Mask

[Son of the Serpent]

This is a story I began writing a few months before I joined the Airforce, so I finished it only recently, exploiting my free hours to the fullest. When I started to receive my exit papers and was allowed to go home, I began to write it on a text document.

It is the 3rd story I wrote which develops around a medieval-like world with a touch of sword & sorcery, gothic enviroments and a bit of Lovecraftian horror-multiverse. This character's name is Mekiil, which in ancient, macedonian-dialect greek means 'Conciliator'. He is the guy from which I was inspired to post Michail's bio in this forum.Please comment and if you are too bored to go 'till the end say so. I'll need to find ways to make my stories more enjoyable

Here it is:






It would be many millenia later, when Mekiil Amon of Naggor, would ascend to the High Tips of the Sphere of Creation and the following dialogue would take place;

SCORN: It is time for you to take off your mask, sire.
MEKIIL: Indeed?
SCRORN: Why, yes. Everyone in the masquerade have taken their false faces off.
MEKIIL: I'm not wearing a mask.
HOPE:(next to SCORN, horrified) You're not wearing a mask? You're not wearing a mask!


The Long road beckoned. Endless plains of snow and ice stretched ahead of his armoured feet. Amidst the white steppes, an even whiter city stood, it's tall walls, fortifications and towers guarding the land of rivers and the fertile ground to the north. To some, it's size would have made them scream in surprise and fall to their knees in amazement, as they watched it rise like a massive iceberg out of the lifeless steppe.

But not Mekiil.

Athos had a hundred castles that were three times it's size and bigger still. To the Rosh, Kriehw was the center of the world. To the Atheani it would be just another city, among the dozen other heavily urbanised centers that were pledged to it's banner. Still, it was a beautiful sight, especially when one realised that the cold steppe ended before it's walls and the irrigated plains began to the north.

The psion remembered the song the Rosh had for this city. In common Lateini it was roughly translated:
"Rising Mighty and Tall
the Castle Guard on Your wall
on deathless shores You stand
of the rivers that You defend"

There was more to the song but he did not remember exactly how it went. The Rosh, like his own people, were a proud and warlike breed, tall and fair and hardened by centuries of tribal warfare. Most of them were now organised in different states and only a few of the old tribes remained, that mostly lived apart from their 'civilised' brothers. Even the Atheani, the legendary Stark warriors that knew the trade of war better than anyone else, greatly respected the Rosh. But despite their good relations with the Northmen, they never travelled in their lands.

Except if they were exiled. Like Mekiil.

The laws of the Stark were simple. Never retreat from battle, do not shame your country and weapons, defend your and your people's freedon, honor your family and obey the Autokrat and the laws he decreeds. Of all the crimes a Stark could commit, the worst was kinslaying. Even from the days of the ancient Ehlannic city-states of Athos kinslayers were considered more wicked than the Lords and Dukes of the Hells. For even they did not murder their own blood.

So when Mekiil slaughtered the Head Families of Naghor, spilled the blood of his kin and polluted their ancestral home with his psionic power, he sealed his eternal fate. There was no penalty for this crime however. The kinslayer was simply abandoned by every Stark, even his friends and remaining family. Sooner later he would either choose the bitter bread of exile or death at the hands of a remaining kinsman who was bound to avenge himself and dead kin. The psion made his choice and left Athos.

The Rosh were always at war, either against the Norscan to their West or among themselves. And above all mercenaries in the entire continent of Eureka the Stark and the Rosh were prized the most. The only way to make a decent living was to sell the skills of warfare and sorcery he had been taught by childhood.

When he reached the walls, he found the southern gate barred but all others wide open and full of traffic. Kriewh was a center of trade as well as a symbol of unity for the Rosh but seldom did travellers arrive from the south, as Mekiil did. The psion went through the westernmost gate, the Road to Triumph as it was called. Long ago the barbaria horsemen from the uncharted East had descended on the southern Rosh lands and almost conquered them all. They were finally defeated however at the gates of Kriewh and hurled back to the eastern steppes. The gate where the king of the horsemen was slain was the one from which the sorcerer entered.

