zg_shadows | A Short History of Laurence Part-1

Reader Warning: Due the graphic sexual and violent content of this short story those who are offended by dark and horror based concepts should be forewarned, If any of the following offend you – Murder, torture, rape, demonic worship and possession or the beating of children. Then please do not read. If you do read (and end up being offended or sickened anyway) don’t say I didn’t warn you.

***

It was the first day of spring, but the mountain air was still bitter cold. Romania does not get hot like other places; it is a place of cold air and hard edges. Even in summer, the locals say, the cold is just waiting to be let back in. But on the first day of spring, when the rest of Europe would be opening windows and putting away the winter sheets, the people of the Brasov Mountains still burned coal in old iron stoves and kept oilskins on the door to keep out the flurries.

Romania is a place of cold but it is also a place of legends. It is in these hills the Romani still roam and in these mountains the dark places are still haunted by dark things with dark thoughts. The gypsies stay away from such places; as everyone else does – even a gypsy curse can’t turn aside what stalks the cliffs up in those old rocks. Ancient things, hates from old times, before the Christian church and the Communists drove away the night and brought reason and schoolyards to the valley below. It is on a dark place in those mountains that our tale begins. A dark place with dark thoughts and dark deeds...

***

The shadowy figure walked among the old halls like a sick predator searching for weak prey; graceful in his own way but with an odd turn of foot like a disease or old wound that still ached in his step. He wore black robes wrapped tightly against his gaunt frame and a staff of pitch-stained wood gripped ferociously in his left hand. The staff was carved with images and reliefs of horrible things, depravities to make a strong man cringe. Wild horrors of nightmare tales danced along its haft, violations up and down its length. But if the robes gave one pause and the staff made one sick, the man beneath evoked fear.

He was an old man, his skin creased and brown like parchment left in the sun for too many days. His lips were full, wet and red as if a hunger had overtaken him. His eyes were grey and dark, seemingly calm but with a zealous fury hidden just behind. The hand that gripped the staff was a gnarled bent thing, more claw then human hand, the nails yellow with age or sickness, the knuckles white and tense.

This was Frikalos, the master of this place; he was part of it and his sickness had infected it like a foul rotted stain. He was not a sane man, but he was a powerful one and one who was adept at leading others of like mind. He was an evil man, and worse, he knew and reveled in that evil until all humanity had fled his soul and what was left was a hollow shell of man filled with an ever-burning, all-consuming hatred of all that is and would be. He was a man who longed for that which should not be, who craved perversion and depravities in ways humans should not be able to fathom. His followers lived here with him in this old temple in the mountains, indulging their sickness and seeking ever more ways to turn the earth to their unholy vision of paradise. Among the Nephandic cults such practices were not uncommon but it is still rare that the right combination of events came together to make those twisted dreams possible.

Frikalos knew this was the time. He had been waiting for it as long as he could remember, looking in dark places, searching forbidden texts and learning the left hand paths, all the while waiting for the right place, and the right time and the right knowledge to come to him. Such things are rare; the universe was not made to be broken and the order of things was not made to be warped. Thus to make a tear in what is – to go beyond our world and look into the unfathomable depths of madness that lie beyond our reality – one must create such circumstance as will tear down those barriers set in place so long ago, and even then such things are fleeting. Frikalos, however, had a plan; a hateful, sickened, insane plan – but like many realms of insanity there was some wisdom in his madness and method to his chaotic actions.

The stage had been set for months, the rites performed over moonless nights and the blood of a hundred sacred goats, innocent men and virginal daughters stained the flag stones of the altar room. The temple was built by Tartars in the fourth century, a tribute to a war god now long forgotten. It was carved with images of suffering and death, and while Frikalos had never met this god, the place suited his needs perfectly. It was a place of evil and hatred, where good men did not tread and the wise left alone for the snow to swallow. Frikalos was not a good man and few with any sanity had ever called him wise, so here he was in this foul place his life’s work coming to fruition on the first day of spring on a cold Romanian night.

