The heart of the
subterranean chamber was an altar of obsidian, the midnight surfaces carved
with eerie sigils and runes of accursed power. A squat candle at each corner of
the rectangular stone block cast a flickering amber glow across the scene, an
alien warmth in this room of cold, midnight blackness.
A naked woman was
spread-eagled across the glassen stone, her wrists and ankles pinned down by a
brazen trammel. She writhed impotently against her studded bonds, her shrill
screams subdued by the gag affixed about her sweat dampened features.
Her swollen abdomen
bucked and rippled, the infant within eager to escape the womb. The shadow cloaked
figures surrounding the diabolic site continued the chant, channelling the dark
energies into the altar, saturating the unborn with the power of the Great
Wyrm.
The Grand Warlock
threw back his hood, his eyes pulsating with a crimson glow, his features
hollowed onto his bones by the desiccating effects of black sorcery.
“Ahma nexchtica
torlentcha - Great Wyrm, whose vile power seeps through the earth, corrupting
Gaia, deliver your power into this altar of your servants and bless the child
with your welcome taint on this night of Samhain,” he proclaimed.
The very firmament
seemed to shift, a wriggle in the hide of existence. The propitious locale lay
at a vast intersection of the ancient network of Ley lines, and though the
plexus of menhirs had been damaged by man’s meddling hands, causing many of the
primary mustering sights to fall dormant, there remained enough to conduct the
power of the earth along the arteries forged by the ancient Druids, feeding
this spot with the Great Wyrm’s power. Its malevolent claws were less
constrained than at any other time because of this most unholy of nights.
When the lines had
been set down, Gaia had been pure and the network collected her energy for
benign use, but now the malignant side of Gaia - the Great Wyrm - was rising,
polluting the life force of the planet, it was this swell of evil that pulsed
inward, welling at the altar like a sickly boil. The obsidian lit up from
within, a terrible opaque light far beyond any natural darkness, a black light
that voraciously devoured its opposite without mercy.
Crackles of crimson
lightning began to play across the rigid angles as the fluctuating aura grew
ever more intense, submerging the woman in a sphere of unnatural radiance.
The Grand Warlock
unleashed a wicked smile, he alone being party to the truth of this ceremony.
The Wyrm was a greedy force, one that could give grandiosely and then exact a
far graver demand for repayment.
His deviation from
the normal litany was almost undetected, the others being engrossed with the
rapture of the churning power of evil flowing through their conductive souls.
The offer of these tasty morsels was made and the granting of the ritual
accepted. The sorcery was to be augmented by their fleeting essence. Such was
the requirements of the prophecy, and the Grand Warlock wanted to ensure it was
his creation which took up the route to this illustrious destiny.
In a single shrieking
choir the group wailed, their ragged cries eclipsing the agonised yowl of the
woman. The raging current of energy released its barbs and began to tear away
their life with serrated claws of ice, dissecting their black souls a sliver at
a time.
A gust of hot air
rushed through the chamber, the Wyrm opening a lazy eye, and as its stare
assessed flesh, every humanoid form save the Grand Warlock detonated
simultaneously. The cultists burst backwards, transforming into smeared streaks
of red, splashing across the stone surfaces behind with a wet slap before
trickling down in a lumpy stream of bone shards and sundered viscera.
The door burst from
its hinges, dropping to the floor with a booming note. Into the darkness
stormed a unit of pale robed forms, each armed with sword or staff.
“By Gaia!” exclaimed
the first, seeing the charnel stains soaking the rock, a crimson drizzle
pattering the floor from the mangled fresco of gore painted across the ceiling.
As the Grand Warlock
whirled, a trio of silver throwing blades lanced through the air, cast by
incensed arms. With a stern thought he threw up a defensive ward to deflect the
pernicious daggers but they too were enchanted and he was woefully unprepared
for attack.
The tips slashed
through his shield and sank into his chest, their lengths sheathing in his
heart and left lung. With a hiss he forced out the blades, which rattled upon
the floor with a bright peal of tones. Clamping a hand to the trio of mortal
punctures, he released a blood flecked cackle, his life flowing through his
fingers as he mocked their efforts.