The entire city was built from white stone, mined and transported from the mountain ranges to the north. There were no works of art or anything that could be described as pleasing to the eye. Every building, from the gatehouses and the keeps to the taverns and the stables was designed in such a way that is could act as a defensive military construction. Again, it struck Mekiil how much these people resembled his own folk. Even their songs were alike. There were no love ballads or tunes of joy but music to inspire men to batlle and remember those that had fallen in defense of freedom.

As he walked the streets of the Merchant District he observed the different gangs formed mostly of young men and children. These criminal bands existed in every Roshiki and Athian city and preyed on unprotected traders, warred mercilessly with each other and sold protection to merchants and shopkeepers. Wasting no time in the marketplace, he made his way to the "Street of Steel".

In every city, castle and town across Eureka there existed a Street of Steel. It was a long and unusually narrow street full of disputed inns where cutthroats, thieves and mercenaries practised their trade. The street in Kriewh was flanked by buildings so tall on either side that it was almost always covered in deep shadow. Even a hardened sellsword would hesitate before enterring, but Mekiil, like every highborn of Naghor, possessed talents that had become extremely rare in these times.

He entered an inn at the end of the street and found it crowded, as expected. Pushing his way through thieves and murderers, he reached the far side of the establishment. There, at a corner, sat a tall and heavy man, armored in expensive plate and drinking alone. Upon his breastplate a coat of arms was painted: a skull with three blades above it. The emblem of the Navgorecdian sellswords.

Men like these were called 'porphyroi' in Athos, which meant crimson. They represented a mercenary band or city that was in search of swords to hire. Back home they wore long, crimson cloaks by ancient custom, hence the name. There were more than a dozen crimsons in the inn, all spread in the darkest corners of the tavern. Only the most experienced sellswords knew how to find them and only the most experienced were needed.

The psion hammered his fist on the table. The man paused in mid-drink and raised his brown eyes to look at the black-haired, young sorcerer. He put down his drink and smiled evily. "Only Athians are that arrogant" he observed.

Mekiil spat on the ground. "Only Roshiki are that fat" he retorted, noticing the man's double chins.

"How come you range so north? I thought you froze when you crossed the Donaub"

"Methinks you need to say that outloud in Pindos, friend."

The recruiter laughed. "And lose my tongue and both my arms? I think not, Athian."

"Is it that obvious?" the sorcerer asked.

"Is what obvious?"

"That I am of Athos?"

The crimson ran a hand over his shaved head. He and Mekiil were as alike as day and night. Where the Athian had long, black hair the crimson was shaved. Where Mekiil was tall and lithe, the Novgorecdian was short and wide with muscle and fat. The psion had blue-green eyes, the color of summer seas. The recruiters eyes were a dull brown. "Oh, even your fingernails smell of Athos, my friend."

Mekiil nodded. "I come to offer my service" he said.

The recruiter smiled. "Oh, that is even more obvious. And probably the wisest choice you've ever done."

"If job and pay are good, then you would be right."

The crimson's smile flashed, his white teeth reflecting in the candle light. "You have the soul of a mercenary, Athian. You would be pleased to hear that the pay is three silver drach per week."

Mekiil thingyed an eyebrow. "Three silver? Who the hell pays you this time?"

THe crimson's smile widened. "Kazan does, actually."

The sorcerer laughed. "Kazan cannot afford to irrigate the fields around it's walls. How are they going to find the money to pay such a sum?"

"By sacking Navgorecd, of course."

Navgorecd was the second largest city of the Rosh and the most wealthy state in the entire North. The merchants of it's Republic rivaled those of Athos' city and even the Spice Lords of Tekherhan and were the most gifted tradesmen this world had to offer. The city's treasury was so full that the Lords of Navgorecd had to spend an army's ranson in all kinds of investments to keep it from overflowing.

