One: Ritual
Wax dribbled a steady, red-hot path down each of the candlesticks, looking deceptively like the blood nearby until it landed on the cold stone beneath and hardened again. Small mounds of their own fatty fuel now held the carefully laid circle still, flickering stubbornly despite the cavern’s determination to send spine-chilling breezes through, and threatening to snuff out his only remaining source of light. Blotchy smudges of herbal chalk traced the same large circle, drawn relatively evenly beneath each of the candles, then scrawled inward at sharp angles, looking more dotted than like true lines. If one stood back and squinted, it looked mostly like the star it was supposed to resemble, and to him that would be good enough.
“Intention is thine true constituent in such conjuration,” the tablet read, “Worry not the perfection in thine scrawl, lest mind be haled toward perfectionism, which naught exists in summoning endeavors.” At least that meant it could be uneven. All he needed was to believe.
He never quite grasped how belief held so much power here. How the sheer force of the brain could manifest a spell, a wave, a ritual. No matter how fiercely he tried, clawed and demanded that magic come to him, he left nothing but scoured failures in his wake. Gentleness, aggression, patience.. None of it succeeded. Nothing quelled the apparently unreachable desire to wield the power of a magus. A rare gift, he knew. A connection that could not be artificially weaved, uncaring for how persistent he could be. His collections of treasonous tomes spoke at length about how one simply must be born with it, but he was not satisfied. He combed the vaults since he could read, wasting away months with nothing but ancient words, until he found it. Nestled beneath the bricks, almost invisible for its stone surface matched the rocky ground. Heavy and dense, carved with the only possible answer to his plight toward forces beyond normal capacity. To rise above the ire of his mortal blood and grasp that which would make him godly.
All he needed to do was follow the instructions.
He did things as accurately as he could manage, given much of the vague descriptions the tablet had to offer. The sigil over the stone, the ring of sputtering candles, and each impossible to find ingredient for the blasted performance. Stones and plants with names he couldn’t pronounce, all placed with the loosest of estimations and the willpower of a man who would prosper. The bodies alone took him weeks to procure, carefully pulling strings behind the backs of his underlings to ensure his work went unnoticed. At least in that, he could enjoy himself. The sight of every severed piece of flesh soothed his impatience, now pooling pristine at his bare feet. He worried originally that the blood may wash away the sigil, but his expertly mixed concoction held up beautifully under the fluids.
Now, for his least favorite part.
He allowed himself to appreciate the sight before him, then peeled off the sweat-soaked fabric of his tunic. The chillness of the cavern latched onto the wetness of his skin, and he muttered a curse into the air. He didn’t like trying to think of where the rhythmic breeze originated, so far beneath the surface that it certainly couldn’t be anything from above. Each blow was steady, receding and returning like the tide. Like the earth itself breathed with him. He didn’t like that, but pushed it aside for the moment. His trousers landed in a wrinkled heap far from his circle, out of reach of the blood-pool to keep dry from what he needed next.
With shaking, measured strides he stepped into the red puddle. Miraculously, it remained as warm as when he made the first slit, and that fueled his pride. An unnatural warmth surely meant he followed the guidance properly. Once he reached the center, now flanked on all sides by arms, legs, heads, and a truly varied assortment of organs, he lowered and kneeled. He welcomed the hot embrace of the blood as he bent forward, grateful for it against his naked body despite its stickiness. His forearms sunk into it, his nose hovering above the surface. It rippled each time he exhaled, an expanding circle of multiplying rings arcing outward until it dissipated somewhere out of his peripheral. Its metallic scent flooded him, overwhelming his nostrils until he prepared to speak. He’d practiced the words hundreds of times, and prayed to the gods that he wouldn’t forget them now.
“Hashepta,” he began, his throat dry and his voice raspy. The end of his long beard slowly collected the blood, drinking it in the same way a wash rag soaked water and grime. “Life-Breather of Daevaeleon, Life-Stealer of the lands. She who drinks in mortals and bathes in blood. I, too, bathe in your sacred water, bringing hearts and stomachs and limbs to please your lust. I call for your ear, I beg for your presence.” He paused, then took a breath and repeated the entire thing again. And again, and again. Over and over he spoke the words. He lost count after fifty, but he knew his persistence would earn him his audience. He had to convince himself he knew, or else his words would ring hollow and worthless without belief. He did not stop his repetitions, even when the blood rippled further away from a source unconnected to him. Even when the cavern’s unnatural wind picked up drastically, even when the candles snuffed and plunged him into darkness. He only silenced when the light returned suddenly and harshly, exactly as the tablet described. His signal to cease, and his signal that he succeeded. He blinked against the new light, which flickered blue and tainted, and waited. Then, muffled and close as if it buzzed inside the pool itself, he heard her.
