Road to Ruin

Martin Peel

3^rd March

2011

Edited 27^th November 2019

Road to Ruin

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom;

The tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction;

One law for the lion and ox is oppression"

- William Blake, “Proverbs of Hell” from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

At last, the moon was right.

Shielding the world from Betelgeuse, when Wormwood was in its ascendant, it simultaneously protected the world while nurturing the souls of the Earth with its luminescent balming glow.

One man stood on a isolated hillside, staring up at the green-tinged star that currently reigned over the heavens. He watched as the star seemed to fade almost to complete invisibility before shining back with renewed vigour, perhaps signalling its hostile intent to the rest of the cosmos.

The man shivered and wrapped his shemagh tighter to his windswept face. He rubbed his eyes and dropped his gaze to the barren desert surrounding him. With a sigh, he gave a brief tug on the leash in his hand, and clicked his mouth with his tongue. The camel behind him rose on unsteady spindles of legs, and lurched forward against the biting sand-encrusted desert winds.

Man and beast, in similar hunched postures against the three reigning elements of the desert, those greatest of equalisers when used in tandem by the planet, a constant reminder of where the true power to which we are all subservient lies.

The camel grunts, and the man looks up with slitted eyes to a natural rocky outcrop, a respite from the deadly sand that whipped any exposed flesh it could find. With deadened legs, they trudge with renewed spirits towards this sanctuary. Within minutes they have reached their destination for the night, as the first glimmers of sunlight pierce the horizon.

As his master begins to assemble what little firewood they have, the camel sits obediently close to his owner, instinctively providing shelter and warmth, watching with heavy eyes as the man utters prayers as he strikes rocks together over the little near-fossilised sticks he had managed to scavenge from the clutches of nature.

The sun is almost visible as the spark finally catches on a torn piece of the man's clothes, and the warm glow of the fire soothes them, for a time.

The man continues his prayers, as he lies next to the camel, grateful to the All for providing him with survival through another death-chilled night within the desert.

The man sleeps, yet his rest is troubled not only by external tormentors, the sounds of Djinns in the wind howling around him, but by the subtler demons that have invaded his soul, and speak to him of the powers they control here, of civilizations they have destroyed, of men corrupted to evil purpose.

The man sweats, but he does not loosen his grip on a purple vial, seemingly empty. His knuckles are white, and he cannot feel his hand, but still he holds, physically demonstrating his resistance to the mental forces that influence. The voices plead with him to merely empty the vessel, to allow the phylactery to roll into the sputtering flames, and free them.

They offer him riches, women, men, continents, and more. The man dreams of all that he is lacking, and he feels his willpower begin to ebb slowly away.

Eventually, the Sun rises over the barren wasteland, and the camel grunts and nudges the man away from his personal Abyss, and back to his Earthly torments. The man packs what little he has back onto his companion, and they walk quickly, before the Sun's power is too much to endure.

The man smiles with cracked lips and stares fixedly at the shimmering horizon. After an hour, he sees the golden domes, minnarets and towers of Baghdad, the priceless jewel that gleams brighter even than the Sun.

Images of the fine hospitality he once received at this beacon of wealth flooded back through his delerium-addled mind. He began to salivate, his dry, salty taste buds quivering with anticipation at the rich memories of the finest cuisine, served by the most prostidious of gourmets and piled high enough to bend the table, while harem boys and girls of every colour tended to his every whim.

He recalled the feel of spider-spun silk sheets against his skin, while tigerskin blankets draped over his bed provided the comforting warmth he had sorely missed of late. Lost in these lustful waking dreams, the mans eyes widen and he quickens his fragmented pace.

The camel grunts again, and the man looks back. The camel pulls slightly on the reins, shaking his head. The man's smile widens and he speaks to the camel, in a voice usually only heard when someone is speaking to a loved relative.

"Do not worry, my friend. This is no mirage. I have seen this fabled city before, and recognise already this fair garden. I know it's aromas, I know it's taste, I know it's heart. I know this paradise of cities, and I feel it reaching out to us with it's fair waters, offered to us from the mighty Tigris."

The camel deigned not to reply, which was a response in itself, and they resumed their trek through the desert.

The man was merely dragging his feet along now, one at a time, each movement growing in difficulty. He stopped, opened his canteen and drank four sips from the precious liquid inside. He replaced the flask and then held his frozen hand with it's ghastly container up to the Sun.

Yet the Sun could provide no warmth for his accursed hand, and the unholy shadows that flittered across the surface of the bottle caused infernal shadows to flitter across his vision. He wrenched his hand back to his side and moved on, closer to Baghdad, and the chance of salvation.

The frozen pain in his hand pulsed maddeningly, itching further along his arm, slowly but surely corrupting what little humanity remained in him. When he tried to relax his mind, all his thoughts became occupied with the crawling tendrils that slowly probed curiously through his aching, fragile body.

Yet this was old, familiar pain. He chose instead to focus on the pains of hunger, thirst, and the constant scorching from the Sun in the day, and the battering sick winds that ravaged his skin by night. These were rarer sensations for him, and in their own way gave him pleasure, a slight distraction from the blasphemous burden paralyzing his right hand.

Fifteen years. For fifteen years he had carried this paralyzing relic, this prison for painmongerers, and for fifteen years he had watched both his body rot and his mind wander to realms of ghosts and pain.

He knew it was wrong to traffic with the dead, to seek for answers in the dark realms that surround this world. Nevertheless he had wandered the Earth, seeking those with more experience than himself, learning at the feet of Sufis, Rabbis, Priests, lunatics, and all other manner of person touched by some spiritual presence, or tainted by a demonic seed.

He frantically tried to purify himself, first from material possessions, then by wasting what little money he had. Thus derelict, he began to purify himself from his crippling material desires. He fasted regularly, shunning media in all its forms save the written word and word of mouth; and wandered by foot, following messages from unknown prophets on subways, who scrawled their revelations on toilet walls, or directions from nature herself - drifting with the wind, following birdsong, accompanying running water.

After some time, he began to reintegrate himself with his brothers and sisters in society, yet forever changed from the man he once was, doomed to hold the weighty tomes of forbidden knowledge inside him until the Lethian waters of senility bring new secrets to wash away individual folly.

He babbled of the esoteric language of the animal kingdom, and learned their secrets. He exchanged riddles with learned, proud owls, sang with pitch-perfect nightingales, and commiserated with stately ravens of yore.

Shunned by those held in high regard, he sought refuge with those nestling in the cracks of society, gleaming rare snippets of wisdom amongst the fear driven gibberish.

Soon he stumbled upon ways in which man might alter himself so that it altered the very world around him. He learned how to withdraw his presence, his aura, fading it to a near-transparent grey, cloaking himself in bland fog to avoid those who would do him harm.

He used his burgeoning powers to sample the things that were forbidden to men of his class. He bored himself on fine wines, haute cuisine and all the other materialistic temptations he had withheld for so long.

Tiring of wealth, he once more moved invisibly through the night, finding secret camps for other refugees of society, a place of sanctuary from a system engineered to destroy those who moved beyond their allocated station, who find themselves trespassers in hostile territory wherever there is organised power.

It was at one such meeting place, a disused railway station that had fallen out of sight of those with money, where he met the man that set him on his present path.

The man was of indeterminate age, dressed in a black hood, and black trousers. He slumped forward over his knees staring deep into the embers of the fire at his feet. When he approached, this enigma of a man flicked his head up, revealing a face as dark as his clothes. Yet his eyes shone with some inward brilliance, and he beckoned the man over to him with a gesture.

As the man sat opposite the fire of this spectre of the night, he stared at his new host. He had pulled his hood down, revealing a bald head tattooed with a intricate design of loops and whorls. His ears and nose were pierced many times, yet despite all this strangers looking at him were still drawn to his eyes.

 Large, and impossibly white in contrast to the deep blacks surrounding them, the pupils dilating and flickering slightly, the man speaks seemingly through them, rather than some shadow where his mouth should be.

"You have been wandering for some time, my brother." His eyes were laughing.

"I try not to think on time."

"Wise, yet to avoid thinking breeds ignorance. For what do you seek?"

The man regarded the apparition. How could he put into words the feeling that had plagued him all these years, of something of vital importance missing from his life?

"I seek knowledge."

"Hmph, there are many who desire wisdom, yet ignore the cost of attaining their passion. What purpose drives your pursuit?"

"To escape."

"From what?"

"Consciousness."

"Ha! Consciousness? Tell me, what do you expect to find when you escape into unconsciousness?"

"The Abyss. But with knowledge it can be crossed. The other side awaits, and with it the chance to transcend our mortal suffering."

"Our?" The man laughed and stamped his feet. "Who do you think knows of the Abyss? Who can tell you of the paths across the forest of suicide? The lake of forgetfulness? Of crossing the infernal city?"

"Only those who dwell there, or have made the journey before. I shall find these creatures, and they shall tell me."

"And why should they tell you?"

"I will pay any price."

"You will pay what everyone pays for the knowledge of the damned. Damnnation."

"Perhaps. But the damned can be saved. Forewarned is forearmed."

"You are a fool, but your wits do not concern me. If you wish to cross the Abyss, you must first learn to reach it. There are several ways, but there is only one suitable for you."

"Tell me."

"An offering must be made. A libation to a God with enough power to move your soul, to the different plain on which the Abyss lies eternal."

"Very well. What do you want of me?"