***

Frikalos stalked unevenly down the corridor towards the main ritual chamber. His minions had recently returned and from what his first follower, Stavros, had told him, they had the prize he sought.

Coming into the chamber he saw her. They had bound an iron collar around her neck and chained her feet to the floor; her hands were shackled and pulled upwards so she was stretched upright before the altar. Her dress was torn but they had not completely stripped her yet. She was a beautiful girl; a gypsy princess.

He had found her while in disguise and trading for goods with the local caravans. She was only six at the time and still he could feel the strong potential from her. He knew then, nine years ago that she would be a mage one day and was sure that that day was today. Stavros had lived with the family for a few years now making sure she stayed safe and away from the beds of her many suitors. She had to be innocent, this one; innocent and asleep, for at the moment of her Awakening she must be broken.

Mages are reservoirs of tremendous power. Even when not casting a spell an awakened mage uses this power in tiny amounts all the time, sensing the world around them, feeling the sensations of magic running through the air. But a young mage, one who has not yet awakened, has still been a mage all their life, and all that power, that potential, has been building for years.

Innocence was another powerful factor. The innocent hold a special place in the universe; untouched and unsoiled, they are universally cared for in any paradigm, which is what makes them so sought after by creatures like Frikalos. Creating the environment to harness such power took many months. Innocents had to be slain, rites performed, beings called from the depths to sanctify and taint the place with their essence. The room had to be made into a natural channel for the power they would release to only one end. That end had been in the mind of Frikalos since he first stepped upon the left hand path: destruction.

There were beings in the other worlds, beings not meant for this realm, beings who were formed by the primeval forces of the universe for purposes unknown or long past that still remain, their names and natures hidden away in the lore of ancient cults and mysterious orders. Hell has existed long before man, and mankind only began to realize what it was by understanding the fraction of our world that it can influence. The real hells, the places that are imagined as the sources of our hatred, anger and sin, are far worse then we can imagine.

Frikalos knew these things; he knew of an ancient being never yet called to this realm; knew of the true nature of the Hells and reveled in it and so too he knew of the power needed to call this being to our realm. This place was one it should not be, for if such a being were loosed on our unsuspecting and weak world, the suffering and death that would follow would be unimaginable.

Some Nephandi wish for the end of the world, but not Frikalos; he did not long for void, he longed for a world broken by hatred and corruption – a world where he would rule as a twisted prince of realms blackened by soot and over the heads of the masses writhing in agony for all time. The being he planned to call was named Dagorath in the old tongue – it meant destroyer, but it was only a fraction of his purpose for he was so much more.

Now in this place he had the chance to create that world, to loose this fiend from hell for long enough to ruin this world and bring ashes and pain to all its people. To do this he would need power – more power than he had ever called, for the barrier between worlds was a powerful thing and even more so for the distance he had to call. Even here in his caul it would take a great act to bring about his apocalypse...

***

Stavros was sickened by what he saw. Agents of House Janissary were trained to deal with disturbing things but what he was made to witness here had almost broken his mind. He had been undercover for ten years, tracking the movements of the arch-mage and nephandic lord known only as Frikalos. The order had found him impossible to kill under normal circumstances so they sent Stavros to find a way to do so and report on his activities to hold him somewhat in check. For the last decade he had watched as Frikalos killed, raped and tortured dozens of innocent mortals and mages. He helped lessen what he could and made sure that the Order of Hermes was apprised of his actions and enterprises so they could work against him more effectively, but all the while he had never found a way to kill him, until now.

It was only three nights passed when Frikalos had told him what he was planning; after ten years he still barely trusted Stavros.

“Stavros” he said in that awful scratchy voice that seemed to drip with contempt and spite, “Stavros, I am finally ready to remake this world. I have all that I need, and only one thing remains. You must bring the girl child Sabina from the caravan you ride with, you must bring her here three nights hence.”

It was then he told Stavros of the ritual and of Dagorath. “It will, even with all we have done and all our preparations, take all I have. You must guard me. Let none of these whelplings try to strike me down in the midst of my concentration. Do this for me Stavros, my trusted Stavros, and I will make you a prince in my new world.”

