Amnion - Prologue
Going to do NaNoWriMo this year as a way to make myself attempt the first real novel in the updated (and hopefully final) version of the Ethuel setting. Here’s the prologue.
Kline Yergal was weary. The journey back to the city of Ansildun had taken weeks longer than he expected. The security on the roads was new. When he had left, there were only outposts within the first two miles of the sanctuary city, now they seemed to dot the entire span to the north. The price of being a fugitive was the lack of such security being a benefit. He knew the shadows were looking for him, he knew the lightbringers were looking for him. And so he was forced to travel with his team through the wilds far sooner than he had hoped.
His driver took the lift car around the western edge, carefully maneuvering and changing course to follow the streams. Four men, all clad in the same unobtrusive black coats and hats, sat in a vehicle moving at a snail's pace for hundreds of miles, all to be slowed even further by the encroachment of nature. His research, thankfully, assured him that only natural threats lurked in these woods. There was no threat of Primordial terrors, no risk of the Fey, and even the Terkivor were known to be driven out of their nests this close to the sanctuary.
They would travel down the ravine into the valley south of the city. There was no road, but that was little concern for a vehicle that moved a few feet above any debris or rocky terrain. His operatives in the city were waiting at the barred sewer gates for him. The view of the tiered city above was stunning. It was like looking at the mirror of the mythological cosmos. The filthy, grimy, forgotten sewers, rising to the largely castoff dregs of the slums, rising to the tightly packed and grimly built dwellings of the working class. Above those three were the bright lights of the entertainment ward, with the shining marble of the Xandrenir Terrace, rising into the glorious noble district, before finding the bright lights and thick clouds of smog coming from the industrial sector – all topped off by the shining glass encapsulating the Cerosian arcology that stood guard over it all.
Marching into the sewers was an ignoble return to his city of birth, where his father was once a respected researcher. But such was the shame attached to disgrace. His final days in Ansildun followed witnessing his father's execution for heresy. Seeing your father put to the torch sours the sights. Now, years of moving from hovel to cave to outpost, evading the pursuits of those who would cut his research short would reach their inevitable end: where it all began. Not precisely, of course. He'd have preferred to have access to where it all truly began, his childhood home. But that had been long seized by the Church of Eternal Light as payment for the price of having to hunt his father down. Instead, his journey home would end within the confines of a shuttered warehouse in the dregs.
The dusty corridors and ramshackle rooms were far from what he had envisioned when he set about this endeavor. He'd have much preferred an opulent chamber like the ones of old, bedecked in sconces and braziers of brass, velvet curtains, smoothly tiled floors, and an altar of marble. None of those were an option now. Time was of the essence, knowing that the convergence of the four moons would not come again in his lifetime, and it was only this particular Ley crossing that could enable what he needed to harness.
So he would have to settle for the grime covering the old brick walls. He would have to settle for the cracked concrete floors, pitted with years of water damage and impacts. He would have to settle for the dim light of the makeshift garbage can fire pits at the center and candles scattered around the edges of the room. He would have to settle for a table comprised of three large shipping crates placed side by side. It wasn't what he had envisioned, but it was what he could achieve. And he knew that it would suffice.
He removed his hat and set it on one of the crates by the door of the main chamber. As he combed his fingers through his thinning, silver-grayed hair, he took account of what his operatives had set up. With a slight nod, he muttered beneath his breath “Yes, this will do.”
The three men who had traveled with him made their way into the chamber and set about their own tasks. One began to draw up archaic runes along the walls, spirals and angles made with chalk and all the confidence brought on by familiarity. Another set to work beginning at the center, drawing up chalk circles, one large in the center, four others at the four cardinals, and drawing up sigils in each marked zone. The fourth moved to the table and unfolded the satchel he had carried with him, laying out a large altar cloth, a bowl, a sickle, and a large dagger.
As the work was done, Kline leaned against the jamb and folded his slim arms across his chest, idly checking his watch and minding the time. He knew that his operatives would be here soon. No sooner did the thought pass his mind, did he hear the door open upstairs. Moments later, a procession of four others dressed as he was and four others wearing hoods entered the chamber.
“Koren, have the sacrifices been properly vetted?” Kline said flatly without so much as shifting his gaze from the circle in the center of the room.
“Yes, master Yergal, rare though they may be” Koren answered, motioning to each in turn. The first, a young woman of shapely form in a white dress, “A Xandrenir virgin, obtained from the slave markets of the Ebon Stronghold. We were told that she has been kept in isolation to ensure her purity, as they know as well as we that a Xandrenir left their own devices will not remain pure for long. Examinations confirmed what was promised. Gentle ones, of course.”
Koren motioned to the next, a young child dressed in green, “Pre-adolescent male Therinir, yet to display any signs of the bestial curse that plagues their kind. Both parents were of the avian lineage, as requested. Obtained from one of the few holdout tribes in the Iron Mountains. Tests have confirmed that the line is strong, especially so on the father's side.”