"You must travel far, with nothing but the clothes you stand in. To the East lies a temple, long-forgotten and crumbling, and within it lies a vial. It lies on an altar where the last of the two-legged reptiles were slain, those who could not escape the genocidal nature of your kind.”

"Hmph. What is in this vial? And why do you want it?"

"The vial is a phylactery, a prison for Askarthe, a reptilian God mankind was not meant to see. A creature dreampt up from the primitive imaginations of those who came before humanity. These creatures were gifted with the same intelligence as your kind, yet not the innate nature to conquer, to dominate.

They followed orders from their shaman, a man chosen from birth with divine sight, who spoke to Askarthe directly. Many thousands of cold-blooded souls sent powerful waves of worship to him in thanks for another day's survival. This gave him such power that even the Sun itself was said to have moved at his whim.”

The man looked at the dark vision before him. The eyes that stared back at him were pinpricks now, boring deep.

“If this God is so powerful, how did it end up trapped in a bottle within a desecrated temple?”

“The reptiles, or Volk as they called themselves, battled constantly with your young, arrogant race. While the Volk dedicated their energies to cultivating the land around them, and nurturing the other forms of life that they encountered, your people discovered the ways of iron and death. Your people spread further and further around the globe, devastating the populations of every other animal in their path. Eventually they reached the borders of the humid homeland of the Volk. They prayed with great fervour to Askarthe to deliver them from extinction.

“They continued to prey, and they continued to die. As they watched their number diminish, their desperation grew, and they began to sacrifice creatures to give power enough for Askarthe to defend them. When the animals failed, they turned amongst themselves. They gave their own life force to power their mad godhead, and finally Askarthe answered their pleas.”

The nightmare in human skin took a nearby twig from the ground and began to poke the embers as he spoke, smiling wistfully.

“I was there. Not in this form, but I watched as the humans finally bore witness to the vengeance of the Volk. Thunder prowled the night sky, the skies darkened to a crimson hue unseen save for fleeting seconds before sunset, and after a cataclysmic bolt of lightning , the heavens opened, and the blood that had flooded from the dying Volk now cascaded down from the heavens.”

“The world bled for days, from deep arterial cuts in the clouds. The fluid that ran through the veins of the Volk worked on the minds of the marauders. It drenched millions, and the human ravagers wailed, gnashing their teeth, screaming in disbelief as their world was rendered insane before them. Men, women and children alike were consumed in a lust for violence.”

“Parents cannibalising their children, rich and poor rolling alike through the bloodied filth, the madness showed no signs of abating as the storms of terror reigned on. Eventually the clerics and the priests of your kind started to prey for a new God, one who could stop the deluge of terror that fell ceaselessly upon them. Finding sanctuary in their new churches, their fervour grew until it reached fever-pitch and a deity was born.”

Glancing at the sky before locking his eyes once more upon the man, the shadow continued.

“This deity had many sacred names, with each country that was infected with humanity dreaming up their own name for their saviour. “

"So you want to harness this godly power for yourself? To what end?"

The dark shell of a man hissed and spat into the fire.

"My motives are not of your concern, dirt-born. But like every other thing on this planet I need to feed to live, and my life grows with each soul I consume. I have found plenty of common fare to taste, but to savour a God..."

The beast trailed off, lost in thoughts of devouring the unique spark within us all. The man leant forward, undeterred.

"And in exchange? You can tell me how to reach the Abyss?"

Gloved hands reached up , casting long shadows into the firelight. He replaced his hood, hiding the dread eyes of the creature wearing a man's flesh.

"I can take you there."

The man had needed no other information, no guarantees were required. The beast had touched him before it parted. It removed a glove to reveal sunken grey skin, and pressed it's index finger to the man's forehead. His mind was instantly flooded with the image of a dark foreboding jungle, where damp mist swirled above the ground, hiding dangers unknown. In the distance he could make out two ornate pillars, decaying yet sturdy in architecture not dreamt by human minds. This was the temple he sought.

"Askarthe."

The forgotten God's name echoed in his mind, with a sound that was more hiss than voice. When the vision ended, the man came to as a train thundered past him. There was no trace of the man or his fire. Resolute, he shouldered his pack and set off, following the steady vibrations the train had left in it's wake.

The reptilian voice reverberated through him as he walked. He began muttering it out loud as he moved hazily through the maze of streets that made up exotic, nameless cities that he moved through like a wisp in a swamp.

Sometimes a flicker of recognition would appear on someone's face as he mouthed the word.

“Askarthe.”

An old man nursing a empty shot glass outside a bar blinked then pointed with shaking hands in a southerly direction. Another sniffed and told him to turn back. A young voluptuous woman whispered mythical street names in his ear. He walked through the lawless areas of town. Child theives approached him sensing an easy target, then sniffed danger lurking, and vanished back into the warmth of the rotting waste that served as their refuge against the constant threat of the city.

Eventually he left the throngs of people, and walked through quiet villages where mothers hid their children from him, and old men previously savouring their last cigarette of the night watched him stagger through the dusty path that was the focal point of the town, and crossed themselves before retiring to wooden homes and dreaming of strange creatures rising from the ground to feast on those whose ancestors committed vile crimes.

He came to a forest, with a small beaten path marking the way between two sets of thick oak trees that obliterated any light that might shine upon the true way through. As the man walked, pangs of pain from sleep deprivation punctured some chamber of his brain, and visions began to flood his senses.

Hundreds of eyes peered out at him from the gloom, watching him with a mix of curiosity and hunger. He stared neither left nor right and walked straight ahead, muttering the deity's name he heard again and again. One of the braver creatures of the woods pawed a branch to one side, and darted out in front of the man. Blood flecked it's snout, and it's short matted fur clung to its hide in clumps that barely covered gnarled sunken flesh.

It sniffed the ground uncertainly, and slowly advanced upon the man, who seemed not to have noticed the ravenous animal in front of him. The man walked towards the half-wolf uttering his unholy mantra and the beast stopped; transfixed in horror as if seeing some ancient evil that has been whispered amongst wolves.

A piercing howl began to issue from the night air and the wolf rolled on to its back, kicking at the sky, all the time still whining at some invisible presence winning the fight for its mind. The howl turned into a snarl as the beast vainly tried to fight its losing battle.

Its lips pulled back grotesquely far, and suddenly with a hideous click the wolf was suddenly seeing the world at a new angle. The wolf's eyeballs rolled backwards and then it started to walk, lifting itself upon its hind legs like a child suddenly discovering a new means of transportation. It turned towards the man, and somehow, spoke.

“Askarthe.”

The man nodded, “Askarthe.” The wolf's head clicked again, now completely upside down. It croaked:

“Guardians. Sacrifice. Honour. Faith. Askarthe.” It's message delivered, the presence left the wolf, and it collapsed in a heap of dislocated bones at the man's feet.

“Askarthe.” he said and walked on, his mantra increased fivefold as he travelled.

After a time he could not measure of walking through unvarying scenery, with the trees to the left and right; the endless path in front and behind, he came to a bridge. There was a boulder by the side, and a man in a wide-brimmed hat sat cross-legged smoking a long, thin pipe. He tapped his pipe three times, refilled it from a small pouch at his waist and lit it, taking long deep breaths. Exhaling blue smoke, he raised an eyebrow while looking at the man approaching him.

“Tis rare indeed to see a man travelling in these lands at this time. What brings you here?”

The man dropped his belongings to the floor, and shook slowly from side to side as he spoke through the limits of exhaustion.

“Askarthe.”

The sound caused the forest to suddenly come alive and withdraw from the two men on the path. The eyes that had been watching him flickered out to a brief noise of rustling undergrowth, and a complete silence filled his ears.

“Ah...” The old man spoke in a voice that did not belay his age. “I fear I know why you journey. I believe I also know who has sent you on your dangerous quest. This creature is not trustworthy. You know this, and yet you still do it's bidding. Why?”

The man staggered once more on his feet.

“Askarthe...Wisdom. Honour.”

The words seemed to drain the last of the man's energy. He slumped forward, and was caught by the man who was sat cross-legged but a moment ago. Just before he lost consciousness, the man looked up at the stranger, and saw that he only had one eye. A husk of a socket stared blankly back at him. The other eye watched him with something bordering concern as the man spoke.

“Though it pains me to assist you in such a nefarious cause, I cannot leave a traveller stranded in the wilds. My hall is close, if you have the right eyes, and it will provide all the nourishment you need.”

The man nodded and drifted to the Abyss once more, a tantalising glimpse of the void he must cross to reach his final destination.

When he awoke, a hearth fire crackled close to him, and as he moved his aching limbs he felt with joy the thick woolen blankets that had been draped over him. His head was nestled on two huge eiderdown pillows, and the smell of simmering plants mixed with the one-eyed stranger's tobacco engulfed the air.

The stranger was sat watching his new guest with an eye that long since more than learnt how to compensate for it's missing brother. His expression was blank as he spoke.

“How do you feel?”

The man leant forward, groaning.

“My body...pain. But my mind feels mine again, somehow.”

“The lich you have agreed to serve had ensnared you with powerful magic, that would have destroyed you once you had found what it seeks. I have banished it from my home, but the psychic battle has left me in a somewhat weakened state.”

The man took a new appraisal of his benefactor. Where before there was thick muscle, now only skin hanging limply around aged meat. The stranger read the look of concern in the man's eyes.

