The Manticore Chronicles
ACT III
Salamatu awoke to the serene ambiance of the mystical sphere, her sleep having been deep and restorative, though haunted by dreams of chains and fire. She rose stiffly, her body still recovering from the injuries inflicted by the Leviathan's barbs. Thirsty, she reached for a cup and filled it with water from the Ghost Spring, the liquid warm and soothing as it flowed down her throat, imbuing her with a renewed sense of vigor.
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Fatima led the way, her steps sure and determined, as they crossed a long bridge that extended into the darkness. Salamatu followed, her eyes wide with wonder and apprehension. The bridge terminated in a vast chamber, and there, dominating the space, stood the corrupted obelisk. It was massive, an architectural marvel, with intricate magical formulae etched upon every inch of its surface. Salamatu could hardly believe such an expansive space existed within Serakh's sphere; the scale of it was awe-inspiring, a testament to the boundless potential of arcane mastery.
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The obelisk was set upon a large stone platform, surrounded by a seemingly endless abyss, its edges lit only by the flickering flames of two large braziers. As they approached, Salamatu's gaze fell upon the dozens of bodies perfectly preserved within the crystal structure. Their expressions were serene, yet tragic, forever captured in the moment of their ultimate sacrifice.
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Fatima's voice broke the silence, her tone heavy with reverence and sorrow. "These were once mighty sorcerers and priests, loyal followers of Serakh who volunteered their lives for the creation of this sphere. Their souls are trapped here, fueling the obelisk's power. It is likely their essence that the malignant spirit within feeds upon."
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The revelation sent a shiver down Salamatu's spine, the gravity of their endeavor pressing heavily upon her. Fatima halted, unable to proceed further without risking grave injury. "I cannot go with you," she said, her face etched with frustration and concern. "But you must continue. The obelisk and the spirit within await your approach."
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Salamatu and Nathair approached the obelisk, the air around it charged with an almost tangible magic. Close examination revealed fragments of arcane writing, speaking of a test initiated by an offering of blood. A small bowl rested at the base, within it a barbed, bloodstained needle. Salamatu's heart pounded in her chest as she considered the implications. The prospect of what might follow filled her with dread, yet she knew they had little choice but to proceed.
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With a deep breath, Salamatu pricked her finger upon the barbs, her blood mingling with those who had come before her. Immediately, she was enveloped in waves of blissful euphoria. Her vision blurred, and then sharpened, revealing a vivid image of Senora Isabella Flores, her former slavemaster, bound in chains and branded with visible scars. Elation, rage, and a burning desire for revenge surged within her.
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A voice, dark and seductive, whispered from the shadows. "I can help you reach her, Yemoja. Together, we shall make her pay for her sins!" As the voice spoke, a new wound appeared on Isabella's face, her screams filling the air.
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Salamatu's hand clenched into a fist, her emotions a whirlwind of hatred and retribution. But then, memories of her initiation into the Manticore coven surfaced, of the vows made by Nathair, Suleiman, and Bathsheba to protect her as a sister of the order. At that moment, she understood that to succumb to the demon's temptation would be to betray everything she stood for. With a firm voice, she proclaimed, "If my revenge is to mean anything at all, it must be obtained without the assistance of demons."
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Her declaration acted as a catalyst, casting the demon from the obelisk. The creature that emerged was monstrous, horned, and four-legged, immediately unleashing a tornado of flame that scorched them all. Fatima, too, was caught in the inferno, her cries of pain mingling with their own.
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Refusing to be overwhelmed, Salamatu quickly poured her witch fire potion onto the ground, chanting an incantation. The white flames that burst forth coalesced into a giant burning viper, snuffing out the demonic fire and setting the demon ablaze with each coil. The magical flames licked at their wounds, healing them, though not completely.
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As the demon writhed in the fiery embrace of the viper, Salamatu's heart raced with adrenaline and fear. Despite the pain and the uncertainty, she stood ready to fight, her resolve as fiery as the magical serpent she had summoned. The battle was far from over, but they had taken the first step toward victory, and she would see it through, no matter the cost.
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The whiplash of sensations, of red and white flames, pain, then the soothing touch of Salamatu’s alchemy, left Nathair reeling. As the blanket of heat dissipated, the monstrosity was revealed to be a colossal hound of some hellish variety. The demon’s blood-red eyes pierced through the witch fire still scorching its hide, blood and saliva dripping from its canines.
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The ache of burned flesh pulsed through the skinthief’s arm and side, though he pushed through the pain. He pulled the cork from atop his gourd of wasps and unleashed his venomous swarm, donning their skins yet again. An ethereal frost trailed the insects, Serakh’s undead power now coursing through their stingers. Nathair assailed the hellhound from myriad angles, flooding its bloodstream with venom as tendrils of cold spread through the cracks of its carapace.
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The demon charged toward Nathair, apparently intent on severing his psychic control over the wasps. The skinthief grimaced. He summoned his wand from his sleeve and aimed it at the hellhound. “Ecehsufe, koangu iesu eiouj,” he whispered amid the chaos. His voice sounded with a ghostly echo. The veil obscuring the astral realm grew ever thinner before collapsing entirely at the far end of the magical rod. With flashes of illuminated smoke, three wraiths raced toward the hellhound before exploding violently in bursts of decay.