One of those were the famed mercenary hosts they recruited from all people around Eureka and even the East. Armed with the best weapons money could afford and drilled mercilessly in the hard and cold steppes to the south, they were a deadly force. But, most important of all, they swore to serve the contracts of Navgorecd for all their earthern life and never draw their swords against it.

And here was a Navgorecdian mercenary, recruiting men for an assault against the city he swore never to harm. So much for oaths, Mekiil thought but kept it to himself. "You make no sense crimson." was all he said.

And so the man began to explain to the psion the reasons behind such a monumental betrayal:

"At first, the Head Druzghina started replacing the bands with troops drawn from the populace. No longer did any of us get rotated on guard or border patrol duty. They even started sending us suicidal contracts with low pay rate. Our contacts and representatives in the court lost their influence and were politically isolated. When the 3rd Band complained and refused to accept any contracts they were cut down by the city troops one by one. That was the boiling point.

It became quite clear that they were replacing all of us with local troops. And they didn't just want us gone, they wanted us dead so that we may never threaten their precious city again. But in Tver, we have a saying: Give a man a goat, he'll ask for another one. Take his goat and he'll go find one from somewhere else. And we did."

Mekiil was puzzled. "But why throw away such an experienced and capable fighting force they spent millions to train and arm? It's a fool's doing, if you ask me"

"Dunno" the crimson shrugged. "Maybe they decided that we were too dangerous to be kept so close. And they would be right" he said with an evil sneer. "We all nutsted on our oaths from the moment we gave them. If an employer with the right pay appeared, then we'd sack the city without a thought."

"Still" the psion thought aloud "Navgorecd is the wealthiest state of your people. This doesn't smell right. Only an alliance between every other Rosh state, including Kriewh would-" It suddenly struck him. Full blown civil war. "Kriewh leads an alliance between the Rosh states! Ahreis!"

The crimson smiled and nodded. "You are sharp, Atheani. That is good. We need sharp people. The only thing that stood between Kriewh and Navgorecd's treasury was us. And now that we are gone, the city is doomed to burn."

Mekiil shook his head in disbelief. "The Head Drugzhina is no fool. He is mad" he observed.

The crimson laughed, attracting the attention of the nearby, silent patrons. "Indeed, but madmen are more dangerous than fools."

Just before the psion was about to sign up for the campaign, a violent explosion shook the inn. Everyone shouted in fearful surprise and drew their blades. Swords and knives flashed in the dark and men cursed. But loudest of all the oaths were the innkeeper's. Mekiil knew some Roshika and understood most of what the man said, none of it was pleasant to hear.

"I warned him! I wipe the floor with his mother's guts!" he screamed as he pushed aside a carpet that concealed a wooden trapdoor on the floor. Opening it with a savage jerk of his hand, the fat man descended to the inn's basement via a small, wooden ladder. The black-haired sorcerer and the crimson followed him, as did other curious patrons.

But the smart ones left the building immidiately.

Beneath was a small, damp cellar with wooden beams supporting the roof. By the time Mekiil had descended there, the body of a young man lay on the floor, his throat torn open in a gruesome way. The innkeeper stood over the corpse, a bloody knife in his hands. "Foolish alchemist. I warned him when he rented the cellar a week ago not to try any strange things, but he just went ahead and did his...magick."

Behind the fat innkeeper was an open barel, filled with a kind of strange liquid that had caught fire. The owner of the establishment took a bucket filled with water from a nearby corner and emptied it on the fire. "WAIT, NO!" the psion screamed, but the deed was one.

The barel exploded, smashing the innkeeper's burning corpse at the opposite wall and showering everyone with sharp, burning pieces of wood. One caught the crimson and buried itself deeply in his left eye, killing him instantly. Men screamed in pain and died all around Mekiil.

"Everyone up! It's ygro piir" he shouted and rushed for the ladder.

"It's what?" one of the survivor's asked.

"Stark fire" another answered.

Stark fire (or ygro piir in Athian, meaning 'liquid fire') was the Empire's most fierce weapon. Entire fleets were burned by it in every naval battle it was used in. It was a strange chemical invented by Kallinikos of Alikarnassos. Upon contact with water it exploded and the fire spread rapidly. It was impossible to extinguish it and it only gave out when it had run out of things to burn.