Stavros waited the three days in nervous anticipation. His life didn’t matter - nothing else mattered. The day he had been waiting for ten years for was finally here. He went to the caravan that night and took Sabina while she was sleeping. Keeping her asleep with magic for the journey into the mountains and into the high on the north peaks to the Tarterian Temple, he turned her over to the acolytes and went to alert Frikalos. So close - he was terrified that the sick old man could see it in his eyes. For ten years he had maintained a perfect cover, always shielding, always covering; now he was scared he might slip at the very end and it would all be for naught.

If his terror was showing in his face, Frikalos was too distracted to see it. The hellish fire in the monster's eyes was burning bright now and he nearly leapt towards the altar room. Relief and confidence flooded Stavros and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself before following after his false master. He had hidden a cold iron dagger crafted by the Solificati and blessed by Fortuna in the sleeve of his robe - there was no finer or sharper blade and in six hours' time, he would drive that blade into the old bastard’s heart.

***

Sabina awoke in a nightmare, except that nightmares didn’t hurt. She was undressed and hanging by her hands from chains, the room lit only by the flickering naphtha lamps burning with pitch, myrrh and sickly sweet saffron. It stank of death and the old blood that seemed to coat the walls and floor. Discarded remains of sacrifices and other refuse too horrid to contemplate were piled around the room.

Men in black robes were prodding her with iron pokers and all round the room other men and women were copulating in the waste and blood and filth. Behind her was what appeared to be a large gateway depicting a hellish scene, but it opened only onto solid stone. In front of her stood an old man with a twisted grin, his eyes showed madness, lust, hate; and she was instantly afraid of him.

“Now, now, my child, it is not so bad as all that.” He gently wiped a tear away from her cheek. In any other case this may have seemed a kindness but from him, with his gravelly, contemptuous voice, he just seemed to be mocking her pain. He touched her tear to his tongue and his grin grew wide. He turned to another man “She is almost ready. Begin the ritual, we have little time.” With that he pulled a razor from his robes and turned back towards her. “Now little Sabina, let us find out what it takes to make you sing for me.” Sabina could not sing, she could barely speak and just managed to choke out a sob of “Please...” before he touched the cold sharp steel to her breast - then she screamed.

***

Frikalos watched the blade slice into the young girl’s nubile flesh. So fresh, so young, so untouched; it was shame he would not enjoy her, but the ritual required she remain pure as a sacrifice for the Lord Dagorath. Still, he would have the small pleasure of her pain and the waves of agony that flowed from her as he let out her blood. The carving would cause pain, yes, but that was not the only reason to cut. Aside from the obvious beauty of scarring the innocent he was also slicing in the various seals and anointments needed to make the sacrifice worthy for the demon. All proper ritual and decorum must be maintained when summoning a being of Lord Dagorath’s power; it would not do if the place was not right or the sacrifice not pleasing.

When he had finished she was panting and coughing blood. She had screamed for the first half hour but after that her lungs had given out and ruptured from stress - it happened sometimes in the young. All was ready now, the acolytes gathered at the base of the altar and begun the chants, Stavros stood at his side with the unguents and implements of high ritual. Frikalos raised his arms to the portal and began to call his power forth.

***

The Nephandic lord would not use his true power until he had to, to maintain the gateway that meant the girl would have to Awaken and the portal open. Only then could he kill him. Stavros waited, wishing more than anything that he could help the young girl chained in front of him. He had been forced to do many evil things to maintain his cover among the Nephandi, but he had helped to raise this girl, kept her safe and watched as she grew from playful little girl to wise young woman. Now she stood on the verge of Awakening to her true destiny but she would never realize it, for she was slated to die. It was a shame and he hated himself for it, but he had hated himself for a very long time now and the only thing that would make it better was to kill this creature from whom was born all this atrocity.

The ritual lasted hours. Sabina looked more awake - as if something was coming over her. Perhaps she sensed her Awakening, he thought; perhaps she thought that she had a chance, perhaps she had hope. The thought almost broke his heart...

