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This is one of the stories written by my colleague. The Wrap that he describes in this story is seen in the other story I posted. None of the names are chars of mine, he just made them all up. He named an old place "Arborea" without even knowing about the old area we had called Arboria. Kind of amusing.
Malevolence
The Wrap of Saint Diabol was aware. Specifically, the being that was bound to the Wrap was aware. It came and went, that sensation of knowing, ebbing and flowing like the tide. It could remember a time when it was an idea, a concept on the face of the Void, before the first ones came and made it whole.
It had been spilt mewling into the world, a thing of glistening black flesh and scales, and hunger. The Lord that had made it, formed it from the stuff of the Void, and breathed life into it with a Word, was inexperienced. As such, his first-born were flawed. They lacked the basic stuff of all life, the clockwork of the soul, and as a result, were beings built from pure emotion bound together by magic.
It could remember the touch of its Father, the blessings laid upon it, and the feeling of purpose, a direction to its hunger. It hung in a perpetual state between life and death, and as a result, craved the things that made others whole, that made them alive. With the Father's blessing, it was loosed on the world to sate that hunger, and in the first age, there was always a feast.
In time though, men grew wary. They gained knowledge, could see the warning signs of the Wasting, and found the things that invited it in. Then one day, they named it, Ammit, and for the first time, it knew fear. Names were power, and if the world had learned one thing, power was the great equalizer. It could bring a mighty hero low, or raise the lowliest scholar to unheard of heights.
In those years, it grew wary. It learned to bargain with men rather than simply sucking them dry. Usually in exchange for a favor - 'make me rich', 'bring me a lady', 'give me power'. They would laugh when it dictated its terms, as though their souls weren't currency, as though they had found the loophole that no one else had. It was the bargain that was the thing. It weakened their stance, lessened the power of the name through compromise. In the end, they ended their days the same as any other - flesh, rotting in the soil, and their souls fueling Ammit's heart.
Then Diabol came. A scholar, a man of the Lady through and through. If Ammit could have devised a way to devour his soul, reconstitute it, and devour it again, for eternity, he would have. The man had been more than persistent in his studies, constantly seeking knowledge, digging deeper, past what was considered forbidden, into the unknown.
It was during one such foray that he stumbled across Ammit's name written in a tome so old even the leather that bound it had begun to flake and erode. Enough remained however, that the old man recognized the words for hunger, souls, and compact. Had Ammit known the rest of what spun out in the old man's brain, it would have resisted the compulsion when its name was spoken.
It would have done anything but entered those crossroads.
*
Diabol was an old man. Old enough that he had seen two wars, a plague, and a year of endless summer when some god or the other thought it would be amusing to melt the northern snows. He had seen and done much in the name of the Lady, great deeds and small (there was no bragging there, simply naming what was), and had advanced the cause as well as could be expected. At times, he wished for an elf's longevity, or even a dwarf's hardy constitution, but he knew he was just a man despite that, and such things were out of reach.
So he had thought.
The book had been hard to come by, a tome written by one of his predecessors, a Malikin of Arborea, a kingdom long since dust in the mist of ages. In it, he had found the name of a being that birthed an idea. It was a horrible idea. One that, if he were honest with himself, chilled him to the bone. If it worked - if it worked, he could do so much good for the Lady, for mankind - he could be the spear of light that cleansed the dark. He could show others the way, and bring about a new age. Surely she would overlook the trespass, then.
So it was that he found himself standing beneath a gibbet at a crossroads. A Maiden's Moon shone down, her belly full, and cast pale light on the world. He glanced up at the hanging post, a frayed rope dangling from its crossbeam. A man had hung here just a day past, and Diabol imagined he could still smell the carrion stink of his corpse. Occasionally, a raven would flap its wings from the crosspiece, and then settle back in. They rarely left anymore. Ravens weren't stupid creatures - they knew where the feasts were to be had.
He waited, trying to gauge the time by the height of the moon, fidgeting. His bones ached, and his eyes watered nearly to distraction these days. He had since given up on physicians. He knew his time was near, though if all went well, it need not be. He took a minute to walk the intersection.
A ring of fresh-dug earth encircled the crossroads, under which was an iron ring, all of one piece, and enormously heavy. It had taken ten strong lads and a team of oxen with an oversize cart to bring it out. It was essential, however, and without it, he would never even have considered the enterprise. Directly under the crossroads itself, he had buried a small box inscribed with the Lady's blessings, and a long strip of cloth, steeped in blood he had donated from his own veins.
Satisfied with his inspection, Diabol stepped just outside the perimeter of the iron ring. He produced a dagger from his robes, an old thing, and not much good for more than peeling potatoes these days, but still serviceable. With a quick motion, he opened his palm, and pressed his hand to the dirt in the circle. He gave it a quick three count, and pulled back. Another beat, and he took a breath.