Men kicked and trampled others underfoot in their haste to climb the stairs. Mekiil was among the first (and the last) to exit the inn, as it exploded in a marvellous crecendo of lights and noise. The ygro piir burned blue as it gave out and every one who had gathered around to watch the event, ran to find covers from the falling debris.

Mekiil laughed in relief as he barely escaped the clutched of death for another time, but it was but short by a fying piece of rock that took him on the back of his head. The psion from Naggor fell on his face and knew nothing more.



He dreamed.

Dreamed of home and times long past. Dreamed of Pindos and the mountains and the forests, where fierce stormwolves hunt both man and beast, and proud eagles soar the sky. Like always, a firece thunderstorm struck from the heavens. In Naggor there was no rain. Only thunder and fierce wind, a sign of victory from the ancient times of the Ehlannic city states of Athos and the legendary hoplitii Stark. Mekiil dreamed of his family's keep on Idos, the keep he himself had brought to ruin with hatred and sorcery.

But then the dream shifted and he was in the woods again. A pack of huge stormwolves stood opposite of him, eyeing a grey-eyed and grey-furred wolf next to the psion. Then, as one, the pack descended on the lone wolf and ripped it apart with their fangs. They did not do so much as look at Mekiil.

He awoke screaming, knowing not why the dream had frightened him so. His eyes were open, but his vision blurr. His body was covered by warm, fur blankets and he lay on a soft bed. His head felt as if someone had repeatedly smashed it with a huge mallet. The sorcerer's screams came out as beastial shrieks, like the tormented howl of a wolf.

"Sleep" a soft, soothing voice commaded and his screaming stopped. His whole body grew numb and he submerged into a deep and quiet slumber.

There were no dreams this time.



When he awoke, the blurring in his vision was cleared and all of his senses were sharpened to the edge. The wound in the back of his head was closed and felt numb, but it did not hurt at all. His long black hair was washed and prefumed as was his entire body. He was dressed in silken black robes, as he observed when he removed the blankets and stood up.

The room was he was in was small but richly decorated. A large, fat red carpet covered the entire floor and a number of furniture were scattered around in a way that looked strangely pleasing to the eye. A desk with numerous drawers, a bookcase filled with strange tomes and an arm chair next to the room's only window were all there was. Peering outside, Mekiil saw that it overlooked the city's busy barracks and armouries. It was a long way down.

Mighty Ahreis, he thought. I'm in the keep!

Knowing that his weapons were taken from him, his only clear choice was the use of sorcery in the face of danger. Trying the door he found it locked. Peering outside the window again, he observed the lack of hand-and footholds. Cursing his foul luck, he walked back towards the door and stopped a few meters before it.

No other way out. The psion pointed at the door and spoke a word. The air in the room was suddenly drained and hammered at the wooden surface with nature's wild fury, blasting it off it's hinges and onto the stone wall behind it. It made a loud 'crack' sound as it splintered into a thousand pieces. His confidence mildly boosted, Mekiil ran out of the room and into the keep's corridors.

As he ran he observed that the interios was made purely for defence. Narrow hallways and a low ceiling made it difficult to swing a sword freely and gave the halberd-weilding garisson a significant advantage. No works of art stood there; only cold, grey stone and a few red banners hanging on the walls.

Suddenly, a group of five guards turned around the corner and appeared into the sorcerer's field of view. Mekill, the words of a spell coming at once out of his lips,
launched a bolt of green lightning at them, cooking some inside their mail armour and scattering thouse with faster reflexes. They screamed in Roshika and took cover behing the wall at the corner. The psion spread his arms and placed the palms of his hands on both walls of the hallway. He spat another sorcerous incantation and they exploded, turning into rubble. The debris effectively blocked the way ahead.

