross her lips. He wanted to ask her what and who she was, but the fear she evoked left him speechless.
As if she had read his mind, Morana’s expression softened and the aura of fear slowly abated. She idly curled her hair about a slender finger, her lips parted slightly, daring him to ask his unspoken question.
“You’re like a child,” Her voice held a hint of disappointment at his silence, “or a puppy, so bold yet fearful of the wide world you are so eager to explore.”
“I haven’t time for this nonsense.”
Osric stood and examined the black waters of the pond, eager to be away from her. Morana became a wispy cloud of grey smoke, slipping through space, she reappeared next to him to place her hands upon his shoulders. Chills ran down his spine and he shivered involuntarily. It took all of his will to keep from leaping away and fleeing the woman in a panic.
“Nor do you have time for apprenticeships.” She sang into his ear.
Osric growled and he swiped at the water. “What do you know of my current predicament?”
Morana massaged Osric’s shoulders. “You are no Master; there are things I have learned; things I have done that you only have the barest of comprehension of. You still rely upon elemental spells in combat, though you no doubt know every dark spell in the library of Asketill and the lost texts of the Hinterlands.”
Though the terror persisted, he did not fight her massaging touch. “You know the limitations of black magic and hexes the same as I. It is unwieldy in the heat of combat.”
She abruptly stopped her caresses and took a step back. He glanced over his shoulder, curious as to why she stopped. She drew a black, layered glyph in the air before her, it vanished and reappeared overhead ten times larger. A colossal hole opened up in the sky to reveal the starry blackness of space beyond. The air was whipped up into a brief frenzy as it was blown out into the vacuum. A distant star out in infinity grew brighter and larger over the course of less than a minute. Soon it became a flaming meteor with several satellite meteors orbiting it as it hurtled towards them. It rapidly grew in size as it drew nearer until it filled the southern sky. Osric looked on in horror, falling over in shock.
“Impossible… you spoke no incantation, that spell requires blood sacrifices, precise knowledge of the stars, and orbits of planets in our solar system. This level of summoning takes months!” Osric turned, horrified to see Morana’s indifference at the act. “How…!”
Morana grinned devilishly as the meteors plunged into the atmosphere, creating a hellish glow against the serene backdrop of space. She took on the look of death incarnate; her eyes were glowing orbs of pure hate and malice. Her skin, once porcelain smooth and supple now looked like leather left for years in the sun. Of the five forbidden spells in the mortal realm, the one she had so effortlessly cast was the deadliest. Simply titled “Meteor”, it had the potential to destroy the planet, or at the very least wipe out all life on it.
“Remember when you gagged me with the sun? Payback you son of a bitch!”
He scampered away in a panic, his eyes fixated on the flaming rock that would spell doom for all of Silex. Prayers to the saints, long since forgotten, found purchase on his breath once more; memories of a better life flashed before his eyes in an instant as he begged the gods he so scorned to send down their grace and save their progeny from the madness he’d set loose upon them.
However, there was nothing, the only sound was his racing heart and Morana’s maniacal laughter as she so pitilessly called forth Armageddon for the sake of vengeance. His fear quickly boiled over as rage coursed through his veins. The gods cared not for the happenings of men upon the spheres, so long as it did not affect them. They would watch Silex burn and its people become food for the denizens of The Dusk; his prayers were only so much wasted breath. His weakness disgusted him, to go crawling back to those impotent children at the first sign of trouble; his resolve was stronger than that. He had given up all he was, all he had and everything he could have ever been to come this far. He had no other option but to move ahead.
Osric shakily rose to his feet, fueled by hunger and fury as animal instinct urged him to curl into a ball and cry for gods or a mother to come save him. However, his mother was lost for eternity, and the gods were contemptible cretins who created for the sake of a minor diversion.
His body coursed with dark energy, fueled by his hate, his fear, his sense of failure and loss. He gathered those energies into his hands and saw within them the power of life and death, constantly in motion yet never in conflict, for without one the other cannot exist. He saw once more the visions of a time before the Eloi’s tyranny, but they were inconsequential, their power to enrapture him was no longer there. Only hate remained, only a desire to rip the tongues from the mouths of those babes that sought to cripple his species, to plunge their screaming carcasses into the depths of the very sun that they worshipped and feast upon the charred remains.