His hand directed to the third, a slender man whose skin seemed spotted and withered by age dressed in a simple black tunic and pants, “An elder priest of the Eternal Light, taken from a cloister in the southwest. Aged seventy six, devoted to a vow of pacifism, and responsible for hand-transcribing hundreds of copies of the holy texts of early Ulorian religion.”
And to the fourth, a woman clad in a gown and robe of blue, with a notably swollen belly, “And finally, an Ulorian mother-to-be, pregnant in her third trimester with her first child. She was the last acquisition, and had to be taken earlier this afternoon from her home in the dregs. Risky, perhaps, but she'll not be missed.”
“Very good, Koren, very good.” Kline's words were hollow, his eyes focused not on the retinue of sacrifices, but on the ticking hands of his watch. His retainers took the sacrifices and stood each in one of the circles surrounding the center, leading them to kneel. Yergal, nodded absently to himself and strode from the door to the table, taking up the bowl and the dagger.
“Gentlemen, the time has come. What we do now will prove that our research has not been without merit, and will demonstrate that our understanding of the nature of the Ohr-Rohrs may serve beneficial to others. After tonight, no longer will we be dismissed as heretics and dangerous fools, but we will be seen as what we truly are: innovators and academic inheritors of a great legacy that will protect our kind from the threats of the world beyond.”
The assistants that had come with Kline made their way to the garbage cans and struck matches, setting the kindling of crumpled newspapers and broken pallets ablaze, filling the room with flickering amber light. As they began to light the other myriad candles around the perimeter, the glow settled to steady orange.
Kline began to chant, the language nothing that anyone else in the room could comprehend. The words were not of any tongue native to the continent of Veghinix, let alone the world of Ethuel. Visceral, guttural sounds mixed with hissing sibilants and thunderous clashing of consonants. As he spoke, he moved, stopping to stand behind the child, his words shifting to his native tongue, “We offer up the blood of primal youth, limitless potential!”
In a practiced move, he placed the bowl beneath the boy's chin, pressed the dagger to his neck, and in a clean drawing cut, sliced open his throat. The blood poured out in rivulets, enough collecting in the bowl to fill it to a third. He stepped back, and the assistant allowed the dying body to fall to the ground in a heap upon the chalk sigil beneath him. Kline's chanting returned to the strange language and he began to move again.
Pausing behind the Xandrenir maiden, his words changed once more, “We offer up the untouched innocence of one born to decadence, a sacrifice of pleasures never known!” He repeated the same motions, placing the bowl at her clavicles and slicing across her arteries, filling the second third of the bowl in moments. Again, he stepped away, and his assistant followed suit. The young woman fell in a heap upon her sigil as her blood poured freely on the pockmarked concrete.
He returned to the strange language, and approached the old man, “We offer up the devotion of a life spent idolizing that which holds us all back from reaching our full potential, a faith of hypocrites and oppressors to be torn down!” Again, he placed the bowl and cut with the knife, filling the vessel to capacity in short order. As he walked away, chanting in those sinister intonations, the old man slumped to the floor as the others had before.
Kline returned to the makeshift altar table, setting down the blade with care to not make a sound. Cautiously, he picked up the sickle and moved to the final sacrifice. His incantations continued as he stood before her, and his assistant forced her to kneel, then removed her hood. Kline, lean and tall, looked down into her eyes, bleary and worn from whatever concoction had been fed to her to keep her pliable. Yergal gave a nod and his assistant opened the woman's mouth.
“We offer up the life a mother, full of love that will never meet its recipient. We offer her a final drink, that she may be bathed in the warmth of life, of potential, of innocence, and of devotion.” He pressed the bowl to her lips, and tipped it. The still body-hot blood of three sacrifices poured into her mouth and ran down her face like a tide, bathing her body and staining the entire front of her gown, causing the garment to cling to every bit of her pregnant belly. He handed the bowl to his assistant, and took the woman's hand, guiding her to stand.
Mindlessly, though whether it were a trance or a drugged intoxication was unclear, she rose to her feet, and Kline led her to the center of the larger circle. He deftly helped her to remove her garments, leaving her standing naked before him. He settled his free hand on her belly, and the faintest of smiles crossed his stern facade as he felt the feeble kick against his hand from within. He gripped the sickle tightly, “And we offer up the life never lived, opportunities never known, and breath never drawn.”
With a sudden thrust, he plunged the point of the sickle into the woman's womb, carving upward with a strength unexpected in such a spindly man. Blood and amniotic fluid spilled to the floor, followed shortly by the cry of the woman as she collapsed in agony. Kline held the sickle aloft, his eyes focusing on the crimson reflection of himself in the fire light. He looked down at his work, the posthumous contraction of muscle fibers causing the fetus to spill out of the large gash, the torso partially cut in twain.