He ran the other way, taking a different route this time. It would be just a matter of time before the guardsmen he had encountered raised the alarm or another patrol spotted him. Then, just as he took a turn around another corner, he saw a large group of soldiers waiting for him in a neat line, halberds held ready. At their helm stood a blond woman, tall and lithe, dressed in the same black robes as the psion.

She held some kind of stone in her right, raised hand. Before Mekiil could respond with a spell, the witch spoke a word and clenched the stone in her fist, For a moment nothing happened.

Then he slept again.



He awoke to find himself in the same room as before and saw the same dream. But there were people waiting for him to awaken this time. Six black robed figures. Four women and two men, all with the same long blond hair and deep blue eyes. He examined them for a few seconds and then rose from the bed. No one made a move to stop him or spoke a wod.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked just as the door opened.

Two more women entered. One of them the sorcerer recognised as the witch with the stone back in the corridor. The other one had long black hair and yellow eyes, like those of a wold. "Leave us" she said and everyone, save the woman that entered with her, left the room. They didn't make a sound, even as the last one of them closed the door behind him.

Mekiil barred his fang-like teeth. "What the hells do you want, woman?" he asked.

Yellow-eyes smiled as the other witch sat at the arm chair next to the window and fixed her gaze on the psion. There was something in her eyes that made him feel uneasy. "I wish to talk, Atheani" the black-haired one answered.

"You could've had your chance wench. No one puts his hands on me and gets to keep them" the sorcerer answered, his eyes blazing with hatred.

"What my sister means, stranger" said the blond one from her chair "is that you will hear us, wether you want it or not"

"And what's to stop me from tearing your tongue out, witch?"

"This" she repplied and took the stone out of a pocked inside her robe. "You know what it can do to you"

"All I know is that you won't get a second chance" Mekiil said and spat in front of her. "You are nothing compared to me, mageling"

"Perhaps" she said as her sister went to stand beside her. "What you did back there was quite impressive, I have to admit. Most would've been torn apart had they summoned so much energy unaided in such rapid succesion. But you live up to your reputation, I see"

"Oh? And what reputation would that be?" he asked, coking his left eyebrow.

"Why, that of Naggor of course" the black-haired one said, sitting on one of the fat, soft arms of the chair.

"And what do you know of Naggor?" the sorcerer spat contemptuously. "You are naught but a fool and a weakling that fears to tap into true power"

"We all know about Naggor" the blond witch said and smirked wickedly at Mekiil. "Especially how it fell"

The psion shrugged. "I ended them. So what of it?"

Both the sisters sneered at him. "We know what drove you to do it, Mekiil Amon" yellow-eyes said.

He gave them a puzzled look. The two witches looked at each other, her eyes wide open in fascination. "He doesn't know" yellow eyes said in amazement. Then she burst out laughing. "The psion doesn't know!"

Her sister did not seem to share her amusement. "Sister" she spoke in Roshika "it is too dangerous to proceed. If the Lord Icipher has not made his presence known, then it would be foolish to draw him our ourselves."

Mekiil barely understood at what she was saying. "Nonsense. It makes no difference in the long run" her sister answered in Latani. "And we habe no other choice now that he is here" she said and looked at the psion with an intense look.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked.

"You'll know soon enough" the blonde said and rose from her seat. "If you would follow me"



Amidst all the horrors that the dungeons and crypts of Athos had to offer, the one that Mekiil was led to stood above all others.

He was taked beneath the keep, below even the catacombs, where ancient kings were buried and whose spirits rose up atnight to sing the doom of all that was mortal. But the witches led him ever deeper, through dark, twisting staircases made of bone and subterranian paths that seemed to lead to the Abyss itself. And he was pushed even beyond them. Now what was lying in front of him was nothing any sane mind could imagine.

An underground temple, the size of a city.

The cave-ceiling hang above it, it's stalagmites making it look like an open, fanged mouth ready to swallow it whole. It was unnaturally dry. No water dripped from above, nor did the air smell wet and damp as it did in most caverns.