***

Sabina felt something in her stirring, something powerful. A voice was singing in her ears, drowning out the chanting and the sickening voice of the decrepit old man in front of her. It drowned out everything and took away the pain. “Is this God?” she thought to herself. Maybe it was; maybe God had come to help her. The voice was growing louder in her head, until finally it felt like it would tear her open, it was too much. She opened her mouth to try to let it out.

It rose in pitch and erupted out of her in a burst of fury and exaltation. For a moment she felt free and bright, for a moment everything felt like it would be alright. Then the rush of power stopped flowing forth from her and started being pulled. What was once lightness in her heart had become a yanking on her guts. The power that had promised to help was now being torn from her. The last of the energy fled as she retched and strained against the bonds cutting into her wrists. Her knees gave out and she looked up to see the old man smiling down at her.

He looked up and past her to the door behind her. She turned with great effort to see that where once there was a wall of stone now the gate looked out upon a burning wasteland. Rivers of pitch ran down from mountains of corpses. The land was black stone and everywhere there was fire, blood red flames; no comfort or warmth came from that heat, only the promise of damnation and suffering. She managed to choke out a scream one last time before all went black.

***

Frikalos turned his attention from the girl to the portal. She had served her purpose to him, and the demon would want her whole. He laughed with an almost child-like glee. It was so beautiful. The flame, the power, the sheer awesome nature of what he was seeing was overwhelming. He knew he must focus; opening a breach between worlds was one thing but holding it open and calling forth the Lord of that realm was another. He shut out the chanting, the screams, the voices in his head that called him to madness, even the beauty of the landscape in front of him. He turned all of his focus and power to the gate. “Dagorath! Lord of Fury. Scion of the seventh realm of Hell and bringer of the Red Plague! I call you forth! I offer treatise and succor, I ask that you visit your wrath upon this meek and pathetic world. Leave it in ruins; create for us a paradise of atrocity! Thus I call and summon!”

The burning air within the gate shimmered and writhed as if in pain. Space within the realm pulled and stretched. A rent appeared in the fabric of space and through it stepped a being of raw fury, a walking apocalypse. He stood at least sixteen feet tall, his skin ashen grey and rough. His arms hung low and ended in dagger-like claws, and his feet in blackened, soot-stained hooves. His body was ripped with unnatural muscle bulging from every limb, and spines and spurs broke through the skin and oozed a kind of black pus that sizzled like acid when it touched the ground. From his head rose barbed horns that curved away from his brow like a dark crown defying heaven. His face was a mask of hate with teeth sharp and slavering for a kill. His wings stretched away from him; rough, gray and horned like the rest of him. Coarse hair and patchwork armor covered most of his body but his member hung down between his legs. Barbed and brutal and exposed, it dripped with the same ichors that came from his spines. For all the horror he invoked he was a wonder to behold. The great beast roared into the world of men “Who are you, little creature, to dare call forth me, who no man hath lived to summon!”

Frikalos responded in ritual. "I am a supplicant and celebrant and pitiful creature who hath spent his life adulating your greatness. I offer you sacrifice, I offer you a world to plunder and rend, I offer you all I have - I ask only to be made king of this place when you have taken your fill of its blood and flames. I ask only to rule in this wasteland after you have no need for it.”

***

Stavros watched as the ritual exchange took place. He waited. Only at the height of the ritual, during the sacrifice, would Frikalos truly be vulnerable, then and only then could he strike. He watched horrified as the great demon stepped forward and lifted his prize off the floor, dangling her now wakening body by her delicate arms. He tore the last of her clothes from her, leaving her naked and bleeding from the edges of the claws. Without warning or preamble he brought her down upon his phallus, ramming into her with force Stavros thought must have killed her. She screamed, blood spewed forth from her mouth as her body managed to choke the sound from damaged lungs. The hellspawn rutted her against the altar; Stavros heard her pelvis shatter against the stone and watched as he broke her arms backwards. He finished within her and her skin sizzled as the acidic ichors flooded her body. Her eyes turned red and burned from her skull, reduced to puddles of white pus; her tongue turned black and swelled, choking off any further sound. She slumped to the floor as he pulled out of her, and the barbs on his member dragged some of her guts with it. He roared, still dripping with her gore.