With a deep, ragged, satisfied breath, he called out, “We beseech you, spirits of the Torment, to send forth one of your own. Drink of the sacrifices we have offered and take root here on the mortal world. Come forth, and speak with me, that I may learn to become more like you. You who have survived for so long in a domain so dangerous!”
He watched and waited. Moments passed in silence as the flames flickered all around him. His eyes darted around, fervently searching for any sign that his efforts had been a success. And yet, there was nothing. The flesh of his left eyelid began to twitch anxiously as his mouth twisted into a grimace. He turned toward Koren and strode feverishly to nearly press his face against his assistant's, bellowing as the man nervously backed away, “What did you not understand about what I needed? Did you defile the fucking Xandrenir, you filthy fucking idiot? Did you take the wrong godsdamned child? Did you take some infirm old man out of an asylum?”
Before Koren could even attempt to defend himself, the blade of the sickle arced up and was plunged through his lower jaw, the tip biting deeply into his soft palette. Furiously, Kline pulled the blade free and spun to face the other assistants, “What of you? Did any of you befoul my resources?”
But Kline's face would soon go pale as another assistant's head seemed to burst from within, as if some immense pressure had been placed on the back of his skull, splattering the walls with blood, viscera, and bits of bone and gray matter. Another collapsed as his spine flew across the room like an airborne serpent, rattling bone on bone freed from the flesh of its former owner. Flames on candles began to snuff themselves out. The garbage bins dimmed. There was a shower of blood spraying from the neck of a third assistant before he too collapsed to the floor.
Kline frantically turned around, searching for anything amiss. The other assistants tried to run for the exit. One found himself hurled upward by an unseen force, his skull cracking against the exposed steel support beam of the floor above. Another doubled over and spun about, an eruption of his entrails being torn free and splashing blood in an arc projecting from his intestines as they flew freely, pulled back as he collapsed to the ground. The final assistant was hurled backward, into the nearest garbage can pyre, sending a sluice of ash and embers scattering into the middle of the summoning circle and surrounding the corpse of the mother and child.
Yergal felt his heart race as he focused on the direction of his now slain assistants, and began to back up toward the crate altar. His eyes could barely focus in the diminished light, let alone with the flare from one of the fire pits being bowled over, but he could now make out a shape in the shadows. No larger than a mortal, but shrouded in wings that twitched and stretched, glistening in the remaining flickering light. It began to approach him slowly, and as it drew nearer to the embers, Kline could see the grotesque muscles, corded and sinuous.
Worse, he could see the baleful grimace of a face inhuman but that he couldn't help but feel was familiar. The features were twisted, angular, and cruel, but he recognized them. His heart paused its work for but a brief moment as his breath caught in his throat. It was his own face that he was confronted with.
The creature spoke, the words shifting from one language to another before settling on the native tongue of Ulor, “You would dare to summon me forth to exchange words, you petty oaf? You know nothing of what we are, nothing of what we endure, nothing of what we wish to make you endure. You would think to control me? To set out this circle and these sigils to prevent my escape? You should have been more mindful not to allow the mother to tread on the chalk.”
Kline's words sputtered, hoarse as he backed against the altar, “I... I only wish... only wish to work with you!”
In a flash of movement, the creature's arm swept out, backhanding Kline across the face with such force that he was thrown over the table, landing with a clattering heap as the ritual tools followed in his wake. His pulse pounded in his orbital socket, his very bones felt as if they had been set on fire. His vision blurred for a moment, and when it returned, it was spotted from the sudden pressure.
He rolled onto his back, but the shape was already above him, looming over his prone body. It seemed to flicker in and out of being, but he couldn't be sure. He felt the hand reach down and grasp him by the collar, and he felt the ground beneath him fade away as he was hauled up and off of his feet. As his vision refocused, he could swear that he saw the room empty between flashes of the thing before him.
The creature pulled him close, keeping his feet just above the concrete floor, until their noses could nearly touch as it hissed, “I will not work with you, Kline Yergal. You are beneath me. You know nothing of how these matters truly work. Your theories were wrong. I will not work with you, but you will work for me. As long as I am here, I may as well have some fun.”
Before the words could settle, Kline crashed to the floor, his knees weak and weary. The candles flickered back to life, the fire pits that still burned roared back to their previous vigor. He scanned the room, taking stock of the seven slain assistants and five lives sacrificed, the spilled over fire pit and the debris of the disturbed altar. He stooped and collected the sickle, tucking the hilt into his belt hastily and moving over to the center circle.
He took a knee and muttered an incantation in the twisted language he had spoken before, and was met with a struggling, desperate wail. He reached down and gently cradled the severed fetus that now clawed at the air, torso still split in half, one shoulder slack away from the body, its eyes blinking to reveal the hollow black voids beneath the lids.