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Nathair returned his wasps to their gourd. The hellhound, its flesh envenomed, charred, cursed, and frostbitten, let out a deafening howl. The stone platform beneath them trembled. Ribbons of shadow emerged from the surrounding abyss, solidifying into a gargantuan vampire bat of malevolent darkness. The skinthief retrieved his bejeweled simulacrum. In the hellhound's weakened state, it would likely succumb to Nathair’s carefully prepared hex. Even so, the spell would take time and profound concentration to complete.
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“Distract the shadow fiend, Salamatu! The hellhound is vulnerable; I must be allowed to complete my spell!” Nathair said, clutching his effigy before chanting in the Verbis Imperium.
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Salamatu, her resolve unyielding in the face of the hellish tableau before her, quickly notched two arrows, each tip enveloped in her corrosive aura. She released them with practiced precision, the arrows cutting through the air toward the massive shadowy bat. The creature, a swirling mass of darkness, twisted and contorted as it evaded the first arrow, but the second found its mark, sizzling as it pierced its ethereal form.
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The bat, enraged, swooped down towards Nathair, its fangs bared and claws extended. Nathair, engrossed in his spellcasting, was momentarily vulnerable. The creature's bite and claws tore at his shoulder, a violent interruption that threatened to break his concentration.
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Salamatu, her instincts honed through years of combat, sprang into action. She drew her scimitar, now light as straw and unbreakable thanks to Fatima's enchanted oils, and lunged at the shadowy assailant. Her blade struck true, cleaving through the bat's form and forcing it to recoil from Nathair. The corrosive aura sizzled against the creature's dark essence, repelling it with a force born of occult power.
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In a swift motion, Salamatu grabbed one of her healing potions from her belt, her lips moving in the ancient cadence of the Verbis Imperium. The potion's contents shifted, transforming from a soothing balm into a volatile concoction of destruction. With a flick of her wrist, she hurled the corrupted potion at the shadow bat. The explosion was immediate and devastating, a fiery maelstrom that consumed the creature in a blinding inferno.
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As the flames died down, ribbons of shadow lashed out from the bat's disintegrating form, slashing at Salamatu with a vengeance. Her arms and face bore the brunt of the assault, cuts opening across her skin, a painful testament to the creature's dying fury.
With the shadow bat defeated, Salamatu turned her attention back to Nathair and the hellhound. "Nathair, now!" she called out, her voice carrying an urgency that mirrored the critical juncture of their battle. "Trap the hellhound before it recovers!"
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The pummeled demon dragged itself upright, its shadowy conjuration slain by Salamatu and scattered to the void. With what remaining strength sustained it, the hound charged toward Nathair, flames billowing from its agape maw. Panic flooded the skinthief, but he paid it no mind. He pronounced each syllable of his spell with the utmost precision, his attention directed to every intricate, arcane visualization despite the biting pain in his shoulder. Fail to complete his spell, and he’d be torn apart by the spurned hellhound.
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The demon drew closer, its lethal assault imminent. “Thd'raat, gth'nohin' ixu koaproi vyu.” Nathair concluded his invocation, stabbing his bejeweled simulacrum squarely in the forehead with a sharpened pin. “You are mine, demon!” Nathair screamed. The spirits of the dead rallied at his command: a thousand, invisible hands dragging the hellhound into the deepest recesses of its mind.
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Darkness ensued. Ghostly smoke crept from crevices below, chilling the air. Then, like an unfurling lotus, a giant spiral of hallucinatory bone ripped through the stone flooring, impaling the hound and pinning it in place.
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The demon thus subdued, Nathair slipped deliberately from sight in a supernatural whirl. A kaleidoscope of perceptions and emotions proceeded: elation, dread, and a foreboding familiarity he struggled to name. The shattered Weave of the Old Gods emerged from shifting tapestries of light, then vanished as quickly as it appeared. His foe returned to view, the skinthief now directly below the hound’s leathery neck. He summoned his psychic claw and, with a single, calculated strike, sliced the demon’s throat, blood spewing profusely from the fresh wound.
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The illusion of bone collapsed into pillars of smoke, revealing the slain demon. Dangerously fatigued, Nathair fell to his knees, his robes tattered and blood-soaked. He dropped his bejeweled simulacrum upon the ground as the piercing light fizzled from its eyes.
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“It is done. Victory is ours, Salamatu,” Nathair declared. Any feelings of joy or relief that may have accompanied their victory were drowned out by a bone-chilling laughter that echoed throughout the vast space.
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“Foolish godlings…”
As Nathair collapsed to his knees, victorious yet utterly spent, the chamber echoed with a chilling laughter that resonated through the very stones of the sphere. Salamatu's heart sank, her sense of triumph quickly dissolving into dread.