“I will be fine. With you, however, my confidence wanes. Now that your mind is free, tell me. Why do you seek...the temple?”

The man told his tale to the one-eyed man, hesitantly at first, and when he started to speak of crossing the Abyss, his voice began to grow in strength, and by the time he had told of his new quest, his passion had all but restored him to his former self. The stranger listened and then spoke.

“But why? Why do you risk your eternal soul in this way? The one you call God has a plan in place for each of you. You will reach him when you are ready. Why try to run ahead to your journey's end?”

“I will not wait to be released from this prison he has created for me. The only difference between me and everyone else in this prison is that I can see the bars that hold us. I will find my escape, by any means, and I shall attain my freedom.”

“Ha! Grand words indeed! It is the nature of life that the more free you believe you are the more entrapped you can become. Very well, I can understand, if not agree with you. But to trust in this foul sorceror? The undead lich that tried to turn you into it's mindless slave?”

“What choice do I have? I know of no other way to cross the Abyss.”

The one-eyed man sighed as he refilled his pipe.

“There is always choice. Those who see nothing but one path are the most easily led.”

The man sat forward, angrily.

“You speak to me as though I am a child! Do you think I've not wandered these paths? For decades I have explored each and every avenue available to me!”

“You misunderstand.”

“Do I? I'm expected to wander until I die, experiencing the same tired life again and again until I might be able to sit alongside the divine? I tire of this labyrinth. I have walked it's contents, and now I have discovered a rope to climb out.”

“Yet you do not know what is outside this labyrinth.”

“True, I do not. But I know that at least I shall be free, whatever awaits me on the other side.”

“Freedom. You speak much of it, yet you fail to appreciate what true freedom is: The ability to choose. To choose between good and evil, right and left turns in the labyrinth, until we find our destination. No man's path is set. Some paths have been trod many times, others lie undisturbed in layers of dust. Yet all eventually reach outside the twisted paths.”

“But you have made your decision. I shall aid you in your fool's errand, though I see naught but tears at your end.”

The stranger's one-eyed host stood up and walked over to a cooker in the corner, and lifted the lid off a saucepan that bubbled and brewed a strange mixture of herbs and plants.

“Drink this. It shall protect your mind from those who seek to implant dark thoughts.”

The man downed the saucepan's liquid noisily, slurping in delight as the hot tasty fluid gushed down his throat. He pulled back the wool blankets and stood up. The empty socket of the man seemed to grow larger as his right eyebrow arched. “Surely you do not want to leave already?” he cried.

The man once more shouldered his constant burden, and shrugged.

“It's like a fire in my veins. It must be quenched, and it cannot be done here. Thank you for your care.”

The one-eyed man nodded, as if expecting this.

“It is nothing. Much stronger magic awaits you. I can feel it already crackling around you on the other plain. Be aware. Trust everything and no-one. Good luck.”

The man turned and left, and as he walked down the path away from the house, for the first time since he began his journey he turned his head back the way he came, and stared at a run-down shack, falling apart and clearly unable to hold the opulent comfort he received within. Shaking his head, he quickened his stride and thought back on the one-eyed stranger's words. With the right eyes...trust everything.

It was true, there was no logical reason for the vast improvement to his health, but there it was. He decided not to question providence too closely and walked on as the Sun rose once more to claim it's throne in the sky.

As he progressed through the day, the ground beneath his feet became increasingly damp, pulling at his boots with each stride. Before long he was forced to hop from safe patch to patch, thinking only of the next leap, not of how each jump was getting longer. Marsh gas had begun to rise around him, and the gas brought with it the strange life that can only flourish in a humid quagmire such as this. Fireflies flickered harmlessly against his face, playfully nudging his vision away from his path, while long thin snakes prowled amongst prehistoric mud.

The gas continued to rise, above his head now, and somehow the fireflies had grown. One such enlarged light flashed before him, and he thought he saw a child's face, laughing as it whizzed about his head. Still the man pushed forward. He knew the swamp had an end, and it was his destiny to reach it. Trusting in fortune's winds to guide his feet, he leaped blindly forwards, landing ankle deep in sickeningly warm water. Jumping quickly again before the ground could pull him down, he landed squarely on a rock that jutted slightly from the putrid liquid that surrounded him.

The man squinted into the gas, one hand protecting his mouth and nose from the poison in the mist. The man began to notice a pattern to the ebb and swirl of the fog – it coalesced slightly green in some parts, and then dispersed, only to reappear somewhere else.

As he regained his breath, he watched as this new green gas seemed to float towards him. All of a sudden it was upon him, and the man held his breath, his eyes unable to see anything but a thick murky green in every direction. Strange noises assaulted his ears, horses galloping, battle cries, screams of men breathing their last. A thousand voices whispered at him,

“Fleessssssshhhh”

Panic struck him then and he ran blindly, waist-deep through sludge and decaying life. He felt the green entity at his back, leisurely following him through the mist.

“Feeeeeed...sooo long...must feeeed....”

His foot slipped on a treacherous rock, and he slipped and fell face-first deep into the oozing liquid. His hands caught in thick mud below, he tried in vain to lift his head above the water. He could see the green mist still, shimmering madly through the water above him. His mouth opened despite his best efforts, and dark oozing liquid spilled down his throat. His body tried to give in to the soft embrace of the liquid flooding his system, and to sleep forever amongst those other fools who had attempted too much with too little.

The man pulled and writhed beneath the surface of the water, the suppurating, suffocating mud squelching against his hands, feet and knees. With a Herculean effort, he wrenched his hands free, and above the water. The green mist sighed with pleasure as it floated down towards the exposed flesh. It dragged his unresisting body free from the murky floor, and pulled it gently up and into the sentient ectoplasmic vapour.

As the last of his body rose dripping into the acidic slime, he felt thousands of microscopic needles pierce his flesh, multitudes of teeth biting and eating away at his body.

He gritted his teeth through the pain as he hung suspended in the devouring entity. The torment he suffered grew as he watched his skin start to leave his body. His mind focused on defense, he felt his soul leave his body and he viewed his dying husk with regret. So close to achieving his goal, was he to die here and dwell forever in the Abyss watching his physical form be devoured, instead of crossing to his transcendence?

The thought of his goal reawakened some primal survival instinct within him, and his mind returned to his body. He remained calm, and once again he chanted.

“Askarthe. Askarthe. Askarthe.”

He continued to speak, and as he did his hands clenched into fists, his fingernails dug deep into into his palms and he shook with mental energy. His will became focused entirely on absorbtion and a panic stricken cry erupted from a thousand unseen throats that became a cacophany of screams.

“Imposssssssible! None are strong enough to...”

Yet the man was strong. Perhaps not physically, but over the years spent on his ignoble quest he had honed his mind to perfection. Not in an intellectual sense, but as he learnt from other spiritually gifted souls he began to be able to speak to people telepathically, and to an extent make his will reality.

He used that strength now, and the mist began to flow into the man, the predator's method rendering it into prey; the thousands of tiny mouths jabberering in fear as they slowly felt themselves fade into a form of sustenance. Although the mist had vanished, it left in it's wake a pile of human bones.

The man relented his willpower. He staggered back, reeling from the mental effort it had taken to destroy the beast. The physical pain from his semi-flayed flesh had not yet begun to register, nor the psychic affects of the one he had consumed. He peered down at the remains, and something glinted within the rib cage.

Kneeling, he brushed the bones aside gingerly, revealing a ornate dagger. Entirely obsidian, save for a silver skull at the base of the hilt, it's eyes two rubies that glistened maliciously through the marshy light.

Each of it's parts seemed to radiate evil. From the tip that seemed to pierce the very air to the black-toothed grin of the skull, laughing at mortality.

The man tucked the dagger into his belt, and staggered on. He came finally to a pier, a rotting wooden bridge that marked the only attempt at taming this savage area. Calmly, he walked across, his bootfalls heavy on the decaying trees below him. At the end, tied to the pier with fraying rope, was a craft, of sorts.

It's tattered sails hung exhausted from the mast, and there were no oars with which he could steer into deeper waters. The man climbed down into the boat, and sat cross-legged against the mast. All he needed was belief. The conviction of faith that he knew he would achieve his goal, and that nothing could stand in his path.

Once again, he closed his eyes and mouthed the mantra.

“Guardians. Sacrifice. Honour. Faith. Askarthe.”

Gently, at the last word, the craft was raised out of the water on skeletal hands, and unknown long-dead servants began to carry him across the swamp.

He nodded his head softly to the beat, that of the undead victims footfalls that bore him onward. They marched tirelessly through both thick mud and Sun-kissed clearer water that in his mind's eye, the man fancied he could see them, Askarthe's minions hunched forward against the current, arm-bones stretched taut, brittle finger-bones splayed against the hull of his craft, that rotted faster than they.

Eventually the swamp began to thin, and the water flow grew in intensity as the skeletons piloted him towards a deep river, whose currents seemed comparatively tidal when seen in contrast to the dingy humidity he had just endured.

They reached the delta, and the man opened his eyes. Gasping in ecstasy at their release, the bones fell once more to their aquatic graves for eternity. He stood up, and clutched the mast, coughing heavily. He peered downriver, where the river widened. He unfurled the sail, and cursed the rips and tears that scarred the once-white fabric.