Now was the time. The demon reveling in its own power, Frikalos focused on the portal and finalizing the ritual; if he was to stop this, it had to be now. He drew the mystic dagger from his sleeve and rushed the Nephandi Lord. Frikalos seemed to sense something coming, and even in his ecstatic state he felt the attack and turned to meet it. The ritual broke, the demon roared, his power tearing through the chamber - a reflex reaction only, but still it contained enough power to shake the walls and burn a mortal to cinders. Stavros barely deflected it - the acolytes did not and were reduced to ash in moments. Stavros, burnt and bleeding, continued the assault on Frikalos. The dark priest was distracted again by the demon's mystical lash, and while deflecting that felt Stavros’ dagger break his flesh and pierce his heart. Frikalos’ protections were good but none survived a dagger of the Fortunae and he was dead in moments.

When Stavros looked up the portal was stone once more, the room empty of any living thing save him and the girl. How she was still alive he did not know but he rushed to her side, pouring his healing magics into her. It had been years since he had healed, it felt good to do something pure once more, even if it was in this hell hole. Slowly he stitched her back together, mending flesh and purging the acids. He calmed her tongue but could not restore her eyes. He lifted her and carried her from the temple. The snowy air was cold but after the heat and brimstone of the ritual chamber it was a good kind of cold; a clean cold.

Stavros stepped across the threshold of the temple and onto the soft white snow. He died almost immediately. Frikalos was an evil man, and he shares power with no one; concerned about betrayal he had laid an awful curse upon Stavros that prevented him from leaving the temple should any harm befall his master. It was just the kind of spiteful, malicious cruelty that Frikalos would inflict upon someone foolish enough to serve him loyally, and the last thought Stavros had other then realizing the trap was a curiosity as to how he didn’t see it coming.

***

Sabina awoke in the snow. She didn’t hurt as much but she couldn’t see. She was very cold and naked. She felt around and found a body nearby. Revolted by the corpse but realizing she wouldn’t live long in the snow, she clumsily stripped the body of its clothes and dressed herself tying off the loose fabric to make layers. She couldn’t remember why she was here or why she couldn’t see. She seemed to remember something awful happening but it was all very blurry and vague as if a horrible nightmare woken up from too soon and fading quickly. She felt her eyes; the smooth scar tissue told her something was very, very wrong.

She panicked and began to run through the snow - she didn’t know where she was going and couldn’t see but she knew she had to get away. Behind her came a rumbling crash and a wave of heat rushed across her back, but she didn’t stop. She tripped and fell, cascaded down the slope and came to light in a heavy bank of snow. Breathing hard, she gathered herself up, the panic had gone but the fear remained. Not knowing what to do, she began creeping down the mountain as best she could.

***

Sabina was found by mountain folk on the mid-slopes and taken back to her camp. Her people fawned over her and took care of her. The seers told her that her memory would not return and neither would her sight but that it was all for a reason; they told her something evil had touched her on the mountain and they performed the cleansing rituals and the anointments to wards off the devils and the curses. It became obvious in a very short time that young Sabina was pregnant. With no suitors to claim the child and rumors flying about the girl’s disappearance to the mountain and her ruined eyes the clan leader John Croft took responsibility for the child, saying he couldn’t resist her and that the child was of the clan. Everyone knew it wasn’t true but that wasn’t what was important to her family, only that she not be made outcast. Everything was alright for a few months, until the labor came.

***

“It wan’t a day to be birthin' no child’n,” the clan would say later. “It e’nt right that the curs’d day be for bringin' a new baba intd’ world.” The day was midwinter, the solstice. For the Gypsies it is a cursed day, a day of bad omens and worse tidings. The Christian folk, they say, give gifts and light candles and eat feasts all to ward off the sorrow of the bad day. For them, they stay in the wagons and tell stories of the good times and the best meals and they always keep juniper above the door in case of bedevilment or evil eyes, for they all know the devils are strongest on midwinter night.