“You are too late,
fools! It is done, your Druidess has spawned the child of the prophecy!” roared
the Grand Warlock, overwhelmed with glee, knowing that they had not the stomach
to butcher a newborn, and by shielding her and trying to overcome her now
inherent allegiance, they would only succeed in proving themselves an
unequalled body of fanatic guardians.
With a soft thud he
dropped and keeled over, a warm puddle of his blood forming beneath him.
***
Nial reached up with
a trembling hand, pressing his crystal into her palm, his body in tatters, a
weaving line of red emerging from his twitching lips. Eire held him gently,
rallying her powers to heal the terrible wounds, gripping her own sacred stone
for added reassurance and courage.
“No,” he rasped, a
gurgling fluid rattle deep in his throat.
“Save it, you will need it all to slay her.”
His eyes glazed and
his form went limp in her arms. Eire laid him tenderly back and arose, leaving
the last member of her escort sprawled across the carpet.
The interior of the
country mansion had fallen into silence once more, but it was no innocent
quiet, the demons were no doubt rallying to renew the attack.
The estate had seemed
innocuous enough, looming amidst the preened grounds deep in the rural
landscape, its baroque architecture wreathed in the shadows of this cloudless night.
The defences had been easily overcome for they were adept at evading alarm and
lock, and what they could not by-pass manually, they confused with sorcery. The
horrors which were the true guardians of this abode had proved far more
formidable, and of the seven shaman who had accepted the task, she was the lone
survivor.
The sounds of
slithering wafted forth upon the musty air, attesting to the approach of the
aberrations. Drawing in a deep breath, she muttered a prayer for strength and
leapt boldly out.
With a ferocious
sweep of her arm a blizzard of refulgent white splinters winked into existence
with a defiant flash.
The howling shards
tore down the corridor, banishing the gloom, revealing the shambling mounds of
corrupted tissue that lumbered forward, rending fang and claw outstretched in
eager expectation.
The creatures had
once been human, but their foul devotion to perversion and hedonistic depravity
had warped their flesh into unspeakable forms. To perform such feats of ruin,
the despoiler behind them had to be one of immense power, assuring her that she
had found the witch responsible for conducting the downfall of her sect. The
Trinity had sought to protect the cursed woman from her fate, yet she had
repaid their kindness in the blood of their own, and when Eire’s Order
attempted to ambush and destroy her, few survived.
The candescent
mystical teeth bit into the transmogrified forms, drilling ragged tunnels
through their bulk. However, the monstrosities were not so easily slain, and
simply tumbled indolently to the floor, the rough craters spattering their
frames already beginning to close as the evil house nurtured their recovery
with its own strength.
Taking advantage of
this temporary enervated state, she charged forward, splashing through the puddles
of their loosed fluids. She turned the corner and skidded to a halt,
instinctively calling up a barrier with a panted sentence of multiple
syllables.
Halfway down the
passage crouched a young girl, blocking access to a set of huge double doors,
their surfaces marked with a lattice-work of brass occult symbols and baleful
talismans.
The small frame was
sleek and wiry, with a wild cascade of red hair falling crazily in all
directions. A studded metal collar encircled her throat, and a leather thong
was the only other item she wore, the penurious article dotted with studs.
The feral form bolted
forward without word or warning, springing into the air with such speed that
Eire barely had time to weave aside. The sting of razor edged fingernails
afflicted her cheek, her sidestep twist being the only thing that had preserved
her face from a similar shredding.
The girl released a
bestial growl, turned, and recommenced her offensive as Eire ignored the throb
in her cheek and absently broke down the venom that now skulked in the opened
tissues.
With a bounding
spring, the lithe frame entered the air, her outstretched talons preceding her
attack. With a hiss Eire strengthened her shield, expanding it with a sudden
force, slamming the psychokinetic shell into the assailant. With a pained shout
she was cast aside, her back slamming to the wall with such force that the wood
cracked and splintered. The invisible wall dissipated, letting the diminutive
form drop to the floor where she swayed unsteadily and then collapsed,
unveiling the myriad weals adorning her back.