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Before their eyes, Fatima's form began to warp and twist, casting off the guise of the Lorekeeper. She transformed into a towering figure, robed in pallid garments that seemed to absorb the light around them. Salamatu's eyes widened in shock and recognition - before them stood Serakh the Conjurer, his skin bone white, most of his face shrouded by the cavernous hood of his robe.
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Rage and betrayal boiled within Salamatu. "I knew it!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of anger and vindication. "I always suspected you, 'Fatima'. Your betrayal was inevitable. But why? Why deceive us?"
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Serakh, his presence as commanding as it was malevolent, spoke in cryptic verse:
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"In shadowed depths and woven lies,
A puppeteer does thus disguise.
To break the chains that time has wrought,
The godlings' might I deftly sought."
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His words revealed the depth of his deception - he had orchestrated their journey from the very beginning, allying with the Leviathan to bring Nathair and Salamatu to the sphere. He needed them to slay the warden that bound him, believing in their power to do so. "Now free at last," he declared, "an old score to settle, a destiny to rewrite."
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Salamatu, her fury unabated, demanded, "How did you come to be imprisoned in your own creation, Serakh? What binds a conjurer to his own sphere?"
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But Serakh merely offered a nefarious smile, a silent refusal to divulge his past. With a wave of his hand, he manipulated runes upon the obelisk, conjuring a magical gateway through which he swiftly escaped. As the portal snapped shut, a violent pulse of energy surged through the sphere, shaking its very foundations.
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The sphere began to self-destruct, its stability compromised by the departure of its creator. "We must conjure our own portal!" Salamatu exclaimed, her voice laced with urgency. She approached the obelisk, her eyes scanning the complex array of runes, but uncertainty gripped her. The arcane script was a labyrinth of possibilities, a puzzle she had not been prepared to solve.
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Her fingers hovered over the runes, each one a potential key to their salvation or their doom. The sphere trembled around them, its impending collapse a ticking clock that hastened her need to act. Yet, for all her knowledge and power, Salamatu found herself at a loss, the weight of their predicament bearing down on her.
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In that moment, Salamatu felt the gravity of their journey, the sacrifices made, and the betrayals endured. The loss of Suleiman, the deceit of Serakh, and the unknown fate that awaited them should she fail - all these thoughts swirled in her mind, fueling a determination born of desperation.
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She turned to Nathair, her eyes meeting his. "We must figure this out, together. Our survival, the fate of our coven, it all hinges on what we do next." Her voice was steady, yet it carried the weight of their shared responsibility, a burden they would bear together, as they had since the beginning of their perilous journey.
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Fatima’s betrayal wounded Nathair: their journey, already marked by tragedy, was now stained by betrayal as well. The vast space around them trembled with ever greater force, as did the stone platform beneath them. Dangerously fatigued, the skinwalker struggled to maintain his footing.
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He limped to Salamatu, answering her call. The witch doctor traced her hands along the runes in a frenzied attempt to interpret their meaning, albeit with little success. He drew closer, as perplexed by the maze of glyphs, runes, and magical formulae as the witch doctor.
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Three small figurines caught his eye, each corresponding to a particular beast of the wilderness. The first was a silver serpent, the second a golden scorpion, and the third a copper lion, the three figures aligned horizontally along the obelisk's ornate base. He reached for the glyphs, a forceful shock repelling his hand. His senses shifted as a familiar, enchanting haze swept over him. The voice of Bathsheba surfaced, first a faint echo within the peripheries of his consciousness, now a resounding pronouncement demanding his attention.
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“In whispered visions, Cernunnos, secrets to belong,
First, the scorpion's sting, concealed 'neath desert throng,
Second, the lion's roar, in crimson thirst so strong,
Third, the viper's dance, 'neath moon's enchanting song,
With Aydhab's name, your path unraveled, winding long."
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The old voice faded into silence, replaced by the chaos of the collapsing sphere. He wondered how the oracle had contacted in such remote and dire straights, though he did not question the boon. He followed Bathsheba’s instructions, first pulling the copper scorpion, the rust upon its handles cutting his fingers. A pulse of energy raced toward the empty gateway where Serakh had conjured his portal. He then pushed the lion, the runes upon the walls electrifying. Finally, he twisted the serpent figurine with a loud but satisfying click.
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Humming filled the air: a swirling vortex of white light bursting into being. Ethereal mist poured from the opening. He stood resolutely amid the turbulence that tousled through his robes, whispering ‘Aydhab’ under his breath. Shimmering energies shifted to and fro, revealing the small port city.
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“The time has come, Salamatu. Let us be rid of this accursed place!” Nathair said to his arcane companion. They had endured many trials since their voyage across the Red Sea, though their journey was far from complete. So many questions lingered in the skinthief’s mind: what were Serakh’s intentions and what part had he and Salamatu played in his nefarious designs? While such questions would certainly haunt him for nights to come, they would have to wait to be answered. For the moment, Nathair needed rest.
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He took a deep, deliberate breath, hoping to never revisit the strange dimension. He could not be certain what lay ahead but yearned for the warmth of sunlight and the nourishment of a warm meal. Together, Nathair and Salamatu stepped through the portal, abandoning the conjuring sphere to oblivion.
Navigation Obilesk
Hellhound