Her water had broken in her wagon the night before and by midnight she was near birthing. It was just after midnight, some claim thirteen minutes after, that the child was born. It was only a few moments after that that Sabina died.

The baby was born in a wash of blood and black gore, the stench of evil and filth filling the nursing wagon. Two of the midwives ran from the wagon and vomited in the snow. The doctor from town was sick but held it together long enough to wipe the thing off and then nearly drop it. Ten fingers and ten toes, a healthy baby boy, but with a face of pure hatred - it wasn’t deformed or twisted, but rather it was wrong in a way no one could put into words. It had shiny black eyes and sharp little teeth, black nails like claws and little black horns on its head poking through the skin like a satyr. It screamed an unnatural sound and the doctor passed out. The last midwife, a tough old woman and one of the eldest in the clan carried the child out into the snow. Her eyes were pale and white and she looked not herself. She stood before the midwives and a few others with the child in her arms and spoke.

“Darkborne Child, cursed of fate

Your birth doth herald an ancient hate

For father’s sins thy skein is bound

With Curses Three for Hellish crown

This flesh that god hath left untouched

Shall bear the mark of sire's clutch

The seven seals shall be your mask

A sign of sire’s fearful wrath

Your eyes we curse with blooded sight

To see only black and wasted night

To see the fate of every face

To see the void in every place

The heart of spawn shall bear the worst

Of curses bitter fate disbursed

For his soul was born in death

He’ll know no love from mortal flesh

This curse shall hold through any spell

Until released by honors tell

Ten thousand lives the demon slain

Tenfold returned t'unbind your skein”

After she finished her eyes returned to normal and she looked once more at the child and tossed it into the nearest drift, tears flowing from her eyes and disgust in her face. John Croft asked what happened and was told the child had been taken away and replaced with a devil and it had killed little Sabina. He asked what had happened to the devil and the old midwife said she tossed it in the cold snow and killed the little thing. John walked to the embankment and dug around for the devil to see for himself. When he saw the vile creature his face twisted up and he pulled back, it was not dead at all but wailing its little heart out and seemingly unaffected. The snow had washed away some of the gore and he could see seven little symbols on his skin, too small to make out but they seemed to be glowing. John Croft leaned in for a closer look when the child exploded into flames.

***

Ahmed Mehaland watched from the hill above. He saw the buildup of magical energy and pulled time to a stop just as the child exploded. He came closer, seeing the look of shock and revulsion on John Croft’s face. “This is not good, it does not do for a father to be disgusted with his child.” He whispered into John’s ear. He walked to each of the witnesses in turn, whispering the same small words into their ears and into their minds. They would only remember that an evil force killed Sabina and her child. They would not remember what it looked like, only their sadness at losing a child and his mother. He paced back to the child and looked upon it with pity. Dispelling the flames, he gathered up the poor little thing into a blanket and walked away, setting fire to Sabina’s wagon as he went.

Ahmed had been following the events since the temple exploded after the ritual, he had been copied in to Stavros’ reports before then and had been assisting in intelligence gathering for the Order. Though he himself was an Ahl-i-Batin, an old and almost extinct Tradition of magi, he enjoyed the pay the Order of Hermes offered for his specialized work.

He had taken on the case of the child as a personal obligation, feeling some responsibility for being involved in the events that caused it and being one of the last people alive who was, he had taken an interest in its protection. He heard the curse spoken by the old woman and now realized what it meant, or at least parts of it. The child was ugly to be sure, but the profound distrust and hatred felt by the Gypsies was due to the curse, not his looks. If the curse was right, then all mortals would feel that looking at him. But until he was old enough for them to know if he was innately evil or what his connection with his father was, they couldn’t let him near mortal society. Ahmed decided on a group of priests, acolytes of the Celestial Choir. At least until he was old enough for them to figure out what to do with him, he should be safe from mortal eyes at the cloister and while the priests would never love him or even care for him, they would at least not kill him, which was more then he could say for most others.