"Ammit." He said. The ravens on the gibbet took notice, and stirred.
"Ammit!" Louder this time, followed by several startled screeches.
"AMMIT!" The last came out as nearly a roar, and the ravens took flight, screeching their displeasure. He let the word echo off the nearby hills, and waited.
Movement at the edge of the circle caught his eye, and he looked down. The blood from his palm had begun to coalesce and congeal. It looked black in the moonlight. It moved. Small ripples at first, as though it were a pond filled with tiny fish. The ripples grew in size and frequency, each becoming wider and wider, the pool spreading with them, until it roughly the size of a man lying down. As he watched, something rose from the pool, glistening black, scales of obsidian contrasting with the sharp teeth he could see in its open mouth. He took an involuntary step back, and the smile on the thing's face grew wider.
"Old man. Well met." It dropped itself unceremoniously on the ground, and lounged on its side.
Words failed Diabol for a moment. He well and truly hadn't expected quite the reception he had received. The thing watching him from the circle was at ease, cocksure. He wondered how many others had thought to gain the upper hand on this thing only to find themselves with the short end of the stick.
When he regained his composure, he noticed Ammit was drawing circles in the dirt of the road, strange designs that had no discernible purpose.
"A bargain." He said. It came out a croak. He was handling this less well than he had hoped.
Ammit perked up. Long ears, the tips drooping to the sides, perked up, and it sat up, pulling itself into a cross-legged position.
"Speak then, old man. I haven't all night, and you don't appear to have much time." It sniffed the air, and grinned again. "Not much time at all."
Diabol cleared his throat. This thing was starting to rile him. Maybe that's what it wanted. Whatever the reason, he wanted his task over with.
"I want you to serve me." He said.
A sound like glass on glass broke the night air, and Diabol stepped back. The creature was laughing, its head thrown back, its chest heaving with gales of laughter. It went on for a while, and when it was finished, it looked directly at him, all signs of mirth gone.
"You must be mad. I have bargained with the sick, and the hale, the young, the elderly, the mighty, and the weak. Never have I served a single one." It raised itself up, and Diabol noted ropes of muscle shifting beneath the black slick of flesh. It started for him. "And now you waste my time with japes and foolery. I should eat your heart, and leave the rest for the rav-"
The thing was cut off as it hit the perimeter of the iron ring, and bounced back. A shower of blue sparks flew up from where it had tried to cross. When it spoke again, its voice was undiluted fury.
"What do you think? You think to keep me here, to force me to do your bidding? You think to bind me to your will? I will flay your soul until your ancestors weep in their graves, and then I will hunt your spawn for sport."
Diabol didn't rise to the taunt. The ring had worked. He steeled himself, and began the Binding.
"I name thee, Ammit!" He said, and the thing in the circle flinched as if struck.
"I name thee, Ammit Esurio!' The thing staggered back, and screamed, a sound like a thousand men being drawn and quartered. Diabol could feel wet warmth running down his cheeks, and knew something in his ears had ruptured. The screaming quieted, though it did not abate.
"I name thee, Ammit Esurio Mors!"
Driven back to the center of the crossroads, the thing went to one knee, supporting its weight on one long arm, claws dug into the earth. Ribbons of black had begun to unravel from it, spinning out into the air like hungry adders. Below it, the earth had opened up, and spilled a single shaft of light upward. Diabol made a gesture, his hand travelling from sky to earth in a quick motion, as though he were casting a stone into a well.
The beast struggled, and tried to stand, but the shaft of light held it fast. With a final wrenching scream of agony, it exploded into a million ribbons of darkness, each individually held by the light, and drawn down, into the box and the wrap below. Then it was gone, and Diabol was left with the light of the moon above, and the distant sound of ravens screaming in the night.
He eased himself onto the platform of the gibbet, and fished around in his robe. His chest and ears hurt, and a small headache had begun between his eyes. He found the cloth he had been looking for inside one of the many pockets hidden in his robes. He pulled it out, and began wiping away the blood that had leaked from his ears and nose. When he was satisfied, and the ache in his chest had died to a dull roar, he secreted the cloth away again, and fetched the shovel he had left leaning against the gibbet.
He walked to the center of the crossroads, where the thing had been, and dug the point of the spade in. The dirt cracked and flaked away, and he could smell sulfur and ozone drift up. It took him almost no time to uncover the box he had inscribed. He pulled it from the hole and dusted it off. The blessings he had carefully lettered on had blackened and burned away, and the carefully crafted oak felt light and brittle in his hands.
He stood admiring the box for a moment, pleased with how well his plan had worked. He nearly dropped the box when the ache in his chest flared up. He took a deep breath, and waited for it die back down, before walking over to the platform, and placing the box on it. He recalled Ammit's words, and wondered how close his time was. He supposed it didn't matter. He had the means now to defy the inevitable, to continue the Lady's work.