It's walls were as high as the cave, making it impossible to tell what lay inside. But flanking the gate were two monumental statues whose likes Mekiil had never seen before. Their monstrous propotions alone made them look horrifying, but what was even more terrible were the macabre, fearsome creatures they represented.

The left one was the most bizzare of the two. It's sculptor, whose skill was definately inhuman, made it look as if it was truly alove, a nightmare given life and ready to devour whoever dared come near it. It stood on nine legs, each one different and too strange to describe. Most weren't even legs. It's entire skin was covered by bloodshot eyes the size of boulders. It had limbs where there should be none and no mouth parts that the psion could see. Clearly, not even the most insane could imagine such a thing.

The statue on the right however, although more sane in shape, was the most horrible by far. It had the body of a man but a head of no describable kind. What made it look so horrifying was that it looked familiar to Mekiil. It was the personification of all his fears and most twisted ambitions. It made his eyes sting and hurt as he gazed upon it. The more the sorcerer looked at it, the greater his terror became.

He felt glad when the blond witch touched him on the shoulder, releasing him from his trance of horror. "Do you recognise Him?" she asked, pointing at the statue.

The lie lay ready beneath his tongue, but it wouldn't be spoken. "Yes" he answered with effort.

Her sister smiled. "See? I told you bringing him here was the most logical choice"

The blond one did not reply. A mixture of fear and uncertainty could be seen on her pretty face. The sorcerer spat. "What sort of madness is this?" he cursed, released from his trance for good. "Are these the abominations you worship?"

The blond witch slapped him with such force that he almost fell on his ass. "Silence!" she exclaimed. "This is hollowed ground, blasphemer. You would do well to tread with respect.

The sorcerer wiped the left side of his mouth with the back of his hand. The strike had drawn blood. "I could kill you for that, witch" he said, his eyes full of hate and malice. "You and whole d**n caste"

>>No<<, a voice echoed in his mind. Twin snakes coiled around the psion's beating heart, squeezing it with terrifying force. He spat blood and fell on his knees, unable to breath or scream his agony. His eyes widened with terrible surprise. >>No you shall not, little mind mage.<< His vision started to blur and darken.

>>The time is now wenches<< the voice boomed across the cave walls. >>This day you shall set me free<< was the last words Mekiil heard before he passed out into nothingness.




The wolf dreams returned.

This time he was running atop the hills of eastern Pindos, the sky black with angry stormclouds. Every now and them lightning would strike to light his way. The endless, barren rocky landscape stretched on all sides for eternity. He felt his self wide open and alone, tiny and insignificant.

No wolves howled. For this time, he was the only wolf.

He was running on four legs and the sky was getting clearer. Sunlight was breaking through the black clouds and a faint wind touched his furred skin. The rocky slopes soon gave way to a valley full of golden wheatfields.

As he stood on the last hill, the golden plain stretching beneath him, eagles started soaring the skies. They flew proudly, like all of their kind, the masters of the sky. One of them held the blue-white banner of Athos in it's taloned clutches. It was the last one to fly over the valley and into the setting sun.

As the banner passed, the wheat shined bright and crimson in the last sunlight.

Almost like a sea of blood.




He awoke to the sound of chanting.]

His body was tied on a cold, stone altar by iron chains. The skin of his chest felt hot and stinged, as if a burning knife had slahsed it. A strange sigil was carved upon it. His armour, weapons and clothes were gone. The psion lay naked, like a sacrifise to some heathen god.

A dozen of so black-robed figures, their features concealed by the hoods of their robes, were arrayed in a circle around the square altar. They held raised hands with each other and chanted in some strange, moaning language. Each one of them had a sheathed dagger hanging from a small, silver chained fixed at their waistbelts.

Standing out of the circle were the two sisters, their hoods pulled off.

As Mekiil saw them, he pulled at the chain holding his hand, trying to break free. When he saw that is was impossible to move both his arms, he tried the same thing with his legs. Fortunately, the chains that were binding them were longer, so he managed to make them rattle at least. He swore loudly in Athian and shouted incoherent words, trying to disrupt the chanting with his noise.

