The Gathering

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Chapter Forty-Five

     The mad priest picks up the clay doll and manipulates it between trembling hands. His withered fingers do a mad dance over the imperfect clumps as though anticipating a great evil, and then pick at the edges with fevered pecks. He then breaks the clay doll, crushing it between his palms, into a small, ornate brass bowl that rests upon the stone altar where stick candles and incense burn, filling the decaying space. The loose clumps bounce around within the perimeter of the bowl’s borders then fade to dust within the faces carved on the rim. Hidden within the main body of the clump he finds a silver artifact, studded with gems, that edges out into fine point. The artifact is similar to Featheon’s Talon, which he now wears on his left index finger. He dawns the new ring and falls into convulsions, for anticipation fills him with thoughts of victory for his dreams will soon be realized and he will no longer be cursed in this world. For the second of the rings' cups his finger with a delicate sting and suckles upon the blood from the wound. His face contorts at the discomfort while he eyes wither to gray and sink deeper within his sunken face. With the pointed edges of the gleaming rings, he places them against his pulsing wrist and slices and the flesh allows his blood to pool within the bowl. The clumps of clay dissolves within his liquid, changing the crimson to a solemn, impure black then ignite into a dull blue glow. He then reaches over for the scepter and it begins to glow of a brilliant translucence, appearing as though to destroy the light around it like a black hole. “I Ismeve Devley, devout and obedient servant of your reign now come before you to offer myself for the ascension. Come to me great master. I burn at heart for thee. Don’t despair me, come bear me on wings of light, which extend from annihilation and guide me through death’s veil, to your eternity where your everlasting rule will dominate over this kingdom. I await my birthright at your side, as prince to your magnificence and feast upon this world’s end with the appetite of a god.” The aura begins to surround him.