“Look upon me. Remain kneeling.”
Her voice was smooth and thick like the very substance she adored. He obeyed immediately, straightening his spine and willing his eyes to adjust. The blood ahead of him bubbled, then boiled. Fat bubbles popped until it swelled into a solid mass. The mass extended, dripping red and stretching upward. Two streams spiraled into arms, another into a head, another into a torso. More blood than was present materialized, shaping into an impossibly tall womanly body which swayed as if dancing. When her feet fully formed, the blood fell from her skin and joined the pool on the ground. His eyes followed the curve of each angle. Sickly green skin, lined with ridges and spines and scales. Uncomfortably long fingers and toes, a tail that whipped back and forth like a perturbed cat’s. Her shoulders stuck out too much to the sides, and she had far, far too many eyes. When she smiled with stained lips, two rows of black razor teeth gleamed. Her hair was a constant waterfall of sludgy blood, contributing to the floor and yet not raising the level of the pool.
He lost his breath, and Hashepta knew. He could tell in the awkward cock of her head that she reveled in his awe, and the fear that battered in his ribcage.
“What a sweet surprise,” she cooed, studying him with every single one of her eyes. “All my favorite pretties, all in one place.. Why, no one has offered me so many hearts in ages.”
“Only the best for you, blood-queen,” he replied, surprised by the steadiness in his own voice. He dipped his head, despising the show of submission but knowing it to be necessary.
“Only the best, indeed,” she said, drifting rather than walking around the sigil circle. She inhaled deeply, savoring the repulsive stench of decay like it were rose petals. “Such a bounty is never offered freely.” Her path halted long enough for her to raise an arm and wave invitingly. “Speak, sovereign. Why am I here?”
It was near. Everything he’d prepared for. Everything he desired. He took a cleansing breath. If he lost his composure, it risked failure. He needed to remain calm.
“I asked you here for an exchange,” he began, knowing she would not appreciate anything short of blunt and concise. He only allowed himself to pause briefly, and suddenly found his approaching request quite juvenile in its simplicity. He carried on regardless. “I wish for magic. I was not born with the gift—”
“Very few are, and especially not your particular bloodline,” she interrupted, but waved for him to continue. A playful lilt drifted with her words, displaying her amused curiosity.
“Yes,” he confirmed, refusing to rile himself up beneath her sly teasing. “But I wish for the gift. To wield magic as if I were born with it.”
“Tsk, tsk,” she taunted, drifting out of his line of sight as she moved behind him. He felt the eerily cold weight of her clawed hand on his shoulder, smearing blood and clots. “What would your forefathers think, longing for that which you condemn? You should know even someone with my talents cannot just give you the gift. That is up to the gods, martelin.” The unfamiliar word fell freely at the end, her devilish mother-tongue more suiting to her lips than those spoken by him. He didn’t know for sure what it meant, but he had a few guesses.
His heart fell, having dreaded that. Was this all for naught? Had he summoned her just for her to repeat the same lesson he’d read a hundred times before? No.. no he wouldn’t accept that. Hashepta spoke with a purr, far too smug for one admitting that she held nothing he desired. She was withholding something.
“But?” he tried, a shot in the candle-dim dark.
He heard the slick shifting of lips over teeth, and knew she grinned again. “But,” she relented, the grotesque coyness in her tone dripping as her hair did. “I can offer up a few secrets that’ll help. Call them.. loopholes.”
His throat went dry. “How?” he croaked.
He hoped she wouldn’t, but Hashepta circled around to hover in front of him. She bent at the waist, leveling him with a stare and oh gods he didn’t know which eyes to look at. He forgot everything but her face. The black multitude of eyes. Everything he needed sat within those eyes, voids that blinked and twitched at all different times. They were beautiful, perfect, worth dying for. Worth killing for. Worth—
He blinked hard, squeezing his eyes shut until the foggy tendrils in his mind retreated. The texts warned of this, of the enchanting stare of the hundred-eyed devil. A rumbling, wet laugh bubbled out of her throat, and he only opened his eyes when he heard it get a little quieter. She sounded almost.. Proud.
