by Joseph Carriker ({REL[568][articleGame]3PS0FDPcREL} Fiction)
In the heart of the Land, a Thing stirs.
Above it, shadowy forms gather, some bestial, some hideous, some twisted - all monstrous. With furtive glances about them, they gather. None trust the others here, for theirs is the nature of the predator and in their company, one eats or is eaten. Despite this, on this hallowed night, a night of the blackest new moon, they have laid aside their differences and gathered here.
One steps forward. The robes it wears were fine when he donned them this evening; but this night of travel through roughest brambles and cutting rocks have nearly shredded it. Despite this, he carries himself like royalty. Indeed, he is a prince, a prince among the monsters that gather here this night. Head held high, he steps forward and gazes upon the circle of stones before him. Within the circle, seven types of wood have been stacked, as prescribed by the kolduns of his clan and the appropriate designs have been etched into the thick, black soil within the ritual area. He gestures to the koldun beside him and the kindling secreted within the woodpile bursts into flame. He smiles as all those gathered, creatures of the deepest shadows all, flinch from the light. He does not, for he knows that this fire is not the purifying flame he and his fear; this fire is of the Blood.
The flames begin to lick upward, ravenously. He gestures, a grand motion meant to gain attention and silence. It does both. The shadows grow long and deep. His tattered robes make him seem like some monstrous scarecrow, a tatterdemalion nightmare. His eyes reflect the firelight, red and hungry. Those koldun gathered around him begin a low chant in an old tongue; they are joined by some of the others here, those who have done this before. Though they do not have the knowledge to draw power from those words, they lend their voices to it. There is power in those words and there is comfort in power. The chant rises with the thick, oily smoke.
"A thousand-thousand souls sleep upon this Land. Theirs is the purity of it. We all draw our nourishment from it - some take the greens of the forest and field, some take the flesh of land and river, some take the blood of beast and man. We are all of the Land.
"Not all that is Within the Land is Of the Land. Beneath our very feet slumbers a foul demon, a vast monster of fire and stinking plague. It hath a name, but we do not name it this night - we do not draw its eye. Behold! Within the fire dances one of its children. Who will pluck it forth? Who will brave the fire to pluck out the foul leprosy that taints our Land?"
Before the appointed one, a bestial man great of fang and talon, can speak the ritual words, another tongue shatters the silence.
"I shall."
The tattered robe swirls as the central figure whips about to lay eyes upon the one who so dares.
"So." The single word drips with contempt. "Would you, face the flames of That One, whelp?"
"I will. I am not afraid of the flames of Kupala and his..."
"Fool!" screeches one of the robed, hooded monsters, its face horribly deformed, its body scarred with sigils meant to defend against the taint in the Land. "It is folly to speak That One’s name, on this night of all nights! You give it power!"
"I am Lugoj, of Clan Tzimisce," he boasts, as though his name were a warding against that evil.
"Doubly fool, then, imbecile and madman. Use of thy name on this night gives That One thrice the power over you," speaks the master koldun, an aged man with long white hair and beard, the skin of his face enswirled with raised black patterns to distract the attention of wicked spirits, lest they see into his soul. "Pray for thy soul, O Young One and let thy Elders tend their work."
"No!" the young one fairly screams. "I will pluck out the demon! I will give battle to it! I will demand from it the accord it grants those who best it!"
All eyes turn from him, ignoring him, turning back to the light. All eyes save those of the rite’s master. Those eyes, blue as the winter dawn, drill into the young whelp, who stands with clenched fists and jaw.
"Very well. Our doom we lay upon your head, young one." He holds up a clawed hand to forestall the objections from the monsters around him. "The traditions are clear on this - he has bespoken the right to battle the One within the Flame. We must grant him that accord."
The whelp smiles as he takes the place of the Champion, to the right of the speaker.
The mutterings cease as the cauldron is brought forth by the master koldun. He begins to chant as a small moon-shaped blade slices his flesh and his vitae seeps, like tree-sap in winter, into the tarnished silver vessel. He passes it and the blade to his left, to the strange and wild woman who stands there, her nostrils flared in anger and outrage. Each member repeats the small ritual and the vessel and blade are passed counter-clockwise - against the sun - until it comes to the young champion, who looks at it curiously. The leader of the rite smiles and takes the blade from him. He looks into the hungry eyes of the one called Lugoj, as he slits his wrist and bleeds into the cauldron that brims with red-black vitae, the commingled offering of the gathered Monsters of the Land.
"We offer up that which is most valued to us, to enstrengthen our champion. Partake of our offering and defend our Land."
The chanting of the koldun begins to grow louder as the whelp raises cauldron to lips and gulps greedily, reveling in the thick, heady draught. He lowers the vessel, nearly dropping it and staggers. He looks at the interior of the vessel again, and then to the master of the rite, accusingly, He nearly falls, but is caught by the master koldun, who rescues the cauldron, which is older than their champion of this night. The lord of the rite leans in and whispers.
"The vessel is smeared with an essence of mushrooms and herbs that will enable you to see the foul demon. It hides in the nature of the Land, be it in the soil, the billowing of the fogs, the reflection of moon on water or in the crackle of the fires. Look into the flames, O champion, and battle for the health of the Land." The lord’s hand snakes into the greasy, matted hair of the young champion and force him to gaze into the flames.