Above him storm clouds gathered, sent by an unseen hand to both test and potentially aid him. With a grimace, he ripped some of the all-but-useless sail and used it to tie himself to the frail mast, his only means of steadying himself in the embrace of the maelstrom that he sensed awaited him.

Water whipped his eyes, stinging them closed as the water's anger at this trespasser grew. The raft smashed suddenly against an unseen jagged rock, and part of the deck was swept away. Shouting out the names of every aquatic God he had heard, cursing them, jeering at them to kill him, he untied himself and prostrated himself on what remained of his craft, using his limbs to hold the fragmented hull together.

The raft continued to ricochet between the hazardous rocks, and as it slalomed it gave in to the elements, breaking into a smaller and smaller aid to the estranged passenger it bore. Within minutes the man was able to hook his arms underneath the edges of the raft, and he screamed down at the water that gushed by beneath him.

A sudden gust of wind hit the boat as it was flung upwards by a rapid, and the man was catapulted into a sea-sharpened rock, and once again he embraced nothingness.

The man was happy, for a while, his soul relishing the isolation from everything in existence. The void was pleasing, as the womb.

But the void faded. His soul awoke in the body of a young man, and it gazed with unfamiliar eyes at a stylish office, with a mahogany desk that was completely bare, and a large window behind him that showed only the night sky.

The man (men?) looked down at his (their?) hands, and marvelled at their youthfulness. Neatly manicured, perfectly smooth, unravaged by the elements or manual labour save for a white scar on the left palm, where the other Jay briefly remembered some sort of vial.

Stretching back in an elegant black executive chair, he looked at the expense around him, and thought it all strangely familiar. He knew he was being swept away down some remote river, yet he also felt a strange belonging in this corporate domicile. A man in a expensive suit knocked and entered his office.

“Hi Jay, ready to go? They're expecting you in ten.”

Jay. That was his name once. A soft, laid-back voice said within him:

“Not a problem. Be there in five.”

Where was he? Who was he? The man struggled to identify the other being inside him, yet found only himself. Was this a past life? A glimpse of the future? Or his own time, a forgotten memory of his life before his all-consuming mission?

The man's view changed as the other Jay stood up and left the office. He watched as he strode confidently past rows of identical offices, paused outside a door that was labelled “Boardroom” and walked in.

A large table seated 14 elderly businessmen, all seated around a oval table, that was dominated by a large screen at the end of the room. A seat lay open, awaiting him.

He watched as Jay sat in the chair, and the screen flickered to life. It displayed a wealth of information – stocks, shares, GDP indexes, mortality rates, political ideology graphs, and every five seconds each piece of data was updated, and some new information from around the globe was displayed.

At the head of the oval, almost opposite the chair in which Jay was sitting, a man with grey hair, and deep wrinkles smiled emptily and spoke.

“Gentlemen? Shall we begin?”

A few of the other chairmen pressed unseen buttons in the glass table that lay before them, preparing their reports. A man to the left of Jay coughed nervously, stood and spoke.

“On behalf of our marketing division, projections are favourable for growth in the next six months. Increased Middle Eastern aggression has served to diversify our crop and oil portfolios, with inflation margins remaining steady at 19%.”

The man at the head of the table tried to show a gesture of benevolence, frightening in it's insincerity.

“Thank you. The Information Officer shall now report.”

Eyes swivelled in his direction, and Jay stood up, and began talking, cleanly and concisely of false flag operations, new propoganda techniques, surveillance equipment deployed, and other strange language that was as alien to him as he himself felt in his new body.

The other Jay recoiled in horror. As the body's synapses fired information, their meanings came flooding back to him and he began to panic, unbelievablity at the actions the original inhabitant of the body was reporting on. In a fit of anger, the alien Jay's essence tried to escape the mind, mentally attacking the boundaries within the brain. The other Jay stammered in his speech, and clutched his head, then carried on talking, resolutely.

He started to scream, sending a psychic shockwave through the body of the other Jay, who was in control of the body, and suddenly their positions were reversed. The man found himself controlling now, and heard a frightened voice emanate through unfamiliar lips cry in fear.

“Who...who are you people? What is this accursed place?”

The grey hollow husk at the head of the table raised an eyebrow quizically, and spoke in a measured tone.

“You are in the head office of the M & M Omni-National Corporation. I have the honour of being the Chief Executive Officer, Plutus Dis Pater. You do not seem yourself, Mr. Connolly. Can I help you in any way?”

The man steadied himself, and relaxed slightly as it processed this information.

“No...no I'm fine...” he muttered, hazy recollections of a previous life gnawing at the edges of reason and felt his presence move back, and the other Jay Connolly regained control of the body. The CEO smiled and clasped his hands together warmly. The other Jay apologised.

“Forgive me Pater, I am slightly unwell...please may I finish my report another time? I shall send all the data in my report immediately, of course.”

The old man tried to smile in the fatherly way that served as the crux of the deception within him, and nodded benignly.

“Of course, Mr. Connolly, of course. Take your time. We have all the time in the world!”

He laughed nervously and Jay walked quickly out of the room. He ran to the nearest bathroom, and vomited violently into the sink. He rubbed his face and eyes with water, and stared into the mirror in fear.

“Who am I?” both voices said simultaneously. The “other” Jay straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his usually immaculate hair and nervously walked out of the building, to a waiting BMW. The driver greeted him with a professional friendliness, and started to drive him to Jay's apartment, on the “Upper West Side”. As they snaked through the metropolis, the man gazed at the thousands of other people, going about their daily lives. Most of them flashed in and out of his life in seconds, a dazzling array of colours, styles and to the new presence within Jay, a rainbow of auras, each mingling with it's neighbours as they moved unknown to their psychical selves.

They moved on, although their progress slowed to a stop at times. One such time a man of about fifty years with an unkempt beard and unwashed clothes staggered to the front of the car and began to wipe the windscreen with a dry, dirty cloth. Half of him tried to provoke the other self into giving some money from his no doubt bulging wallet. The other half was resolute inwardly, and the body remained motionless. 

The driver, checked his side mirror, spoke a few words into his radio, and within a minute two men in casual clothes walked out of the thronging streets, and grabbed the poor man, carrying him off to the other side of the road. As he was carried, he remained silent, yet he locked eyes with both Jays, and the man inside him knew that look, knew the heartfelt emotion with which it pleaded for help, for humanity, from anyone. Yet it also resounded with the icy knowledge that he shall not find it, and he knows the fate the two men carrying him have in store for his unfortunate self.

“Are you ok, Mr. Connolly? Can I help you?” the driver looked at him through his mirror with a furrowed brow.

“I'm fine...just need to get home, get a beer, get laid.” the other Jay spoke, though distant somehow.

The driver laughed and returned his attention to the road, apparently satisfied with this response. As the car moved on, the man within Jay looked with rapture at a sudden expanse of greenery, a stark contrast to the dull metallic greys of the city blocks surrouding him.

Mercifully the car stopped again.

“Sorry Mr. J – NYCC get worse every year.” the driver said shaking his head, a theatrical impression of a cliched taxi-driver. Jay laughed and told the driver not to worry about it. But the old man within Jay moved forward, and looked with fresh eyes upon his escort.

His aura was a brilliant red, tarnished with flecks of black and emerald green, and as the man stared deep at the consciousness, his mind flashed with images – of the man younger, driving slowly next to a child walking home from school, of the man's face contorted in sick pleasure, sweating, illuminated by a bedside night lamp, and then of another nocturnal scene, of this twisted soul with axe and knife, cutting away at some unseen meat, and then another – a black bag abandoned in a shallow grave.

The man pulled back his scavenging eyes, reeling from the psychological damage caused by the heinous act.

Jay, who up until now had not experienced anything beyond the natural, gasped, and started to cry out. The man inside him quickly came forward, and clasped his hands over their mouth.

The driver sensed something amiss, not only with his passenger but his psyche, somehow knowing instinctively that his innermost secrets had been revealed, the inner sanctum of his mind violated. His eyes narrowed, and he glared through the mirror at the terrified ( furious ) man that sat behind him. The driver spoke once more into his radio.

“This is Charon 3-A, assistance required, Connolly code Azure.”

Neither Jay fully understood the words, but they understood everything they needed in the driver's cold, dead eyes, and with unified mind and body lunged for the car door, opening it in the same movement as the driver reached for the lock.

As the driver shouted out and began to open his own door, he (they) ran blindly towards the park, pelting past couples, children, and those enjoying the precious natural beauty at the heart of their city.

The older Jay sensed the forces on their pursuit, and forced the body to quicken it's pace, while the frightened younger part of his soul turned to look, and fled further into the realms of fear. The elder Jay took pleasure in this, relishing the surges of adrenalin his well-kept body flushed into their system.

They ran, half jubilant at the chase, half hysterical at the danger, and the distance between them and their pursuers eventually grew. The Sun had just about faded once more below the horizon, and they moved quietly towards a park bench.

An old man sat on it, a brown paper bag in his hands. He was staring dejectedly at the path at his feet. Jay(s) sat at a respectful distance. They watched the moon rise together, and the man took a final swig from the foul smelling bottle the crumpled bag contained, then proferred it to them. Both of them moved forward to take it, albeit for differing reasons.

“Insider trading certainly isn't what it used to be.” the man giggled. “In my day you would have jumped out of the office window. Done the decent thing. But you kids...” the man trailed off, lost in his own thoughts of ages past.

