Prologue
506AD
A deserted chapel stood crumbling and alone, in the ruins of a village it had long since outlived. A full moon hung high in the sky and, even in the dead of night, a warm summer breeze blew through the wild, unkept grass. A casual observer would mistakenly believe the chapel’s overgrown interior to be vacant, easily overlooking the utterly motionless figure, kneeling at the back, where a priest might once have stood. The individual was obscured entirely in a brown cloak, their face covered with a hood. They could have been a statue for their stillness, they barely seemed to breathe.
Close to midnight, the hooded head finally tilted upwards slightly, and moments later, several quiet voices could be heard from outside, getting steadily closer, accompanied by the flicker of torches. As they approached the chapel, they began to hush. The door’s rusted hinges screeched to announce the new arrivals.
Six people, none of them older than sixteen, walked hesitantly across the chapel’s threshold, their faces dirty, their clothes shabby and torn, peasants, all of them. They entered the chapel and met the invisible gaze of its occupant, from under their hood. A mixture of anticipation and terror seemed to decorate their faces. It was a while before any of them, a small blonde girl with a hefty scar on her left cheek, said anything.
“Did... Was he here?” She whispered. “Did your father come?”
The cloaked person hesitated before slowly climbing to their feet. “He did.” He said, simply, in a smooth, male voice.
Seeming to gain a surge of confidence, one of the other children, a scrawny girl with sunken cheeks, stood forwards. “Did he say what we had to do?” She asked, sounding like someone expecting wondrous news.
As if by way of an answer, the man they had come to see reached up and lowered his hood. None of the children reacted to a sight that would have had anyone from their nearby home town screaming for a priest, if not something sharp or blunt.
The cloaked man bore many physical traits of a healthy, eighteen-year-old man, but much of his appearance was of something else entirely. A series of burnt crimson scales adorned the left side of his face, his eyes were pits of such dark blackness, the children could barely look at them for more than a few seconds, and from his wavy, black hair, emerged a pair of small, bony, grey horns. When he had lifted his hands to his hood, his sleeves had slid down, revealing a set of narrow, black claws in the place of fingernails.
“Yes.” The grotesque creature confirmed, in answer to the small girl’s question.
He stepped forwards and collected six coiled parchments, resting on the chapel’s dilapidated alter. He took five of them in one hand and held them out, the children eagerly stepped forward to collect them, the two of them holding torches mounting them on wall brackets first.
“These words are the incantation. The ceremony requires one vessel for the demon, and six acolytes to represent humanity as a guide.”
As the other children studied the parchments, the girl with the scar on her cheek frowned.
“Represent humanity? But... Origus...”
“I’m human enough.” The creature interrupted, but his tone and his frown made it clear that it was hardly ideal.
“So...” One of the other children began, the oldest of them, a tall boy with long, black hair, “We’re really doing this?”
“You have doubts?” Origus said, with something of a snap to his voice. “Any of you?” He continued, with almost a threat of a snarl.
The children looked fearfully at the monster-like man, before silently shaking their heads. A few seconds passed before the boy spoke again.
“No... no of course not. But... how do we decide who goes first?”
He had barely finished talking when Origus pointed a clawed finger at the scrawny girl who had spoken up earlier.
“Her.”
The children exchanged glances, taken aback by Origus′ decisiveness. The girl looked surprised and terrified. In answer to the questions the young girl was too scared to ask, Origus took a step towards her.
“You are the weakest of your friends.” He explained without warning or sympathy. “You will prove without a doubt that the ceremony works.”
He turned around and slowly returned to the back of the chapel. One of the other children, similar enough in appearance to the small girl to give away the fact that she was her older sister, ran past the others and caught up with him.
“Origus, are... are you sure about this?” She asked, quietly. “I... I could go before her. If the ritual is dangerous then... then...”
She trailed off as Origus turned to face her. He stared silently. She tried her hardest to look into the black voids that were his eyes, but as she did so, she began to feel drained, like she was sprinting, she felt her heart begin to beat painfully against her chest. It wasn’t long before she had to avert her gaze, gasping in relief as she did.