Surely she would forgive this trespass. He had been so faithful.
He lifted the lid of the box, the burnt hinges sticking ever so slightly. Inside, the Wrap sat, as innocuous as ever. He knew the truth of it now, though. Knew the binding had worked. The pain in his chest flared again, and he clutched at it, as though to squeeze it too into submission. It refused to abate, and he reached for the Wrap in desperation. His vision swam, and he missed the box.
Had it moved?
He reached out again, and missed again. Again, and the pain in his chest was growing into a white-hot agony. He fought it, and tried one more time. His fingers touched charred wood, but nothing more. He collapsed, his chest heaving in pain. He struggled to breathe.
Darkness poured in.
*
There had been others, of course. There was the thief, Mancalus, who had happened on Diabol's cold body, and thought to relieve him of earthly possessions he no longer needed. The Wrap had been one of those, stuffed into a pocket as an afterthought. Mancalus had no personal desire to wear a thing like it, but knew a certain lady who might fancy it, and exchange more than just a tease and a kiss for it.
There was Calliope, the whore, who had accepted the Wrap as a gift, and lived out the end of her days in an asylum, trying desperately to chew through her flesh where it had touched. From there, it moved from hand to hand to hand, never in one possession too long.
There were those who were able to resist. They shut their minds, for a time, to Ammit's whispers. They learned gifts, wonders and miracles, none of which came without a price. They learned to make the dead speak, to travel unseen, to siphon a soul. In the end though, all of their knowledge did nothing to protect them. Every use of the Wrap eroded their will and corrupted the flesh. In the end, Ammit got what he had always got.
Their souls.
*
Herod's storeroom was a cold stone square of space some thirty feet under the earth. He kept things there when he couldn't find a buyer, or the item was entirely too hot to pass on. He was fastidious, for a fence. Each item had its own space on a shelf, and no two items ever touched the other. Items were arranged, in order of time in, with the newest to the left, tending to oldest on the right. The storeroom was swept and dusted every three or four days. Herod believed a clean house was a safe house, so to speak.
Herod didn't believe in torchlight or even the relative safety of oil lamps. He sometimes stored things in the room that were sensitive, to say the least, to flame, and he wasn't the sort of man who would risk his livelihood on cheap lighting. Instead, he paid a man - a hedge-wizard really - to provide a glamour that would light up small stone globes set into the ceiling. They threw enough light to see by, and no heat. Well worth the money, in Herod's opinion.
Those same globes threw wavering shadows across the room now, giving the illusion that the room was smaller, and more menacing than it really was. Herod was bound and blindfolded, his arms tied behind him. The men that had used him to enter had forced him to his knees, and he could feel the steel point of a blade pressed into the small of his neck.
Despite the depth of the room, and the cool stone surrounding him, he could feel the beads of sweat rolling down his back and his ribs, and catching in the blindfold. He wrinkled his nose. He could smell himself, and it smelled like fear.
In the background, he could hear rough voices, bickering about what to take, and how to do it.
"You think he’ll want all this stuff?"
"You think he won't?" The other man asked.
No answer. Herod imagined the man shrugging.
"Scrag it. Take it all. Two trips if we have to, but no more. I don't want to be at this all night."
They stopped bickering, and Herod could hear the shuffle and scrape of men moving about, and the occasional clank of one item striking another as it was tossed into a bag. He winced involuntarily. He had no idea how he was going to recoup this loss.
Time passed, and no one spoke. He could still hear the men moving around, and the blade at his neck never wavered. He began to think of what might happen when they finished. He might be able to buy his life. He could hear his heart in his ears.
"That's it." One of the men said.
Herod opened his mouth to speak, to plead his case. The tip of a blade exited it, and he worried no more.
*
The job had been too rich to pass up, and Ravin was already thinking of how he'd spend his gold as they trudged up the stairs that led out of the storeroom. It would be good to eat well again, maybe sleep in a down bed. He wiped his hand on his cloak. The fence, Herod, had been a bleeder.
Opheth and Gryf came to the doors set into the earth that hid the staircase, and shouldered them open. They stepped out into a cool, moonless night. It was a few hours' walk to meet their contact yet, but the men were almost jaunty. A good job could do that for you.
They started down the well-worn road, walking in the ruts. Idle chatter passed between them. None noticed the heat in the bag slung over Gryf's shoulder, or the small hole that formed there. A ribbon of cloth began to peek through, the night breeze catching it, making it flutter gently. Eventually, the ribbon unwound, and as they passed through a crossroads with a gibbet overhead, it fluttered to the ground.
Come back tomorrow for another post! Have something you'd like to see me post about? Email me at twist@carrionfields.com.
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