Indeed, the chanting faltered as the concentration of the wizards was broken, but then the black-haired sister commanded them to continue as the blone one approached the chained Stark. She held a hammer in one hand and two, fat nails in the other. "This is your choice, psion" she told him as she came.

Mekiil tried to resist, but it was futile. The witch savagely pierced the open palm of his left hand and hammered at the nail until it was buried deep in the stone of the altar. He screamed in fiery pain, his feet kicking at the air like mad. The witch now moved to the other hand and did like wise. The sorcerer kept screaming until his throat felt like boiled leather.

Fortunately, she didn't crucify his feet as well.

He lay there, chained and brutallised, the nerves of his hands feeling raw and exposed to the cold, underground wind currents. The black-haired witch led the chant now, while her sister observed with anticipation and fear burning in her eyes with equal measure.

Then he circle, save the witch, stopped chanting. Only the yellow-eyed woman's voice echoed in the tomb-like darkness, cold and clear. For the first time Mekiil seemed to notice his surroundings. He was in a small, bad-litten room with walls of stone painted red. To his right was the twisting staircase that led to the main temple above.

In front of him gaped the real horror.

Black emptiness, deep and darker than the night. A chasm that radiated with otherworldy energy and the horror of the bottomless pit. A well of dimensions, worlds and universes that reached into the deepest and most insane places of existance, outside the Sphere of Creation. The dread he felt at that sight was enough to make him forget the pain altogether.

The witch finished the chant with a thunderous words of power that made the walls crack. For a moment nothing happened. Then wind rushed out of the pit and Mekiil felt pain like he had never felt before.

It was the mother of all torments and even a brief taste of it could drive the strongest mind insane in but a moment. His every muscle, nerve, organ and vein was set alight with fiery agony, his will crumbling under the unbelievable pain. Flames licked at the hidden parts of his soul. His sanity broke like a twig under the roaring inferno of torment. His scream was unlike anything else produced by human vocal chords.

>>I HAVE ARRIVED! HEAR THE VOICE OF ICIPHER, YE MORTALS AND GODS AND DESPAIR<<, a thunderous voice boomed across the chamber. It carried the evil and malice born in the dawn of all matter and time.

The fear Mekiil felt was equal to his torment. This was no demon or devil to be summoned and then thrown back to whatever hell spawned. The witches had summoned a god! The mages screamed in horror and back away from the altar and to the staircase. The two sisters fell to their knees. One of their pet warlocks jumped into the black chasm, not uttering a sound.

Oblivion would be a tender mercy compared to what they were going to face.

The sorcerer's fear and pain were washed away by a wave of power that engulfed him. Power such as which he had never felt before. Godly power. Every part of his body was trembling with strength and his mind felt stronger and clearer than ever before. Black ice flowed through his veins and his heart beat faster and faster. His vision was sharpened to the heights of perfection. He could see throught the shadows, throught the darkness.

He tore his hands free from both nails and chains, feeling no pain as he did so. Every black-robed figure watched in horrid fascination as the gaping, bloody holes in his hands closed up and healed instantly. With a sudden jerk of his feet the chains holding them were shattered as well.

Mekiil jumped off the altar, his mind set on the destruction of the witches. >>They shamed you, man of Athos! They are your enemy. Slaughter them all and claim vengeance<< the voice of Icipher echoed in his skull.

Everyone was frozen by shock. Fear shined in their eyes. Feeling the power course through his body, the psion caught the nearest man from the throat, lightning-fast, and squeezed with all his might. Bone and muscle snapped horribly easy. He threw the dead man away like a broken puppet.

The mages backed away, slowly and carefully, not taking their eyes off the demonised psion. Not one of them fled up the staircase though. The sorcerer felt the taint that lay beneath the power, but ignored it. Like his people said, the goal makes the blade hallowed.

His body started to suddenly convulsed with terrifying force. He fell on his knees and hands, the bones of his back transforming, breaking apart and then stiching back together in awkward places. The muscles of his left arm became larger and larger until both bone and skin were ruptured, revealing the fiendish limb thant now barely resembled a human body part.