“I... I’m sorry.” She mumbled, without looking back at Origus, and quickly returned to her friends and sister.
Once he had returned to the back of the chapel, Origus uncurled his own scroll and began to study it. After a few minutes of ear-splitting silence, he turned back to the children, and pointed at the chapel’s stony floor. For the first time, the children noticed the circles carved in the stone, very recently, based on the gravel surrounding the grooves. There were seven, a large one in the centre, and six smaller ones, perfectly spaced around it.
“Stand in the circles.” Origus ordered. “You. In the centre.” He pointed at the small girl he had nominated.
As the other children took their places, each one holding a sheet of parchment, the girl’s sister crouched to her eye level.
“It’s going to be alright, Afra.” She reassured her. “Origus knows what he’s doing. He won’t let you get hurt.” Her voice trembled and even her sister could tell she didn’t believe what she was saying.
“LIZBETH!”
The girl jumped as Origus raised his voice for the first time, as he strode towards the circles. The children all felt the temperature in the chapel increase noticeably. Realising the other children were all in their circles with their parchment, Lizbeth scurried into one of the two remaining.
Origus took the final circle, and held his scroll by his side. “The ceremony must be completed within a specific, seven-minute period.” He said, his voice deadly serious. “If a mistake is made, we will not get another chance, within your lifetimes...”
None of the words Origus said, implied any harm would come to the children, should they jeopardise the ceremony, but his vicious tone, dripping with venom, practically promised it.
Origus held up his scroll and began to read. “We six stand present to represent the vessel we offer.” He announced, and turned to the boy on his right.
The boy quickly got the message and returned his attention to his own parchment.“We offer our souls as gateways for you to cross into our world...” He read aloud, his voice trembling somewhat.
One after the other, the five children and the monster read aloud. The passages pledged allegiance to whatever unknown thing they were summoning, swearing loyalty and service. The young girl, Afra, was referred to as ‘the vessel’ many more times. At one point, her sister almost choked trying to say the word, but quickly managed to after a glimpse of Origus′ furious scowl. Afra herself turned to face each new speaker, her breathing intensifying as the ceremony went on, although she didn’t dare step out of her circle.
After almost five minutes, the girl on Origus′ left finished the penultimate line. Origus stepped out of his circle towards Afra. As he did so he raised the side of his right hand to his mouth and bit down hard. He smeared the resulting blood on the palm of his other hand and held it up to Afra’s forehead.
“With this blood as your portal... We welcome you.”
Without a moment’s delay, the monster rested his blood-covered hand on the terrified child’s forehead. The effect was immediate. The blood print glowed a brilliant white and the dusty air in the chapel whipped around the girl like a tornado. The dust rose in the wind and the girl was obscured.
“AFRA!” Lizbeth screamed, but before she could move towards her sister, Origus strode over to her and lightly but decisively pushed her from her circle and away from the centre of the chapel.
The other children followed her example in backing away, both out of fear and because of the wind. After a few seconds, the base of the miniature storm ignited. A column of fire rose around the girl for a split-second, after which it, along with the wind and the dust, were gone, leaving no sign there had ever been a disturbance at all. Only the small girl, kneeling on the stone floor, unharmed. Her eyes closed as if she were asleep.
Origus stared silently, seeming to be as astonished as his human companions. Taking advantage of his distraction, Lizbeth pushed past him and ran to her younger sister.
“Afra?” She pleaded, kneeling down in front of her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”
“How do you feel?” Demanded Origus, sounding cold and analytical, in contract to Lizbeth’s concern.
Slowly, Afra rose her head and opened her eyes. The other children, who had gathered around, recoiled again at what they saw. As if reacting to the torchlight, Afra’s eyes quickly began to change. Like ink on water, an all too familiar blackness spread across them, until her eyes were empty pits.
Afra raised a trembling hand to her forehead, and ran two fingers along the bloody imprint of Origus′ hand. Without stopping or thinking, she put her fingers into her mouth, like she was licking off sugar, and grinned wickedly. When she spoke, her juvenile, feminine voice carried a wicked and confident sneer.
“I feel like hell.”