The elder Jay came forward once again, this time against a weakly protesting younger self. He shook the bottle, then drank half of it's remainder in three gulps. Shuddering as the alcohol ran rampant through their systems, he handed the bottle back to the grizzled man.

“May I ask your name Sir, who presumes so much?” the older Jay said, leaning forward.

“Ha! I'm merely Destiny's Fool. A traveller who has found himself on a well-trod path, a gambler who has bet everything on the House, and lost everything. Ah, but in this respect, perhaps I am quite like yourself, eh?” the tramp on the bench stared deep into Jay's eyes, penetrating through the elder, and almost talking directly to the frightened youth within.

The man smiled, showing yellow rotten teeth.

“I say I am on a path well travelled, but you may as well be walking next to me.”

The younger Jay came forward then, indignant at the mockery of his accomplishments in the corporate world.

“How can we be on similar paths? Look at you, you have nothing except a bottle of scotch and some clothes that stink of your own shit! I have everything! I have eaten the finest in the world, I have stayed in the finest hotels-”

The man guffawed again, an almost infectious sound.

“Haw! Yet here we are, young man! Here we are, together, without a possession between us save the clothes on our backs, on a park bench in Central Park. You say that I am presumptious – Pah! You know nothing about me, boy. It is your shallow vanity that plagues the world, an itch I have been unable to scratch, until now.”

The elder Jay started to feel himself falling asleep to the old man's words. Some subtle nuance of the grizzled man's words perhaps? The younger Jay was in full control, tending his wounded pride. But the elder, picked up on subtler nuances missed, or misunderstood by his younger self, carried on.

“I too have enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, from the feel of silk sheets about my body while a young girl gives me joy, to the feel of a fine tailored suit on my skin. I have also found pleasure in almost every form of art imaginable. For what?”

He felt himself grow fainter. The void was returning. Part of him wanted to rush forward and embrace it, yet there was another that wanted to stay and hear the old hobo's story, the wisdom he had perhaps ignored in his youthful folly.

Yet irregardless of his desires, the void was growing, until it became once more all there was. The man (Jay, he thought to himself) rested there, meditating on the strange glimpse he had been given at the puzzling events at an unknown point in time.

His affinity for the other within the host body was total, they were both a part of the same whole, he was sure. So why did it still feel so alien? The crippling doubts he ruminated over spread like germs through his brain, which pulsed in discomfort.

The pain grew, and sound started to return to his ears. Water, once more. Yet softer, calming. His smell returned next, and he inhaled deeply the tangy salt of tropical waters. The dark of the void was suddenly shattered by a pin prick of incredible light, that widened in scope. He remained there, transfixed by the glory of the Sun, believing himself in the face of the divine All itself.

It was only when a bird circled, singing overhead, that he regained feeling in his body and groggily sat up.

He gazed at his surroundings. The lapping tide scaled away into the distance, nestled against bright white sand. He coughed up sea water and stared ahead at a dense jungle, the vine-encrusted trees tilted at angles seemingly hindering his path through.

The phylactery was once more welded to the flesh of his palm, the swirling mist inside now spun with strands of a purplish-hue. As he stared, he felt his mind start to wander, a subtle voice with enticing tones began whispering at the edge of his consciousness. With an effort he snapped his eyes away from his burden, and set off into the tropical island.

The dazzling Sun was quickly eclipsed by the welcoming shade of wide leaves that spanned the ceiling as a canopy, the sweltering humidity staggering. He tried to remember the vision he shared with the stranger at the campfire, of the massacre between humanity and the Volk. Years upon years of bloodshed, yet perhaps still there could be a reconciliation of sorts, a final unity. Yet the slumbering deity in its prison seemed to react to his thoughts, light flaring on occasion. What were its intentions? Did he dare allow himself to communicate with it, knowing how fragile his sanity had become?

He straggled on through the overgrowth, brushing aside plants and stepping over roots that threatened to snare his feet. His thirst grew as the Sun moved through its course overhead, the moisture he drank from the leaves precious little compared to the liquid he was excreting through his pores. Only his burdened hand felt icy cold. His very mind seemed to fray, his inner monologue starting to quieten compared to the voice of Askarthe, as it whispered to him for freedom, speaking of its powers, and how they could be used to benefit humanity.

The wanderer tried to converse – the voice magnified, as if at some slight acquiesion by the host; the power of the burdensome phylactery amplified around his temples.

“What do you want from me?” The question was blunt, as some part of him knew he needed to be. The voice that replied seemed an echo, distorted in tone yet eerily familiar.

“Freedom. The Volk must survive. When I am free all extinct races shall be reborn anew.”

“What then of humanity?”

“Until now humanity has had a choice between chaos and harmony. With the Volk once more populating the planet, that choice shall fall aside – I shall enforce harmony. There shall be no more superfluous bloodshed. The conflict of aeons past has not been in vain, it should never be repeated.”

The man walked on and reflected upon the deity's words. Enforced harmony? At what price to the mind of mankind? He reflected that man had built it's way to the forefront of evolution by violent struggle – initially against their natural predators, then by each other, for dominance of the land. Would man be weaker or stronger for co-operation with the Volk? What abilities they once demonstrated, over the elements, their Shamen displaying seemingly supernatural powers that rivalled those of certain humans, only hinted at in legend could advance his species beyond reckoning.

He was still ruminating when he arrived at a small stream. He stooped and drank eagerly, poured water over his sweltered face. The Sun was nearly setting – he must have walked for hours, though he could not remember them passing. He bathed his aching feet and looked down at the vial, the smoky tendrils coalesced into a swirling mass.

The deity of the Volk once more communicated. “Our destination grows close. The last survivor of my people awaits my return. You shall be rewarded for your service when you release me.” The traveller's brow furrowed. A gnawing feeling within him told him to beware, that the words he heard were not truth, merely used to bait him into giving the creature what it wants. He considered the possibility that the enforcement Askarthe spoke of could only apply to humanity, with the Volk then given power to enslave his people.

His mind grew heavy with the immensity of the decision before him. Should he choose to distrust Askarthe, how would he destroy the God when shattering the vial would set it free? Clouds of despair seeped through him at his helplessness, the soul crushing feeling that his entire life has been one long script, with no choice before him or ahead, only a relentless forewards. He stood up, deciding to press on through the night.

He walked on, following the stream, ignoring the pangs of hunger that racked his body. His pace was slow and unsteady, the jungle floor treacherous. Hours passed, with only a few miles further for his exertions. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, a sign of malnourishment as well as humidity – he couldn't remember when he had last eaten. Eventually he came to a slight clearing of blackened soil, only a few metres from the stream. His body and mind screamed for rest. He laid down gently on the ground, his limbs shaking spasmodically. As his eyes closed, he felt his eyes dart rhythmically from side to side, instantly falling into a deep slumber.

He found himself on a ornate chair in a great hall, tapestries and paintings lining the walls. In front of him was a oak table, a nine pointed star, encircled, etched in its centre. Sat along the sides were men in crimson robes, quietly talking amongst themselves. He looked at his arms, saw they wore a similar robe. His right hand held a strange eye-shaped scar. He clenched and unclenched his fingers into his palm, savouring the ability that had been lost to him for so long.

The hall was illuminated by braziers in between the paintings and candelabras on the table. As he surveyed the people, trying to identify them beneath their cowls, he noticed shadows seemed to move by themselves, outlines of non-human figures cavorting, winged creatures whispering to one another. The effect of the flickering flames caused the shadows behind to elongate, stretching far to the back of the hall which was lost to blackened gloom.

He recognised the past within the comatic dream, while his body attempted to recuperate under the brightest sky, though also the deadly reality of it all, the loops of the construct known as time interlinking within his mind.

The people themselves moved seldom, occasionally drinking red wine from chalices that were the only items on the table. At the other end of the hall, a large set of double doors opened, and a suited man emerged from the blackness outside, walked to the opposite end of the table and whispered in the other person's ear. The person who sat directly opposite the wanderer nodded slightly, and the man in the suit left, closing the heavy doors behind him.

The person who had received the information stood, and the rest of the people around the table imitated. The one who stood first raised an arm, and from a ring on the fourth finger a beam of purple light shot forward into the sigil at the centre of the table. In a clockwise motion, each of the other figures raised an arm. One held a gnarled staff, another a orb of grey clouds, yet another a pendant that dangled from a hand. As each hand was raised, the same light hit a different part of the sigil from the artifacts.

As the ninth person's energy hit the star, it pulsed, an eye starting to appear in its centre. The shadows that had previously confined themselves to engaging with the shadows next to them now took flight, circumnavigating the room at every angle, faster with each revoultion. The robed figures began to chant.

“Askarthe. Askarthe. Askarthe.”

The traveller's body, seemingly willed by a force not his own, arose, and he looked at the palm of his burdened hand. The scar was pulsing with the same light. He raised his hand, fingers spread in front of him. The incantation complete, the energy coalesced into a spiral. He watched as a shadow ceased it's circling and plunged into the circle. Then another, and another. When they all had entered the circle, the light left their artifacts and remained in the sigil. His arm fell back to his side, and he noticed the scar of his hand still glowed dully.

The figures ceased their chant, took their seats once more around the table. The spiralling light arced from the ceiling back to the centre of the sigil. The circle of light became a dome, then dwindled to a steady pulse where the eye was drawn. A column of dark violet smoke started to rise in it's place, slowly spreading round the hall.