Exhaling deeply to
assist the steadying of her pulse, Eire hastily cast a cataleptic rune and
deposited it in the youth’s mind, leaving her in a deep coma.
This last obstacle
defeated, she threw her mind against the final barrier with a petulant shout,
shattering the defensive magics and dispelling the lingering spells of
pestiferous retribution.
Wafting aside the
tendrils of steam spilling from the breached symbols, Eire located the central
seam and taking hold of her crystal for comfort, kicked the portal open.
The hall beyond was
warm, with an ambience of imposing dread and twisted debauchery. The walls were
obscured by stone panels, the masonry embossed with a detailed mass of
corrupted impressions and grotesque runes, all designed to collect and store
the Wyrm’s sweated power.
Sacrificed skeletal
remains hung in collections, their bleached bones the only conflicting
influence in this chamber of midnight shades.
Before a throne
wrought from polished remains stood the hall’s only denizen - a woman of
unparalleled beauty. A crooked crown of jet held back her mane of red hair, the
shimmering lengths hanging as a wreath about her sculpted features and piercing
blue eyes. Silver serpent earrings dangled from her lobes, and a silken cloak
sheathed her tall frame. Eire stepped
into the centre of the hall, audaciously defying the encroaching insidious evil
of the place, a force that saturated even the air, causing dark thoughts to
creep at the edges of her pious psyche.
“What is so important
that you have to storm my sanctum, shaman?” she uttered absently, as though
Eire’s presence were a trivial thing of little consequence.
“I have come to put
an end to you, Kitjana,” Eire retorted with choler, having to strain to pull in
the unblemished power of the earth, for the taint of the Wyrm was exceptionally
strong here, so much so that the focusing medium of her crystal was the only
thing that lent her sufficient strength to fuel her enchantment, and even this
was reduced to a negligible effect.
Throwing her arms
out, she paused as cyan forks wound playful streams about her shoulders, the
intensity growing as she hurled her fists together. A thunderclap made the hall
shudder as her hands met. The crackling force blasted forth in a dense bolt of
pure lambent light, cutting through the shadows as it sped towards the idle
woman.
Kitjana shoved
forward her right arm, first and little finger rigid and upright. The bolt
seemed to waver as though obscured by the haze of an intense heat, and then
faded as it reached the extended digits.
“A fair beginning,
now here is my response,” chuckled the woman, pulling back the arm like a
coiled spring, a pulsating aura of darkness arising to whirl about the balled
fist.
Eire put her hands
together, lifting a protective shell to counter the imminent sorcerous attack.
The woman punched with fury, the pool of night breaking into a dozen curling
tentacles. The lengths shot across the space between them in an instant,
extending, their ethereal tips hardening into serrated, curved blades.
A scintillating burst
of angry sparks signalled each repulsed strike, the slashing blades hacking
with insane verve at the unseen sphere encasing fire.
Maintaining the
punished shield, she watched as Kitjana slowly lifted both arms over her head,
her serene face betraying no hint of what she intended to unleash next. Seeing
her again was distracting, they had been close during the early years of their
upbringing, and though she had always known that her friend bore this inner
darkness, it was a profound shock when it finally began to take over, making
her glad that her induction into the order of the Swan had separated them years
earlier.
Kitjana slashed her
arms outward, a howl of displaced air leading the impact of a truculent blow.
The tentacles blurred aside in the gust and vanished, their energy diverted at
the source. Eire was forced back as her shield was rammed, her soles sliding
against the floor as she fought to strengthen her powers and repel the driving
force.
Her back was dashed
to the far wall, the harsh connection driving the wind from her lungs. With a
choked gasp she dropped to her knees, desperately trying to restore the
integrity of her only protection.
