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The Evil Within- Chapter 2: Initiation
Midnight. A full moon rides the clouds above the Dark Tower, making that grim, gnarled edifice a finger pointing blasphemously at the heavens. A jest of the Master, that name, gallows humour you might call it. I wonder how much even he knew of the appropriateness of that name, and the garb for mourning his mad living weapons wore, and wear still, those who went to meet their deaths on the battlefields of the dying Earth.
And I laugh, for I am, you should be aware, a person of little tact and sensitivity where my humour is concerned. I find amusing the colour that distinguishes the mages from the common run of men. And sometimes I seem to feel the taint rise in my gorge, and I wonder how sane I really am.
Well, I will not have to fear for my precious, damaged sanity much longer. But that is not the reason I stand here, the cold of an early winter freezing my black coat to my skin. Indeed no. And the men come. You couldn't know these men for conspirators, the average man would laugh if you told him they were. That is because the average man is a fool. Those who hold the power of life and death, those who hide in shadow to do the bidding of Dark Gaia, remain in shadow because they are skilled at what they do. To the average man, there is nothing sinister about these thirteen, aside from their black garb.
And foremost among the thirteen comes the old man. Hair and beard the colour of iron, and eyes the same. Those grey eyes are so bland and blank. His features are blunt, a farmer's face. And he speaks.
'You have come here, to our most unholy ground. We know who you are and what your desires are, base and earthly. We watch the dreams, you see. And when we see a dream such as yours, we pounce. You were dragged from the safe, dull world of your own dream to the nightmare reaches of the world of night and shown visions of power, pleasure and pain, all the sensations and stimulations you crave, debauched child of midnight. And then we brought you to the Mirror reflection of Cairn Abbis and you understood that only as a true servant of Him Who We Do Not Name will you reach these dizzying pinnacles of ecstasy. And then we showed you this place. And you came'
'And I came'
I instantly regret those words, they are puerile and shallow.
'My name is...', I begin
And the old man raises a hand
'We do not care about names. If you survive the ordeal, you will be given a name'
He gestures to the ground and I see a pentragram form, with flows of sorcery. 'Stand within'
I stand inside the pentagram and the ritual begins. They bring a new-born child, stolen, I suppose from some poor crofter, and they place it inside the pentagram and give me a blade. I know what I am to do of course. A clean cut, across the baby's chest, and a hand over the mouth to stifle the screams. And possed by a dervish of the cold night, I bend and drink from that gash. The baby still lives and I pass the strange cask around. The blood is bitter, yet I lick my lips for more. To me it represesnts the sweetness of the eternal life and and eternal bliss that has been promised me. The leader of this coven notes my reaction and smiles.
Then the babe dies, shortly after the last drink. 'That was your first test', announces the old man, 'If you had flinched at that, you would be in an unmarked grave now. Your delight at the taste of the blood was foul, and foul you shall be named. Now, Malignatus, your next is not a test of nerve but of skill. You must kill the bastard princeling, Lykath sur Sylvain.
Details follow, their icy instructions arriving in my mind via the forbidden Art, Mindwarping. I know where to kill
Midnight. A full moon rides the clouds above the Dark Tower, making that grim, gnarled edifice a finger pointing blasphemously at the heavens. A jest of the Master, that name, gallows humour you might call it. I wonder how much even he knew of the appropriateness of that name, and the garb for mourning his mad living weapons wore, and wear still, those who went to meet their deaths on the battlefields of the dying Earth.
And I laugh, for I am, you should be aware, a person of little tact and sensitivity where my humour is concerned. I find amusing the colour that distinguishes the mages from the common run of men. And sometimes I seem to feel the taint rise in my gorge, and I wonder how sane I really am.
Well, I will not have to fear for my precious, damaged sanity much longer. But that is not the reason I stand here, the cold of an early winter freezing my black coat to my skin. Indeed no. And the men come. You couldn't know these men for conspirators, the average man would laugh if you told him they were. That is because the average man is a fool. Those who hold the power of life and death, those who hide in shadow to do the bidding of Dark Gaia, remain in shadow because they are skilled at what they do. To the average man, there is nothing sinister about these thirteen, aside from their black garb.
And foremost among the thirteen comes the old man. Hair and beard the colour of iron, and eyes the same. Those grey eyes are so bland and blank. His features are blunt, a farmer's face. And he speaks.
'You have come here, to our most unholy ground. We know who you are and what your desires are, base and earthly. We watch the dreams, you see. And when we see a dream such as yours, we pounce. You were dragged from the safe, dull world of your own dream to the nightmare reaches of the world of night and shown visions of power, pleasure and pain, all the sensations and stimulations you crave, debauched child of midnight. And then we brought you to the Mirror reflection of Cairn Abbis and you understood that only as a true servant of Him Who We Do Not Name will you reach these dizzying pinnacles of ecstasy. And then we showed you this place. And you came'
'And I came'
I instantly regret those words, they are puerile and shallow.
'My name is...', I begin
And the old man raises a hand
'We do not care about names. If you survive the ordeal, you will be given a name'
He gestures to the ground and I see a pentragram form, with flows of sorcery. 'Stand within'
I stand inside the pentagram and the ritual begins. They bring a new-born child, stolen, I suppose from some poor crofter, and they place it inside the pentagram and give me a blade. I know what I am to do of course. A clean cut, across the baby's chest, and a hand over the mouth to stifle the screams. And possed by a dervish of the cold night, I bend and drink from that gash. The baby still lives and I pass the strange cask around. The blood is bitter, yet I lick my lips for more. To me it represesnts the sweetness of the eternal life and and eternal bliss that has been promised me. The leader of this coven notes my reaction and smiles.
Then the babe dies, shortly after the last drink. 'That was your first test', announces the old man, 'If you had flinched at that, you would be in an unmarked grave now. Your delight at the taste of the blood was foul, and foul you shall be named. Now, Malignatus, your next is not a test of nerve but of skill. You must kill the bastard princeling, Lykath sur Sylvain.
Details follow, their icy instructions arriving in my mind via the forbidden Art, Mindwarping. I know where to kill