As he stood up, it reached all the way down his knee and was twice the bulk of his right arm. The hands was almost as wide as his chest and the fingers long and taloned. Both bone and muscle were of a red-black color and stank of blood. A long piece of blackened bone came out of his shoulder, piercing the inhuman muscle beneath.

He flet his mouth and chin widen. His gums hurt like hell as his teeth extended and broke at their tips. When he ran his tongue over them they were as sharp as spears.

When he spoke, both words and voice were not his own.

"You are indeed foolish, mortals" he said. "Not warlock can summon me out of my vessel" He hammered a fist on his right breast. "Now you pay the price"

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Then the mages began to wail in terror. "But Lord" yellow-eyes pleaded, bowing deeply and trembling. "We did as you-"

"-instructed?" the psion finished the sentence for her. "I think not, little witch. The signs wre pretty clear. You just craved for power, but shall receive none"

Before she could react, the sorcerer lashed out with his left arms, the transformed limb extending even beyond it's physical reach. It slashed in a wide arc, tearing out the faces of four hooded mages. Each one flew back and fell into the chasm. The rest, fear lending strength to their limbs, fled up the stairs. Only the two witches remained.

The blonde one fought her fear and stood up. With a cry, she launched at lightning bolt at him. It hit Mekiil full in the chest and threw him back on the altar. Smoke rose from the slightly charred flesh, but no real harm was done. He jumped off the square, bloody stone again, as if nothing had happened.

"I told you I would kill your for that slap, witch" he said, his voice now human. "And now I will"

He spoke a word of power that made the air between them crack with energy. Then she was thrown with tremendous force on the wall behind her, as if a giant had kicked her with all his strength. Her spine and skull broke with a sickening sound and she was no more.

Her black haired sister tried to ran away, but with a sudden twist of his right hand, the psion made her catapult half the room away and into the grip of his transformed arm. He caught her by the back of her head and lifted her high in the air. She screamed and kicked savagely but to no avail.

"This was but a taste of psionic power" he hissed in her ear. He smiled mirthlessly. "Let me show you the true wonders we can work with one's mind"

Her screams made the foundations of the temple shake.



Once he was done with her he threw her away, a broken shell of person with no will or the ability to even think. Mekiil had drained from her all her memories and knowledge, his brain feeling swolled by the process. He walked up the staircase and prepared to leave the underground city. The witch was left to live in the horror of the altar-chamber until she died of starvation or suffered a worse fate.

As soon as he walked into the main temple hall, his left arm turned back to it's former shape with no small amount of pain. The wave of power had receded, leaving him empty and yearning for more. Still, he resisted the urge, knowing that it would be better to leave the subterrainian halls first. Whatever had been summoned from the pit now made it's home here.

>>Wrong<< the same voice said, as if answering to his thoughts.

"The Hells?" Mekiil swore. "Who speaks?"

>>I did, little mind mage<<.

"What the Hells are you? Show yourself!"

>>Why, the Hells themselves, Atheani. And I believe that I have made my presence felt, many times over in the past<<

"Hallowed Ground" he swore, eyes widening in surprise. "You're in me!"

>>Most observing<<

"Who are you? What do you want with me?!" His shouts echoed in the temple halls.

He kicked a wooden, double door open to his left and entered a room full of mirrors. As he gazed into one of them, he understood the full impact of what had occured.

His face was completely alien to him. His long black hair had turned silver. His eyes were the color of molten brass. Numerous black veins were visible beneath his unnaturaly pale skin.

He screamed in madness and clawed at the face he no longer recognised.

>>Tch tch. Such a pretty mask I have made, Atheani.<<

>>It would be a shame to ruin what I have craved for so long<<

Mekiil fell on his knees, his face torn and bloody. "What the hells do you want of me?!" he shouted and punched the mirror in front of him. The sound of breaking glass filled the chamber.

>>To obey, mind mage. Now rise up. You have work to do<<