The unmollifiable
witch slapped her hands together before her waist, furling the slender digits
into an arcane ward and then jabbing them towards the downed opponent. A jigsaw
of tiny cuts opened across her palms, confined within a perfect circle. Scores
of tiny droplets vomited from the minute wounds, speeding towards Eire upon a
hurricane, each of them swelling, growing into a crimson shape before throwing
out jagged wings. The misshapen raptors clawed and stabbed at her barriers,
their enchanted nature causing the structure to crack, allowing them to squeeze
themselves through the tears.
With a roar Eire
leapt up, jolting her arms high, throwing off the shield and causing the
bloodforms to spatter back in a plume of tiny drips.
Disgusted by such
noxious sorcery she tore off her sacred stone, wound the cord about her palm
and expended the last of her energy in sculpting a greatsword of pure natural
force, the fulgent form repelling the gnawing dread with which this room was
slowly infecting her.
Charging forward with
an ascending growl of anger, Eire held the blade back to deliver a mortal
stroke. Kitjana merely waited, a grin of monstrous glee upon her lips.
This was her only
chance to snatch victory, it was all or nothing. Kitjana’s power was too
strong, especially in this Stygian hall which served as a vast battery, charged
with the unspeakable acts that were perpetrated at the foot of the throne under
Kitjana’s gaze and in the name of the Great Wyrm.
A few steps from her
target she destroyed her crystal, using its strength to vastly magnify her
power one last time. Hurling the sword inward the keen edge hummed against the
air, its length infinitely sharper than any conventional blade.
Against all reason
Kitjana drew up her arm, clapping her palm to the virulent slash. But where the
blade should have severed cleanly, it was instantly halted, sending a jarring
shock along Eire’s arm.
The witch closed her
fingers upon the blade, releasing a relishing grin as the purity of the energy
made her corrupted skin sizzle and burn. Pain flashed across the side of Eire’s
face and after a moment’s scrambling her phased senses returned. She detected a
brief moment of flight and then struck the floor with a cruel thud, her fall
almost cracking ribs. Her stunned body slid to a halt as the dregs of impetus
wrought by the backhand slap were eaten by friction, and gasping for breath,
she flopped onto her back to see her conjured weapon disintegrating against
Kitjana’s nullifying enchantment. The witch’s smile transformed into a sneer of
triumph and the intention for slow retribution.
Eire felt the ragged
incisors of apprehension nibble upon her skeleton and frame, the fear of what
her fate might be. If she perished in this baroque hell hall, she might not be
able to return to the earth, her soul condemned to languish here for eternity.
She considered
appealing to Kitjana, hoping to reach some sliver of her former self, but it
was plain that she was now wholly converted to the path she had been set upon
before birth. The prophecy would flow unchecked, she would explore the darkness
and bring forth the Great Wyrm’s final apocalypse. Unless she could be
vanquished, all of Gaia’s creatures would be desecrated and spoiled.
The woman threw open
her cloak, exposing the curvaceous body hidden beneath, a body amply displayed
by a distinct shortage of clothing. A latex bra clung tightly about her torso,
creating a deep cleavage with incorporated clamps to pinch her nipples from
within, the mounds tipped with a silver stud. A G-string of the same gleaming
fabric hooked its straps over her hips and released suspenders to follow her
smooth thighs and take hold of fishnet stockings, while twin dildos entered her
body, the phalli held in place by the tight thong. Elegant thigh boots clutched
the contours of her shapely legs and propped her up on stiletto heels, adding
to her already imposing height. About her neck hung a thin silver chain,
supporting a clear crystal within a jagged embrace. The Wyrm crystal throbbed
with a terrible aura, the esoteric artefact casting a nebulous shadow across
her features.
Eire tried to rise,
an attempt that failed for her dizziness was still throwing off her
equilibrium, causing her to slouch back down after barely making it to a brief
crouch.