“You are in the presence of Askarthe.”

The voice seemed to echo in the practioner’s minds simultaneously. The person at the opposite end of the table spoke with lilting delight - “The invocation is complete!”

The wanderer cast his vision around the room. The robed figures were leaning to one another, speaking quietly. The smoke continued to billow out of the sigil, flowing around the figures at the table. The wanderer listened as their conversations changed from demands and uses of power and knowledge to confessions, lust and anger.

He could hear the man across the table talking, zoned in on his conversation.

“If we can attain the knowledge that is holding the R&D for our V-261 virus back, our control of the sub-Saharan would increase tenfold, extending our stock portfolio, drastically – I bought her for a pittance in Thailand. Back at the hotel I slipped the knife in at the same time I slipped into her. It wasn’t the screams that set me off, but sliding around in her blood…I’ve never finished so quickly or forcefully. All our juices mixed together and I stayed coated in her for days, just me and her in the room-“

He felt anger grow within him as he listened to the man talk, realising what was at stake, and the nearly overwhelming desire to stay in control of his emotions he snapped his head around and focused on one of the others. A woman, whose words had slowly descended into a soundless scream with one of her hands working feverishly beneath her robe; her eyes full-white; a tear of blood rolling down each cheek.

He felt the whispers of others in his mind, urging him to rage, to kill then to release the frustration within, to cast off his humanity and revel in the bloodlust. He ground his teeth and clenched his hands into the arms of the chair, deciding instead to focus on their summoning.

The stranger noticed near the centre of the sigil, where the smoke was densest, a spherical shape had started to form. It seemed to be growing as the others were weakening, their life force burning in anger. The others, with the exception of the man at the head of the table had perished, their skin tainted to a rotting grey pallor, heads lolled back.

The man he assumed to be the leader of the cult expressed his rage in a manner perhaps saner than the others; he had drawn a slivered golden dagger from his robe and was running it into his arm, waving the point deeper and deeper into his flesh. The pain seemed to give him strength to make his own voice heard amongst the others that grew in volume.

“This should not be! It is we that should be feasting off you!”

The voice(s) replied in unison, as the deity they were to become.

“A sigil of summoning makes a poor binding.”

The leader gasped a laugh, his life force being devoured by their summoning gone awry. He locked eyes with the stranger across the table, as the sphere continued to grow.

His words were forced, as though talking through great anguish and anger.

“You must take the phylactery…when his presence is fully manifest in this realm. Only then can it be trapped.” His eyes were bulging and a protruding vein now throbbed on his temple.

The stranger turned away from the man drowning in his rage and stared at the vial he had indicated. It sat in an ornate holder a third of the table away from the central sigil. He noticed the enlarging sphere out of the corner of his eye. 

Energy crackled around the hall as it grew. He felt himself strangely drawn to it, and as he peered into the blackness he noticed flecks of yellow swimming across his vision. As he stared, one of them stopped. As the smoke continued to seep into the sphere, the void beyond, that ever-present dark, threatened to envelop him completely.

Part of him was urged to leave the table, to fling himself into the abyss and confront Askarthe directly. He clenched his hands into the arms of the chair as he watched the spectacle unfold around him. He looked at the yellow flecks again. 

The one that had stopped swimming had grown, as if it was speeding towards him over a unfathomable distance. As he watched, mesmerised, the collective of voices that had been urging him to rape, kill and give in to the bloodlust spoke again.

“You have summoned me at the appointed time to fulfill our destinies. When I have merged with you we can turn the universe to our will. The others were incapable of resisting their baser instincts that nearly drove our species to extinction.

 I shall rise you up as an emblem to mankind, a means of showing them that all controlling power is controlled itself. Though the visions of the future I have been shown foretell great bloodshed, perhaps our species may yet unify. Ah, the others have nearly expired, and my passageway is made manifest. Do you join willingly?”

As the entity was speaking, the stranger was staring raptly at the visage. It came closer until it towered in front of him, and he involuntarily gasped as its features came into view. It skin was the colour of mold on bone, or bile from a diseased liver.

 Its elongated head displayed prominent white pupil-less eyes and thousands of needle-like teeth, while its broad chest tapered to a spiked tail that flicked back and forth, keeping it aloft in the viscous depths of the unfathomable dark.

In its hands were a wickedly serrated shield and a sceptre, bejewlled with various ornate gems. The stranger’s initial fear of the unknown went into overdrive, and he backed away from the table, sending his chair flying across the hall. His eyes flicked to the vial on the desk, now perilously closed to being sucked into the void, and lost forever.

The creature crossed its arms across his chest, as if waiting for a reply. The stranger could not hesitate. He knew the phylactery was his only leverage, if he lost that he lost choice, and risked slavery to Askarthe. He leapt forward and grasped the vial, as he noticed the last of the violet smoke absorbed into the portal.

Reclaiming his place at the furthest distance away from the now fully open gateway, he still, through some optical trickery found himself face to face with the servant of Askarthe that had deigned to talk as an avatar of the deity.

With trembling hands he found the stopper on the vial and took hold. The voice once again broke through the background of rage that wheedled him into emotion.

“The last of them has died. The bridge between worlds is complete. You join me and the Volk can once more repopulate the planet. To imprison me is to doom yourself to a path of great torment, and humanity shall stay on the course it is, that of eternal suffering.”

The stranger made a series of logical jumps in a split second, incorporating his past love of his species, his nationality, the conflict that renders things emotionally viable, and in the way the mind seems to slow everything else down in times of near-death, he opened the phylactery. 

A beam of light immediately pierced into the infinite recesses of the void, through the avatar that floated before him. It stared down at its body, and where the light had penetrated its flesh seemed to have inverted like a camera negative. The voice shouted at him in surprise.

“Fool! You set the course of the universe astray!”

The pale blue nimbus light began to absorb the portal, which once more started to shrink as the void was filtered and shrank into the vial. The volk shrieked noiselessly, thrashing against the inevitable pull of the phylactery. He noticed thousands of the fleck sized volk as they floated through the light as microscopic purple particles. 

The voice roared in disarray and confusion, as the portal continued to crumple, and the thunderous noise magnified. The wanderer extended his shaking arms towards the void, his eyes scrunched closed, his head turned away from the brilliant light.

As the last of the abyss that was Askarthe flowed into the phylactery, a last whisper entered his mind.

“You have chosen the way of hardship and strife. You shall be seen as cursed by the rest of your kind. Your only refuge shall be the in-between places. I shall be with you always, driving you on towards your destination. 

Through your previous thought and speech I understand the choice you made, and so you shall be sped on, our interests merging into one. Everything I have taken from the others that summoned me shall be with you. The burden shall grow, though perhaps you shall also.”

The wanderer placed the stopper back on the phylactery and opened his eyes. A tiny plume of smoke was the last sign of the presence of Askarthe outside of his new prison. He gazed down at the vial in his clenched fist.

It was the colour of deepest topaz, with a pentagonal base expanding with intricately intersecting lines to a wider top, with the bung made of silver-filigree at its top. He approached the table with the intent of putting it back into its holder, to regain his composure. 

To his surprise, when he opened his fist the vial remained. With horror, he shook his arm trying to shake it off. The phylactery grew cold as he banged it against the table, burnt to his skin. The freezing effect continued, until his entire hand was icy cold.

The implications of the binding they had performed sank in.

With a heavy heart, he raised the hood of his robe, and without looking back, passed through the arch at the end of the hall with a clenched fist with the essence of the Volkan deity.

He awoke, that is to say his eyes refocused on daylight and sunlight still burning down as it had for many an aeon, and with his chilled hand and arm providing a stark contrast to the warmth of his surroundings, he stood up.

He walked on, his mind reeling from everything he had witnessed. He passed through field after field, his mind assailed by images of himself in bodies he didn’t recognise, past lives, future lives. Glimpses of other experiences. Hours passed. He suddenly became aware of constrictions in his stomach, the first pangs of hunger he could remember since awaking.

With his newly developed hunger punctuating his failing energy, his walk was plagued by images of the Volk, their jungle temple and a shaman raising his staff towards a blood red sky.

Without knowing he had fallen and slept, he awoke disoriented, to the sound of birds and cicadas, the hum of jungle life. A slow running stream flowed beside him. He drank deeply and stood up, his body aching. He walked along the stream, for a time before arriving at a vast circular clearing.

It was clearly artificially created – the clearing itself seemed a perfect circle, housing three rising ziggurats. One dwarfed the others. He approached it, shielding his eyes from the now unobstructed glare of the Sun. Similar in appearance to the other two, it was comprised of a series of stone steps with a door carved into both the foot of the ziggurat and two thirds of the way up.

He walked to the door at the foot of the Volk’s temple, entered without breaking stride. The walls were coated with purple lichen, releasing a surprising fragrance that reminded him of a swamp’s fauna. The passage ran right through the ziggurat, the bright sunlight that filtered through the ends.

As he approached the centre of the passageway, he came to an ivory sarcophagus that had two braziers illuminating it. He looked down and noticed a bas-relief engraved on the lid. It depicted a fearsome looking Volk, eight feet long with ceremonial head-dress, two scimitars crossed over its chest in a gesture of death that reminded him of mediaeval custom. 

The Volk was bordered with glyphs that he could somehow translate – an epitaph of the Volk’s accomplishments, focusing on each one brought an image to his mind from its life.