     Then the voice of his god in mourning “Ismeve...”
     “Is that you my lord?” The mad priest calls out, looking upward upon the blank cavern walls for his next instructions.
     “Yeah, that’s it.” The voice reverberates off the cavern walls in a deep echo. Ismeve swings around to greet his stalker and finds a black, impish demon standing before him among the twelve glowing busts with fresh bloodstains on his face and shirt like a crazed butcher.
     “You...” He curses, an extended pitch that carries on his breath until it sinks where his fear now begins. He slowly raises the glowing scepter toward Deano, attempting to put distance and a barrier between them. But the light has little influence on his stalker as he continues to slowly advance.
     “Hand over the scepter and this will all soon be over.” He says, extending his hand.
     “Never. I have waited far too long for this then to just hand it over to you. I will have my day.”
     “You will have your day at the end of my claws if you don’t.” The blue hair demon threatens. His claws extend from blunt fingers releasing the sent of fresh blood and entrails.
     “You can’t hurt me. I am safe from you.”
     “That’s what you think.” His voice, a mocking challenge. “How long have you waited?” Deano questions, as he continues to near, passing the last of the cherubs.
     “52 years... 52 long years as a Gray Seer, watching and doing nothing. 52 years of rotting my life behind closed doors, drowned within archaic tomes of lost truths and uncertain lies. That is a lot of hate and pain.”
     “Insignificant, for I have lived imprisoned on this dreaded planet for 420 years and I still wait for hope, for truth and an answer to my fate that will explain my reason for being here. Maybe it is so that I can live till this day, to kill you and your god and take his place on his thrown and forever be master of my own fate. 52 years is but a blink of an eye compared to my life and you know nothing of pain.”
     “Don’t. Do not degrade this into a game. I will not play that with you and the gift will be mine.” Attempting to push him back with the Talons outstretched toward him.
     “If you were actually a Gray Seer, then you would have seen this day and know how it is I will kill you.”
     “You sound certain that you will.”
     “I have never failed before.”
     “It won’t work this time. Your gifts will not save you now, not here, not now.”
“What know you of my gifts?”
     “I have seen, I have watched and I know. You are the night in disguise, a ghost who reeks of blood and vengeance, the thorn in the Emperor’s side, which will never go away. You will not succeed here though; I have made sure of it.”
     “Then you do see. But it’s not a gift. It’s a trick and I don’t need it for I have already won because the seeds of doubt have been planted. I have played this game much longer than you Ismeve and it is that which has defeated you.”
     “But you have done nothing.”
     “Oh! But I have. I distracted you long enough to get close and do this.” Suddenly, his blade manifests within his extended hand and thrusts into Ismeve’s chest, piercing his beating heart and snuffing the life from his breath. Shock overcomes him with bereavement as he looks upon the gleam of the blade and watches the wound heal around it. Ismeve laughs at the resulting expression on Deano’s face and places an unwavering hand over the vibrating blade and removes it from his chest.
     “I guess there’s a first time for everything.” Within his left hand the brilliance extinguishes, escaping into his flesh as though being inhaled like a gaseous drug. Suddenly his hand rushes forward and delivers a massive surge of energy that strikes through Deano’s chest and abdomen. The rippling arcs pierce and burrow through him and pulverize the opposing stone-faced wall with precision and deadly force. The tongues hold him in mid air as his flesh burns from the intensity, filling the void with the sent of burnt offerings. Beyond pain, Deano’s brain shuts down and allows the wave to pass. However, his heart palpitates and begins to dwindle. Ismeve’s voice becomes a solid mass of sound, drowned under the explosions of his flesh. In that moment, before the darkness swoops down to claim him within its succoring hands - an epiphany overwhelms him. The vision streams before his exploding eyes for a single moment of clarity, ushering hope before his demise. With the last vestige of strength within him, he strikes out with his blade and severs the rings from Ismeve’s hand. Within that instant, life surges through him as the energy stops and he falls to the ground, curling up into a writhing ball of pain. His ears begin to fill with the sound of the booming horizon and of Ismeve’s screaming defiance. The old priest bends over to reclaim the pieces of his hand and gather the scepter. But struggles from his attempts as the blood makes it too slippery for him to accomplish both tasks simultaneously.
     Deano allows the pressure to build within him, the air to rush into his burnt lungs to fuel the pain that rests within his hollowed person. The pain fuels his throat to burst with the massive scream of his displeasure. The effort tears at the back of his throat, releasing massive globules of crimson and burnt flesh to spittle over his blistering lips and fill the cavern with the tremble of his hate incarnate. Ismeve stumbles from the blast and struggles to cover his ears as they begin to implode. He finds no release, no shock wave to decimate the surrounding cave, coffin and bury the mad acolyte along with him. His frustration becomes his defeat as he senses Ismeve reclaim the scepter with the other hand and organize his thought, in contemplation to his next actions.
     His severed fingers still linger on the ground, at his feet where the light begins to die, where his opponent lays and dies. Schizophrenic eye dance between the bloody digits and the still body of his unnamed sacrifice - where indecision now looms and confounds the clarity of his next action. Unconvinced of his demise, he approaches the being and extends the hidden blade from the crown of the scepter. This will be an act of conviction, where the unknown outweighs the known and certainty will bring peace of mind. He raises the scepter overhead, allowing it to catch the dim light before dropping it with a trembling arm. As it falls, he feels the base of his throat sting from an unknown prick. However, the result it the sudden lost of strength where the blade hits empty floor and sparks absently at the friction. A wooden hilt protrudes from his chest, from just above his heart and pierces his esophagus - bleaching the air from the cavern as it enters his lungs with short, warm gulps. His hand loses the strength to hold the scepter and it drops with a resonant clamor that fills the air with his silent question. Deano stirs on the ground with his blistering hand descending from where it raised to launch his blade. It is the thud of Ismeve’s body that reassures him of his accuracy, that the madman is dead and he has lived his purpose. Yet death does not come, but his natural healing fails where it attempts to repair the massive wounds suffered internally and externally. He needs a way out of this and does not know how.
     As he lay, hemorrhaging from scorched flesh, he thinks back through all the achievements, great glories and lost memories. He thinks, remembers, his sisters, mother, Daniel Storm, Bridgette and now, Ismeve Devley. The how he smelt of blood as he prayed to his god, with the scepter in hand. The how his cuts from the points of his rings healed magnificently. The how the wound closed around his blade and his hand did not bleed when he removed it. The how he lost all this with the severing of the scepter from his hand. He had held one of two truths and the answer continued to elude him. However, he knew the scepter had something to do with that and it now rests near him. If only he had eyes to see from.
     Then the clang of copper against stone as his finger-less hands sweeps the floor, painting it with his drying life essence. A large, solid mass rolls away from his blind slaps, twirling across the stone floor like a mad compass under unseen influences. He curses and pushes farther ahead, inching his stumps closer and beyond the dead lump. He looks for a connection, where the cold, electric solidity of matter adheres to his open hand and stays as though an addition, an extension to his crippled existence. Yet, nothing for the pain lives on where his lungs fail and heart pulses itself beyond tolerance, beyond endurance. He falls to convulsions and rocks upon the even stone slabs of the cold cavern floor, wishing for an end, a release. He has seen 50,000 years pass with him imprisoned upon the emerald earth, un wanting to be a victim to fate's ceaseless humor and irony. Only after 420 of them, of his waking life, has he endured and suffered enough hardships and evils to build an army of men who would still never know the sense of real pain. He feels, as though now is the time to see his end, to have his genetic perfection fail where they refused to before. To simply allow that last moment of pure release, which ushers the darkness for the last time, so that all this could end. Yet still he suffers, with dagger edges digging into his side. And still the memories flood, his education of this planet though the millenniums, his life in hiding and fear, and his quest for adventure and purpose. Then, burning in his side and the life that seeps from its focus and bring the sensation of rebirth. ‘A Rune Weapon called ‘Featheon’s Talon.’ A ‘one of a kind’ artifact said to drink blood to gain its power’ ...But who’s, he wanted to question, at the table with Carter. Then sudden recognition slaps him across his face with cold lucidity. It is the image of Ismeve’s left hand, his fingers where they were severed paints his memory with familiarity. They were ornate with the Talon and another. There are two, it is not unique and he now lives with them driving into his side, with Ismeve’s severed fingers drinking his blood like it were a fine Bordeaux. Releasing the scepter, he searches and digs for the daggers and finds two delicate probes pulsating at his abdomen. With the stumps of his remaining two digits he peals Ismeve’s remains from the cups and places his into it and pulls the blades from his side. Within that instant, he feels delicate pricks then numbness at the edges of his nubs. Then the fire, as he relives the pain of his failed demise. Then the blackness claims him within its pulverizing clasp, his head fills with the weight of hot lead and he succumbs to oblivion.


