What Hell May Come

PROLOGUE

The ritual had taken eighty-one days.

They were at it for more than a quarter of a year.

Eighty-one days of smoke, and animal shrieks, and groans of pleasure, and spilled blood. Months of heady incense burning. The occasional hallucinogen was tossed into the mixture, turning the world into a fever dream. Weeks of chanting. The constant intonation fell behind the ears and awoke powers in the subconscious. Robed heroes of all races and classes came and went, adding to the celebration, until they collapsed and were dragged off to recuperate.

Crixen Runeburner, elf mage, had been there for all of it. The chanting, the killing, the sex. He had cast down enemies, seen proud heroes fall, and evaded all magical traps to come here at this time. Many adventures across bleak and alien landscapes had led him to this ancient crypt. He had faced dagger fanged monsters, green skinned humans with cruel blades, and pale shadows of the formerly alive. All of these he had struck down to reach his goal. Now, he just had to hang on.

He was on the verge of physical ruin. His eyes were raw around the rims, skin deathly pale for lack of sunlight, hair wild and shaggy, gums juicy red, and teeth yellowed from neglect. The elf had lost too much weight and seemed to have shrunk in height as well. Crixen Runeburner knew he was in danger, but he had volunteered for this, begged for it, and he would not fail!

The underground chamber had once been a family tomb from an unnamed religion. The bones of the occupants rested no longer in saintly contemplation but were added to the altar decorations. Each of the eight walls, the ceiling, and the floors, had been painted with eldritch symbols and phrases in angelic script. Each rune was designed to beckon, focus, and bind. All the signs and symbols were directed at one bare patch in the center of a pentagram, located behind the altar of stone and bone.

It was The Feast of the Beast, an ancient rite established—if you believe the musty grimoires—in the year of their lord, six hundred and sixty-six. On the surface, its purpose was general hedonism and over-indulgence, but in reality, the room became a meeting point where the upper echelons of the infernal family made contact with the beyond.

Here it was. The final day. Crixen Runeburner pushed forth the last of his physical reserves, burning whatever proteins were still circling his stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time food had passed his lips. All the hunger pains had died off after the third day. The elf had only managed to choke down a few cups of sugar water every few hours.

Heavy gongs rang. Six naked bearers, three of each sex, their heads swathed in black hoods, carried in a cushioned litter. On it lounged The Scarlet Woman. Round and succulent, her face lolled to the left and right, barely taking in the environment. Her legs were tied with silken rope to the poles, forcing them open to reveal her sex between. She didn’t complain. Long had she been prepared for this event.

Behind her entered the High Priest, decorated in a shining purple robe, wearing a mask knitted from the flesh of unbaptized children. Other heroes of old campaigns shuffled in behind him, garbed in the same gruesome fare. They wrestled in a figure that was tied up in a burlap tarp.

“Glory. Glory. Glory,” he roared. “Let us commence the communion of our race.”

The Scarlet Woman was positioned at the northern point of the pentacle, legs spread open to embrace the blank spot. The unseen figure was dumped onto the altar and strapped down on the stone. It was a woman. Her shrieks of fear could do nothing but add to the discordant harmony rolling about the room.

“By the power of earth. By the power of air. By the power of water. By the power of fire. Let forth the spirit. Descend to the lantern of sorrows of the South, to the trumpets of doom of the West, to the praise of harlots to the East, to the horns of death to the North. Descend!”

The heroes cheered, repeating the ends of his sentences. They howled and gibbered in triumph. Everyone was focused on the blank spot. Everyone waiting for the end. Everyone except Crixen. He had spotted one odd thing in the eyes of the High Priest. Terror. Why was that? What had he missed?

“Descend and clothe thyself in one of the sacred shrouds, one of the mystic mantles. Asmodeus, creature of judgement. Abaddon, who destroys both body and soul. Af, the sower of hatred. Belial, angel of hostility. Samael, who poisons the world. Lucifer, lord of proud spirits. Satan, the great adversary.”

Crixen Runeburner was lead forward and placed before the altar. A golden knife slapped into his hand. The victim before him, a mask of blank terror, screamed his name. He saw her then. It was the girl who had taken his virginity

He raised the blade.