One showed him holding a battle standard leading a battalion of soldiers against an unseen foe, another holding his arms above a prostrate Volk while bright light glowed around them.

 “The Chosen of the Volk” whispered a glyph. Steeling himself for whatever lay within, he pushed the lid open. It moved easily, as if on oil that had been carefully preserved for this purpose.

He pushed it enough to reveal blackness within. Taking one of the braziers from the wall, he peered in to the tomb. An ivory base shone back at him. Puzzled, he replaced the torch and retraced his way back to the entrance, then started to climb the narrow steps.

As he climbed, he tried to reflect on where he had been and what he had done to get him to this point. Images of the past rose, as did the susurrus of Askarthe within his mind. 

It spoke to him of future deeds as though he had already performed them, conflicting with images from one of his pasts, where he sat with fellow wanderers, swapping wisdom over the dying embers of a fire and a bottle of wine.

 He remembered hundreds of skeleton arms rising from the water. A man in a business suit smiling malevolently.

Meanwhile, the whisper of Askarthe told him the end of his journey was at hand, for good or ill, whatever his final choice was to be. Unification or annihilation. He glanced down at the phylactery fused to his hand; noticed it glowing in an oscillating blue and purple. Reaching the middle entryway, with the rising adrenaline of an animal that senses its end; he clenched his hand around the vial and proceeded into the temple once more.

The higher passageway ran straight through the temple as did the other, yet in the place of the sarcophagus was a crystal that dwarfed him, spinning in place, transfixed in a web of light. The voice of the deity was louder here, seeming to echo throughout the ziggurat, as well as through his mind.

“The last of my race. He has been suspended in time through a powerful working, your species allowing one last casting before eradicating the rest of my people. He must be freed, and the essence that you hold must transfer to him so we can repopulate. The crystal can only be deactivated by breaking the lights in sequence. Follow my instructions.”

The wanderer allowed his body to be guided by Askarthe, waving his arms, leaping through some lights, ducking and kicking at others. As he touched each light, it extinguished, releasing a series of tones that sustained. Continuing to pass through each light, the tones seemed to grow in harmonious volume, the music that began a lament, wordlessly decrying the death of untold millions.

Once the last of the lights was extinguished, the voice of Askarthe turned its voice to the music, adding its own formidable power to that stored in the temple. The crystal span faster, and as the music rose to a crescendo, it smashed into light, leaving a crumpled form on the floor.

The man gingerly approached the prostrate Volk. It was thinner than the others he had seen, prematurely aged compared to how it had appeared in his visions. Its strength had been sapped while it had been trapped in the crystal. He leaned over it, heard faint breathing, the bones in its chest rising and falling.

“You must take the body to the top of the ziggurat, then when I am released the ritual shall be performed and you shall be rewarded.”

Part of the wanderer still doubted his actions, the urge to strangle the life out of the frail Volk strong as the collective negativity that lurked within him. Yet he had felt the intent of this powerful deity, desperate as it may be. Should trust be a virtue he should exercise here? There was still time before he made the ultimate choice. With surprising ease, he picked up the Volk and returned to the outside of the temple.

He climbed the rest of the way to the summit, a narrow square where there was barely room for them both. He placed the enfeebled body on the floor. Askarthe once more spoke, though the voice had changed, it still contained the tones that had been released when the barriers of light broke.

“The time is at hand. Open the phylactery, release me and be at peace. Your quest is at an end.”

The traveller wiped sweat from his brow and surveyed the vista before him. The Sun was starting its descent in the sky, causing the jungle for leagues around to seem alive with vibrancy, a river winding to the horizon. He vaguely heard a small stone clack distantly down the ziggurat.

He was finally here, the culmination of all he had strived for. He could be released from the icy burden that had been attached to his hand for so much of his life. The relief he felt was tangible, yet a part of him was still wary. 

He tried to think of the ethics of the actions that had brought him to this point. The number of people who had suffered and died as a result of both him and his desire for power. Another part, reassuring, reminded him of the past positive effects he had in his lives, encouraging him on to complete his goal of so long.

The adrenaline he felt before returned, bringing with it a heightened sense of awareness. He felt the urge to finish get stronger, and reached for the stopper on top of the vial. In surprise, the god spoke in a booming voice.

“WAIT! There is another here, do not –“

Askarthe’s voice was cut off as a shadow suddenly loomed before the traveller. He whirled in time to see a rock brought down on his head, and he fell to his knees.

A familiar shape materialised from the shadow as his head spun. A bald head grinned wickedly, with blackened eyes that danced with glee.

It leapt to the wanderer, encircling his arm with one hand, reaching for the phylactery with the other. He tried to fight back, blood trickling down his forehead, blinding one eye. 

His opponent seemed to have a strength supernatural, snapping his right arm like a twig. As the traveller barked in pain the shadowed figure leaned closer at its moment of victory.

“I have waited for you. Your successes have brought you to the appointed place, where I have been sleeping, trance-tracking your progress.

 As I told you when we first met, your choice of knowledge has brought you strife, and the power that you want to attain shall be mine, it is I who shall rule at Askarthe’s side!”

As the man of shadow placed his hand upon the seal of the phylactery, he felt the wanderer’s hand on top of his.

“To be the ultimate you must encompass the ultimate.”

Together they pulled the phylactery open. The wanderer screamed in agony as the vial detached itself. A beam of blue light shot to the heavens, as the tremendous energy of the stored deity once more was released on to the Earth.

The man of shadow, still grinning, reached his hands towards the traveller's eye sockets. “Before I become a God, I shall add your essence to my own. Be thankful I do not have time to draw your death out as would befit such a thorn in my side.”

As the traveller’s rocked his head from side to side, he smashed the phylactery again and again in to the side of the lich's bald head, and the last of Askarthe left the phylactery, swirled above the combatant’s heads. The black and purple mass enveloped the setting Sun, casting a crimson glow on the land.

The presence soared back to the ziggurat, flooding into the prostrate Volk. Its body twitched and spasmed, as its muscles regrew and it regained its former stature.

The figure that had been doggedly awaiting the wanderer noticed the Volk, seemingly for the first time, and pushed the traveller’s head into the stone. “No!” it bellowed. “It is I who should be the new avatar of Askarthe!”

It stood and moved its head in front of the Volk’s, trying to absorb the power for itself. It swallowed some of the black energy that was descending from the sky, transfixing the dark other. It convulsed with new-found power, as thunder cracked, booming across the expanse of the jungle.

The traveller, holding his head, sat up and flexed his hand for the first time in what seemed lifetimes. Bones cracked, and he wiped away the blood, restoring his vision. As he watched, the last of the tornado of black energy flowed into the Volk and the other figure before returning to the clouds. The wanderer rose to his feet, moaning.

“This…this was supposed to be my reward.” He slumped visibly. His attacker had fallen to one knee, digesting the new power and his heightened awareness while the Volk turned to him, sheathing his scimitars in scabbards strapped to his back.

“Askarthe promised you reward, and that you shall have.” It hissed. “The Avatar of Askarthe shall rule this world as moderator. The prophecy has been fulfilled. Whereas before our kind were fighting each other for dominance, now we shall be united under the demiurge of Askarthe. 

Your deity, having created you shall remain silent and absent until the knowledge of good and evil is complete, and your species matches it in power. Regard yourself, Jay. Look at the other form before you, stare into its eyes and see the reflection of the abyss.”

He looked over at the other figure, convulsing on one knee as the power of Askarthe grew within him. The Volk gestured towards him and as it did he rose and approached the wanderer.

“Where were we?” it smiled, as it's hands shot out and grabbed Jay’s throat.

The Volk moved on its prehensile tail towards the two, watching intently. Jay flexed his neck against the attack and stared into dark eyes.

“Embrace the shadow.” The voice of Askarthe’s avatar struck them both.

As his windpipe started to crack and his eyes began to bulge, inky blackness started to haze from his opponents eyes to his own.
The tendrils flowed through his eyes and began questing through his head to the brain. He remained transfixed as the memory of their first encounter together resurfaced in his mind. The fire crackled as they sat cross-legged opposite each other, the shadows encroaching, dancing towards the flame.

As the memory of their previous confrontation continued, Jay lifted his arms, and with great difficulty pulled himself towards the nameless other, wrapping his arms around him. The tendrils continued to lock their eyes together as they both struggled to maintain their equilibrium.

The Volk lifted his hands above the heads of the two men, moving his fingers to an unseen rhythm. A purple light flickered into existence above their heads, while various colours responded from their spirits. 

Jay’s seemed of a lighter hue, whereas the other’s had a darker shade to them. The shaman, holding his arms outstretched, raised his face to the sky and with a guttural scream of benediction clasped his hands together.

A flash of lightning struck the ziggurat from the heavens, shattering the plinth at the top and the red clouds started to leak their contents. Man, Lich and Volk alike were flung in different directions. They flew to a standstill, as if hitting an invisible wall and froze in mid-air.

As the crimson rained down around them, two plumes of black smoke rose from the broken top of the temple, spiralling towards the sky.

The voice of Askarthe raised itself above the deafening sound of the rain.

“Now, while you are fully charged with the extremes of my power, shake off your human husks and as spirits unite.”

Two bolts of lightning struck the other ziggurats, with red and yellow plumes billowing out of them respectively. The paralysis that froze the wanderer and his dark counterpart broke, and they looked about themselves, taking in their new position, bobbing many metres above the ground. The voice resounded inside them and they turned to face each other anew.