Chapter Forty-Six

     Carter rushes forward and grabs the goddess Be’areten from behind in a choking bear hug. The woman coughs outward, launching spittle and phlegm with the backlash. Choking, she kicks backward and lashes at her head attempting to catch either leg or face with wild assaults. She manages to clip Carter’s shoulder and armored femur. Carter continues to squeeze, tightening her grip where ribs and vertebrae crunch from her constriction. The goddess screams for a release yet finds no breath to propel her urging. Kurse, as though through intuition, spins around, his left arms outstretching with pointing fingers and gnarled claw and generates an ethereal ball of pure magic that grows to a human skull size and streams toward them. Sam continues to beat upon and invisible sphere of force, erected between his blows to separate him from Kurse. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” He promises, as his fists begin to bleed as he continues to ravage the barrier.

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Chapter Forty-Seven

     Dancing, singing, he hears the voice of an aria in an ethereal gamut, a chorus of singing angels pushing out toward him, through the darkness and into his pain. “...Don’t give up...” The softly spoken words in a familiar voice. “...Don’t die...” Jade singing to him through his heartless drumbeats and pulsating rage. “...There is still much for you to conquer...” His own words in her voice. His lungs scream with the sudden surge of breath of septic air that fills his chest with terror and agony. He heals, he can feel the tightening of muscles as they group and stitch themselves back to perfection. His mouth dries from thrust and stomach rumbles from hunger, he reaches out and screams as the pain returns to re-emerging limbs and life. This isn’t how it should be. “Let me die!” The words tear at his throat with blood mingling with thick spittle. Then growth as a weight begins to fill his empty eye sockets. Within seconds, vision, as he looks upon the carnage of his assault and demise, with pieces of Ismeve Devley beside him. Without reflection, he pushes outward, toward the mad priest and sinks incarnate claws into dead flesh. He pulls the body near and begins to tear at the remains and feast upon handfuls of raw flesh and muscle to satiate the agony and reprisal of the rebirth. Anything to fill the void and quench the rawness of his inner self.