Wiping the blood from
her lip, she tried to gather some measure of force for defence. It was useless,
the loss of her sacred stone had left her impotent, and even if she still had
the charm, the hall itself was allowing nothing through. Her only choice was to
touch the well of power that was so strong it prickled her skin, making her
hairs stand on end, but she dared not draw on the black force of the Wyrm lest
she be seduced, and such a rank fate was far worse than mere death or defeat.
Heavy footfalls
sounded, their uneven cadence and scratch of talons upon wood testifying that
the beasts were back.
The untamed girl
scampered past, freed from the coma by the annihilation of the crystal
responsible for its creation.
Settling at Kitjana’s
side like a faithful pet, she glowered at the supine Shaman, outraged at her
previous defeat.
“So much for Gaia’s
wrath,” pondered Kitjana with a soft chuckle, stroking the girl’s frantic mane
with fondness.
“There will be
others, witch, and my only regret is that I will not be there to see you
executed for your crimes.” retorted Eire, the deformed aberrations forming a
ring about her.
“Oh but you will, as
soon as you let the Great Wyrm into your soul, you will be in thrall to me.”
“Never, I will die
first!”
“Perhaps, but once my
followers begin to violate that supple virgin flesh, you will succumb soon
enough.”
Kitjana put her hands
to her thighs and began to lift them up, her fingers twisted into crooked
claws, the tendons raised and pronounced, stretching the skin until it was a
flushed white as her demonic crystal throbbed with fresh might.
Two mutant creatures
stomped forward, their flesh melting like wax in heat, their forms dribbling
great gobs of molten meat into a growing mass of pulpy tissues as the Charm of
Vicissitude was invoked.
Eire panicked,
jumping to her feet and turning to run, because without any means of repelling
attack, she was completely at the mercy of her foe. The befouled vessels of the
Wyrm’s power flowed inward as broiling waves, their blubbery weight rising and
falling with a quivering pulse. Thick coils wrapped themselves about her legs,
taking a crushing hold as the main sacs of congrescent meat engulfed her
ankles.
The oily touch of
this warm clinch made her shriek with alarm; trying to pull her feet free, she
felt the tiny cilia that were spread across the inner surface of the tentacles
caressing her skin, the multitude of tiny fingers hauling up the appendages,
their hold tightening inexorably as they wound further and further up her legs.
Risking a look down, her cry became all the more frantic as a hardened and frighteningly
overlarge male member lifted from a protruding bulge. Eire ducked forward and
grabbed the rising phallus, using all her strength to fend off the approaching
length which wriggled in her grasp, avidly seeking to find its way into her.
“No!” she screamed.
“Not this!” Kitjana
mocked her fear with a throaty giggle, knowing that Eire’s sect drew their
exceptional power from a virginal status. To be deprived of it was to cripple
them, and such was their avoidance of carnal lore that it left them disgusted
and repelled by it.
Three fingered hands
grabbed her rear and with a stern yank ripped the skirt and underwear in half,
totally exposing her body. Before she could respond to this new offensive a
javelin of sharp pain burrowed into her anus, a second phallus having sheathed
itself in her. With a gasp she arched
back, her grip coming away and letting the original threat grind into her womb,
tearing apart her hymen, doubling her up with the shock of this profanity.
With a howl of indignation, Eire tried to
force out the defiling rods, clawing at them like a maenad. Sticky tentacles
entwined her wrists, their strength easily overcoming her own and towing her
arms away. Twisted backwards, her spine feeling as though it were going to
crack, the flesh in flux continued to crawl upward as the phallus’ began to
rock back and forth with a brutal rhythm, taking the rape to new heights,
making her squeal with outrage.
Swallowed by chagrin
revulsion, she cried out to Gaia for aid, but it was in vain, no force of nature
would dare touch this grotesque lair.
The tentacles rode
ever upwards, their tiny fingers pulling away her clothing, gradually stripping
her naked. Two tips reached her breasts. The bra and shirt were snagged by the
cilia underbelly and steadily stretched downward, the fabrics pulling at her
shoulders until they were ripped from her. Panting from the ongoing violation,
she threw her head back with a wanton moan as the points tickled her nipples
with the gentlest of brushes.