The chanting continues to swell as the flames mesmerize the whelp. Burning, leaping, crackling, the fire speaks to him, whispering. His eyes widen and then narrow, as in the center of the flames, an image takes shape. A small round ball, like smooth brass gleams and then opens, like a seed sprouting. It opens, petals of searing red and orange, with a center of white-hot molten power.
"The fire flower..." whispers the whelp, overcome. His vision blurs and tears of blood mingle with the red beads of sweat that have sprung up on his face. He takes a faltering step towards the fire, and then another. A rush of heat nearly causes him to fall. His vision blurs again and then clears.
A thing holds the flower. In its face, he sees the face of every mortal he has drank of, of every animal he ever ate as a man. It is a thing of suffering and blood and it holds the fire flower. His jaw grows taut and he plants his feet firmly. His fists clench and he cries to the black Transylvanian sky. His scream becomes a roar as muscle thickens and broadens, sinew pops and resets, bone stretches, breaking and resetting itself, only to be wrenched apart once more. Hands thrown wide, as though he might embrace that fire rather than battle it, the whelp’s body expands with the sound of viscera popping and an agonized crack.
"He has the zulo," whispers the master koldun to the lord of the rite. "Mayhap there is a chance."
With a titan’s roar, the monstrous thing throws itself into the flame. At first, his great, spurred talons sweep only flames and the smell of singeing flesh fills the clearing, rising like incense into the black sky. Then, as though the world itself were shrieking, a cry, then another, then a third, as the whelp-champion’s claws find a mark. The demon, twisting, hissing and burning along with the pyre screams in agony and lashes out. An arm of molten pain slams into the monstrous champion and then the thing opens wide its limitless maw, exposing the white-hot core of the form this ritual has trapped it in. It lurches forward. Half bite, half kiss, it sears the towering, blackened zulo-beast that is the form of the champion.
The Tzimisce screeches and falls, flailing out of the flames. It lies there, half in and half out of the circle, crisped black skin broken and flaking away to ooze filthy burnt ichor onto the sacred stones. There is no sound in the circle, save the dying hiss of the fire as the demon escapes the captivity of the rite.
The beast-men are the first to leave, glancing fearfully behind them and scattering to the dark forests that no longer feel quite so safe. Soon thereafter, the twisted, diseased ones depart, fading from sight behind trees and into the depths of the caverns and mountains that spawned them. Soon, only the Tzimisce are left, and even they depart, muttering of ill omens and uttered threats.
When only three remain in the clearing, the hazy smoke of burnt flesh, blood and hope rising like the remains of a sacrifice, the monstrous form of the champion, of the poor one that calls itself Lugoj, stirs its head from the ground, to gaze at the two who look upon it - the prince and the master koldun.
"Know this. You have failed. Because of your inability this night, the demon - and its servants - grows mightier. This is the first time in centuries our champion has failed us. If I thought it would matter one whit, I would finish what the demon started. Instead, I want you to know this - you have begun the damnation of our Land. Others, in the future, may be able to set right what you have done, but it will be a struggle. A struggle because of your pride, childe called Lugoj. I pray that you have learned a lesson this night. But I doubt it. Dmitri, if you would, retire him to the chernozem."
"Radu! I will not use my arts to heal one as unworthy as he! I refuse!"
"Dmitri. Refuse me nothing. Though he has failed, our champion still deserves at least minor hospitality - rest, healing, food.
"On this spot tomorrow even, Lugoj, you will find a herd of deer. I suggest you feed and feed well. Know that this is the only hospitality you may expect from me. Know also that if you ever return to my demesnes, I will treat you to the hospitality of my kennels - as food."
With a gesture and effort of will, the koldun calls up the moist black earth, the chernozem. It oozes and slides around the wounded zulo, who sighs a harsh, guttural sigh at the comforting touch of the healing earth. In the space of a few breaths, only a patch of black earth remains to mark the resting spot of Lugoj, failed Champion.
The two old Tzimisce, arm in arm, descend the mountaintop, leaving this night and its failures behind.
"Where will you go, Dmitri?"
"I do not know. Far from Transylvania, I think. Yorak and his Metamorphosists have made clear what they think about the koldun, Radu. You are one of the few that I yet trust."
"Well, I am not precisely what you might term a Metamorphosist, my brother. I am a lord, Dmitri, plain and simple. I haven’t the time or faith to devote to the study of The Old Ways as you and our sire have. And there are...joys to be had in the Hands of Change, Dmitri."
"You are speaking to me, Radu; your own Dmitri. I know this best of all. Was it not you that taught me what little of that art that I know? And well I remember the teachings...." The old man’s voice trails off, remembering. The two look up suddenly as a form blocks the path that leads to Bistritz - by its shape and smell, both know it to be Mitriu, Radu’s servant.
"I go from this place, Radu. We will speak again, in the years to come." The two kiss on the lips, as brothers and then the old one steps from the path, where a pair of owls await his return. He turns his face skyward, a song of the wind spirits on his lips and then he is one with them. His owls surge upwards, lifted on the currents of air that Dmitri has become. Looking skyward, Radu touches two fingers to his lips and waves them, once, towards the direction of that wind.
"Come, Mitriu. Tell me how fares the keep in Tihuta Pass..."
END
