As his home smoldered around him, as the blood grew sticky beneath his feet, Gerard dragged another charred corpse into position. He returned to the book—his guiding light through this darkness that had, without warning, swallowed his life, the channel his fear and anger could run through towards something constructive, something more final. For the anger that pierced his young heart and the tears that had run dry against his cheeks would soon turn into something more: vengeance.

Reading from the book, he recited the incantation, his hate-filled voice cutting through the perverse serenity of the night, growing louder and louder into a thunderous crescendo, “From brimstone cometh, from blood and sacrifice take root upon this plane, bring torture and famine, suffering and malice, my soul as your offering, Darkness from the hells ascend!”

Nothing.

Nothing happened. Nothing changed.

He repeated the incantation again and again, growing more frantic with each repetition. He checked the book desperately, flipping through its tattered pages as if the answer would suddenly appear. He adjusted the corpses, adjusted the wording, his tone—trying to infuse the wording with malice, hatred, fear, desperation. His voice, already hoarse, whittled away to silence, leaving him alone in the moonlight.

Nothing.

He looked down at his hands and the pile of corpses beyond them—the corpses of his friends and family, desecrated in one last desperate blunder.

Magic was never going to be the answer. Magic had fled westward, drawing with it the prosperity all had enjoyed. And chasing its fleeting tail were the marauders and bandits who had reduced Gerard’s home to ash as they too moved westward.

He threw the book to the ground. The dusty old tome split at the spine and slumped open. It had been well hidden, well enough to survive the looting.

Gerard had always been suspicious of the vicar. It seemed unlikely that Blindburn could have survived so long without the aid of magic. No mage had ever revealed themselves to him yet strings of coincidences can be noticed by the sharp of mind.

He’d found the leatherbound tome with “FORBIDDEN” scrawled across its cover in the ruins of the church and hoped that the contents would somehow save him. Its nature was appalling, profane rituals so foul they would forever taint the memory of Blindburn’s peace. To think this was what was required for safety. Yet, luckily, Gerard seemed to have a near-limitless supply of blood and corpses to work with.

He lowered himself to the floor of what had once been his loving home; the memories of stories read by firelight, joyful, and hearty family dinners swallowed by the scars wrought through his mind by tragedy. As he lay there, the last ember of hope inside him petering out to nothing, flame burst upwards from the summoning circle.

The roaring inferno surged upwards into the night sky, towards where the roof once was. Gerard flinched backwards, the heat blistering against his skin. The flame abated an instant later and in its place stood a demonic figure with crimson skin, gnarled horns, and eyes fully black. Its irises flickered to life, the color of hell’s fire. The figure stood bathed in moonlight, motes of snow settling upon him—a welcome to the earth.

The demon locked eyes with Gerard and spoke, its voice deep and commanding, “Give me your name.”

“I am… I am Gerard. Gerard of Blindburn, and I am your summoner.”

The corners of the demon's lips curled upwards into a cruel smile. Gerard stared up, flecks of steel in his gaze.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“And I am Thraxxovinak the Treacherous.

For what have you disturbed me, Gerard?”

“I want…” His emotions rose, threatening to surface for the first time since the tragedy. He wanted his mother’s embrace, his father’s stern but caring words, his friends’ laughter, the sound of the blacksmith's hammer, to help in the fields come harvest.

“Enough. Tell me of this place.”

“This place? This is my home. Me, my mum, my dad, we were going to stay as the magic fled westward. We all were. None of us could use it to begin with. At least that’s what everyone had said. I was born here and I haven’t known anyplace else nor will I ever need to. We have everything, sheep and cows, metal and soil. We had it good I admit it.

But we did nothing to deserve this. Those animals, those feral beasts that did this. I want their bones smashed and limbs torn apart. We did nothing to bring this upon ourselves. Nothing.”

“And how did you summon me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know magic. It’s almost gone from here by now anyway. But I found a book. I was sure there was one, hidden by the vicar. How else would a place like this stay safe? So I tried and I tried and it worked.”

“And so you’ve come to bargain.”

“Yes. I have."

“I ask you again, Gerard. For what have you disturbed me? What is it you desire?"

“I want vengeance.”

“Vengeance? How droll. I’d hoped for something a little less trite but I suppose, given the circumstances it’s the obvious choice.

I shall grant you vengeance should you have something suitable to offer me in return.”

Gerard looked down for an instant, before clutching his fists and meeting Thraxx’s eyes again with his steel flecked gaze.

“I offer my soul."

The words hung in the air. A resignation to eternal suffering at the whims of this unknown demon, but in this moment, it seemed more worth it than anything. The demon savored the imbalance of the situation, running its forked tongue against its lips.

“Your soul, boy?” He laughed. “What makes you think your soul would be worth a thing to me? Mortals, so self-centered.”

“Oh,” Gerard deflated. Of course things weren’t so simple but what else could he give. The souls of others? It was an unpalatable thought.

“Surely, you can offer something better,” he prompted, his tone almost patronizing. The demon leaned in closer, his towering form casting a shadow over Gerard.

“Ten souls? A hundred? I don't know how but I'll get them for you. The book said... it said a soul is what a demon hungers for, more than anything.”

“Your books lied, boy.”

“I can give you the book and all the knowledge within, I’ll gather up every drop of blood on this mountain and feed it to you, you can have this village, my memories. Please. Please! I want them to feel what they did to me. I’ll give you anything.”

“Anything? Hmm. It seems you don’t have much to give, just empty promises and things that don’t belong to you. Just break the circle and I’ll be on my way.”

“No, please, anything. Anything you can imagine, I’ll give you.”

“You’re persistent Gerard, I’ll give you that. And I’m nothing if not generous. Very well, give me your life.”

“I will,” said Gerard. Blurting the words out before his mind had a chance to process them. His heart sank and rose at the same time. So this was it. Yet it would be worth it.

“Worry not,” said the demon, its tone of sardonic elation. “You may have mine in return. I’m nothing if not generous,” and with another flash of flame he disappeared.

Alone once more, Gerard’s last sight was the wretched altar of corpses he’d erected. His last earthly sensation was the cold of the snowy night and the smell of iron. A different, unearthly cold crept up his spine and wrapped itself around his heart, before igniting into an agonizing fire. He cried out one last time, choking as the smell of acrid smoke filled his lungs. Striking a pathetic form before collapsing, arm outstretched as if anything could help. As the light drained from his eyes, Blindburn was left to darkness.