They locked eyes once more. The Volk shaman moved his hands in a circle, weaving the energy the multi coloured plumes of stored Volkian essence, to coalesce around them in a field of energy.

Meanwhile, the jewel from the Temple had risen from it's thousand-year resting place and flew to the other ziggurats, collecting the red and yellow energy that the breaking of the phylactery had released upon this planet. Then it floated to where Jay and the Lich had lay locked, their spirits spinning in a tandem of negating the other.

A rumbling voice moaned in pleasure from the sky as it sensed its imminent rebirth upon the world. The two travellers, acting as one, leaned away from each other mentally, and the distance between them increased. After a point, like two duellers, they stopped, paused and then flung themselves horizontally at each other.

With arms extended, they sped on, one hand flat, the other fisted. The rumble increased in volume, the collection of energy now encompassing all three ziggurats. As they passed once more into the energy field, it absorbed into them at a rapid rate, until they crashed into each other, causing the energy to multiply in power as it's sphere of influence grew.

Jay’s other side pushed into his hands, their eyes still locked, unblinking. He went through his arms, head, and body until they were completely immersed in one another. The last of the multi-coloured energy flew into Jay and his body gave one final convulsion before plummeting to the ground. 

He regained his composure and stood up, casting his gaze to the smouldering summit of the ziggurat. The Volkian shaman still levitated nearby, his arms now motionless. 

Jay could feel his head vibrate with energy, dimly aware of the previous emotions when Askarthe had been summoned, he felt the same urges, only at once tempered by his humanity, while equally needled to perform the opposite by the shadow self he had absorbed. 

Thoughts raced through him, seeking out his thoughts and desires. Was he the same person? Could he still dam the flood that had been contained in a separate vessel?

While lost in self-contemplation, the shaman floated towards him. The vision that had at first incited him to fear now seemed familiar, as if a long lost friend had returned. Its tail curled as it settled on the stony clearing in front of him.

“So here we are.”

The Volk unstrapped the harness on its back, let the swords fall to the ground.

“Walk with me.”

The Volk set off, towards the further side of the clearing and Jay walked along besides. As they walked, he tried to engage the shaman in conversation, yet no reply was forthcoming. 

He returned to his thoughts. It was true that he felt stronger now than he had in years, his previous weaknesses augmented by the opposite force he consumed. The invigoration had not seemed to have changed his soul; he still felt the initial attraction or repulsion that he had always felt to the presence of a thought.

They reached the edge of the consecrated ground and re-entered the jungle. The Volk seemed to have no trouble traversing the ground, rising and falling over obstacles with ease while Jay clambered to keep up. Its speed caused Jay to practically jog while the Volk slithered along, not even raising its arms to move aside branches, instead bending at the waist.

Despite the new energy coursing through his veins, after many hours the travail took its toll. The Volk eventually noticed his laboured breathing and pointed to the ground. Jay sat, and the shaman left him. He leant back against a tree, his grateful body relaxing its aching muscles. His eyes flickered, then closed.

When he reopened them, the Volk had returned. It had brought back dry branches and had started a fire. He assumed that this was for his benefit, as the shaman itself was coiled some distance away, on a handmade bed of leaves.

“My village is not far from here. Though it has long since lain dormant, I would prefer to keep the memory of it as it was in my mind, with my race living in harmony with the jungle. Although the sight of it abandoned shall only strengthen my resolve to carry out my appointed task.”

“What is your task?”

“The earlier transfusion must still be adapting within you. In time you shall know.”

Jay grunted, his stomach responded likewise. The shaman rose to its full height. “You are still unfamiliar with your surroundings. Until you can be taught to forage for yourself, I shall provide your nourishment.”

The Volk made two trips, each returning quickly. One with a selection of fruits and insects, the second with a bowl full of water constructed from sap glued leaves. The water was surprisingly sweet. “I thank you. How did you get so much water so quickly?”

“There are certain vines that store water, I recognise them by scent, and you shall have to either develop this sense or devise methods of your own.”

Feeling slightly admonished, he ate and drank his fill. His riposte completed, he stared at the Volk sat opposite him. It regarded him with dark eyes, inscrutable in their depth. They looked at each other, two ancient species with a history of bloodshed, sat seemingly at peace after the vast epoch of conflict between them.

Jay had started to shiver, cold beads of perspiration running down his face. The shaman moved over to him and placed a similarly cold clawed hand on his brow.

“The change continues. It will not be easy for you; the change shall affect the very fabric of your being. I can alleviate some of the physical symptoms, though the effects on the mind shall be a personal conflict with the essence, both Volkian and dark you have imbibed.”

Reaching to a small pouch looped around his waist, the shaman removed a clutch of herbs and placed them on a piece of bark. Taking a small flaming twig from their fire, he moved it to the herbs and ignited them, wafting them under Jay’s nose. 

They had a strong scent, yet not unpleasant. Slightly metallic behind a perfume that reminded him of a souk he had visited, with its conflagration of various spices that assaulted the senses. The memory resurfaced in his mind as the effects of the herbs began to send him once more into a healing sleep. 

As he lost consciousness he felt part of him leave his body, and he travelled once again.

While transitioning, his thoughts continued. No destination in mind, he wondered if the places he visited were previous incarnations, an earlier time in this life, or a simultaneous existence elsewhere. Waves of multicoloured light flowed through him, each bar of light speeding him on.

As he flowed forwards, the voice of the shaman continued to urge him onward.

“While we travel in this realm, our astral presences can merge. As a new herald of the aeon, the demiurge of your race, whose shadow you have already imbibed shall coalesce with myself and Askarthe.”

The beams of light flickered faster, then converged in to a single point of light, surrounded by endless dark.

“This is it. The focal point of creation. The end of all things, and their beginning. Stare into creation.”

The traveller did as he was bidden and he began to see elements and gases flow together, creating spirals, spheres and other geometric shapes. “Universe” A voice intoned. He stared deeper, the forms doubling, then quadrupling, multiplying at a dizzying speed.

His presence, the three-in-one; that of his humanity, the dark demiurge and the Volkian deity; focussed on a spiral. “Galaxy”. He pushed further, spheres of light dancing around his vision (“Star”), and with a thought seven spheres incarnated themselves around one of them.

“Planet”. Tumultuous waters parted as earth formed from particles dredged from the core. Volcanoes formed, erupted, then became dormant. A barren wasteland nestled towards the centre of the planet.

“Here. It shall be here.”

The Volkian aspect came forward, encircled a part of the wasteland with an energy field. It accelerated time within it, creating a lush and fertile garden. An image flashed before his human side – that of a man and woman, the work of the previous creator.

“This age there shall be unity.”

Using the same ingredients as before, though in different measurements, a creature was formed. The traveller recognised the human parts as well as the Volkian. Both sexes; elongated, clawed hands; a prehensile tail. They spoke to their creation as one.

“You shall have the totality of our attributes. All that is in us, is in you. You shall become everything.”

They thought, and as they did creation bloomed within the garden. Creatures of all shapes and sizes roamed. The human aspect thought - “Where did we go wrong before? How were we mistaken?” The demiurge aspect replied.

“There was no mistake, merely a gradual change from the time of one universe to another. This too shall be imperfect, yet perhaps an improvement on the previous. Our first creature contains all of our attributes – love, hate – every conceivable emotion. It should not have a name. It should not have language. It should not hold dominion over the others in the garden.”

The aspect of Askarthe spoke. “When the time is right, when it has achieved potential, it shall be duplicated and the energy field shall be dropped, and the race shall once more expand from the humblest of beginnings until it expands to fill the entire universe. Each step forward in its knowledge shall be a diminishment of us, as it distances itself from its creator, yet we shall watch in joy as the cosmic plan progresses.”

The human willed the other two presences away with it, and they were back at the focal point of creation, zoomed out to an astronomical scale so the entire universe was once more naught but a single white spark. The demiurge and Askarthe swirled around the form of the human.

“Should we create again? We should extinguish everything now, and for all time. There would be the bliss of the void.” The demiurge spoke.

“You are blind! Life must exist! We must become One, not Zero!” Askarthe replied. “Through totality we can achieve everything there is to achieve at all times! Perfection should be strived for!”

The human considered everything he had known in a infinisimal fraction of a second. A paradox formed.

“We must be the same yet different. The solution is not yet available. The choice is made. The quest shall begin anew, with a symbol to guide sentient life. Our efforts have not been in vain. We have recreated, now let us expire.”

Collectively, they exhaled, and the previous universe collapsed, giving its total essence into their new creation.

Epilogue

At last, the moon was right.

Shielding the world from Betelgeuse, when Wormwood was in its ascendant, it simultaneously protected the world while nurturing the souls of the Earth with its luminescent balming glow.

One man stood on a isolated hillside, staring up at the green-tinged star that currently reigned over the heavens. He watched as the star seemed to fade almost to complete invisibility before shining back with renewed vigour, perhaps signalling its hostile intent to the rest of the cosmos. He looked over at his sleeping camel, the beast that had carried him so far.

His tail swished in the sand beneath him as he eagerly thought of where the next day would take him. His clawed hand gripped the staff that was welded to his hand tightly, and he reflected on the significance of the two carved figures that spiralled round the centre of it, before waking his beast of burden from its slumber, and travelling on.

05/12/14

For my family, who have always supported me.