“Clever little thing, aren’t you?” she purred, her voice much too sweet for the occasion. Not sweet like baked goods or candies, but a sweetness more akin to pouring sugar on carrion. “Don’t get too excited, now. I won’t be sharing a thing with you until we make a deal.” She allowed a beat of silence, one hand lifting to peer apathetically at her cuticles. If she even had cuticles; details like that were hard to garner in the dimness. “As I’m sure you know, I would just need a little something in return.”
He took a moment to steady himself. He knew what he would offer, and had known from the moment he began this endeavor. She was the Life-Stealer of the lands, and would only accept a form of payment which reflected her domain. The words left his lips before he organized them, like she’d stuck her claws down his throat and ripped them out herself; “I offer you my wife.”
Hashepta’s many eyes gleamed, partly pleased and partly mischievous. “Oh, you animal,” she cooed, breathy and pleasured. “I do like the sound of that.. But my secrets are quite pricey.” She was toying with him, he knew. Testing just how badly he wanted this deal. “I want one more thing.”
“Anything,” he blurted.
“Anything?” she echoed, a sharp snort exposing her delight. She didn’t dwell on it this time, however, and proceeded. “In exchange for the knowledge you seek,” she began, her voice taking on a more businesslike approach, “I take your lovely little wife to Daevaeleon with me, and..” She trailed off momentarily, and something that was maybe eyebrows knit together at the top of her head. An inquisitive fingertip tapped at her chin. Her cracked lips pursed, then settled as her expression brightened. “And your first-born’s humanity.”
He deadpanned. “I don’t have a child.”
“Not yet you don’t,” she replied, singsong and gleeful. “But you will, for you must continue that family line of yours.” She floated backward, her toes brushing the surface of the blood pool and leaving rippling trails in their wake. “Have your spawn, and on the day it comes to be, I shall return. You get your answers, I take what I am owed. Her life, and the child’s, hm, earthly tether. No matter what.” She raised her index finger, and wagged it back and forth. “No amending, no bargains. Not after this.”
“Why not kill them both?” he asked, his mood souring at the idea of children. “What do you mean by taking its humanity?”
“That is for me to know,” she chirped, “And you to find out.” She waved a hand, and the blood directly in front of his knees boiled and split, allowing a dripping red scroll to unfurl itself from beneath. Hashepta was just as dramatic as he thought she’d be. It hovered before his eyes, already scrawled with the terms of the bargain. “Do we have a deal?”
He didn’t need to think about it. He didn’t read the particulars, and hardly even skimmed the damn thing. “Of course.”
“Then bleed on it,” she ordered, and held out her hand.
He extended his arm to her, forcing himself not to tremble in her cold grip. He watched her other hand, index finger out, as she slowly dragged a claw over his palm. The skin split painfully, stinging and slow. His blood trailed down and joined the pool, sending miniature waves over it. His focus returned to the levitating scroll, now clear of thickened red and waiting patiently for him. The edges of the paper glowed blue, flickering in tandem with the morphed candles that he’d almost forgotten about. He looked down at his palm, a mix of his blood and the many others he defiled to get here. A slow, wicked smile pulled at his lips, and he allowed it to form. This was it. And all he needed to do was hand over a wife and a child. How easy.
After a moment of savoring, he pressed his hand into the page. A wave of further pain shot through his skin, starting at the wound and webbing up his arm to the elbow. He couldn’t move it away, and couldn’t withhold the cry that tore from his windpipe. It was a rather embarrassing sound, far too high-pitched for a man of his hulking size. The wind in the cavern stirred, gathering speed in a spiraling pull that whipped about his beard and head hair. He grimaced, eyes watering against the tempest. Blood sloshed and rose with it, a veritable hurricane of metallic scented gore that blinded and soaked him. Somehow, through it all, the candles blazed. Their flames ballooned and towered. If he hadn’t already been struggling to see through the viscera and wind, perhaps the flares might have blinded him, too.
Then, just like that, it ended.
Everything stopped blowing, and fell right back where it was before. The candles burned yellow-orange once more, and Hashepta disappeared somewhere in the middle of all the chaos. She so graciously left behind the floating document, which still held fast his hand. He knelt there, muscles tense and shaking, until he finally felt the document release him, for lack of a better word. When he pulled it away, a dripping bloody print gleamed and seared itself, a smeared signature soaked with sin.
The edges of the scroll stained themselves red, slowly spreading through and dripping off until he could no longer make sense of the words. The sopping parchment lowered and sank into the puddle, and was gone.
He stood, shaking off half-congealed bits of human ichor and stretching out his aching muscles. Through all the soreness, the bile-churning stench of corpses, and the frigid air on his nude skin, he grinned.
