Covenant

All power has a price

Why are you here? There’s no treasure left in this fortress, the other adventurers have picked the place clean. Or perhaps you’re here to challenge me? All by yourself? Have a care, little adventurer. I am the Warlock of the Forbidden Cliffs, and I have crushed armies in my time. Look out the window of this tower – everything that can seen once belonged to me. None of it matters now, of course. But hundreds of arrogant little sell-swords like yourself have died mistaking my isolation for weakness.

You want my spellbook, is that it? Your silence speaks volumes. You’re after the secret of my power. I can name half a dozen Guilds, Colleges and Kingdoms that would gladly sacrifice worthless little mercenaries such as yourself for the ritual locked within this tome. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Even after all these years, it’s as intoxicating as ever, and just the touch if it thrills me beyond any flesh of some drab courtesan or captive damsel.

Step over here into the candlelight, let me get a good look before I crush you. Perhaps I’ll even let you have a last meal. I don’t get many visitors anymore, although the last one screamed for a good three days before I grew bored of her. Come, little sell-sword, let me see your face.

Sejanus?

Sejanus, is it really you?

No, it can’t be. I killed you… so long ago, in the Rovski Forest.

No, no, I see now. It’s not Sejanus at all. It’s you.

You’ve come to collect.

It’s only fitting, I suppose, that you should finally arrive wearing the face of my onetime friend. I haven’t been able to properly recall his features for decades now, but the sight of you – of him, rather – and the memories come flooding back.

Spare an old man a chance to tell his side of the story. After all, you’ve been waiting, what, sixty years? Seventy?

Still not a word, eh? Well, I’ll tell you anyway, I believe I have some time to kill. Time to kill, ha!

I met Sejanus when I was a young conjurer, barely into my twenties. Sejanus was a little older, and we teamed up with a handful of others to take on small contracts saving villages from bandits, gnolls and the like. Sejanus was good at handling a sword, I tell you. Could have been in a nobleman’s guard but he didn’t have the temperament to stand still at a gatehouse. No, he was like me. We wanted to be free, have adventures, woo young maidens, boast about our fighting skills.

Mostly we wanted to be rich.

I was pretty talented for my age at the craft of summoning. What do you expect from the Lord of the Forbidden Cliffs? I had natural talent, and had my little imps spying and snatching and stabbing my enemies in the back when I was just a boy. My little tools. My slaves. It was always important to remember that. The old witch-woman said so, what was her name now, the one who first taught me.

“Always remember this,” she ordered, summoning a little fairy in her hand, then crushing the life from it in front of me.

“This world is made of slaves and masters,” she continued. “Always be the master.”

I remember her fingers were stained blue from the fairy’s blood. Blue blood, did you know that?

Where was I? The war, yes, that’s what happened.

Sejanus and I quite enjoyed the war, there was so much work on offer. Old King Randolph had bungled a dispute with a neighbouring Kingdom, what was it now, a border squabble? Something about weapons smuggling? It hardly matters considering what happened as a result. The knights were summoned from their holdings, troops were levied, and all their usual work fell to mercenaries like Sejanus and I.

He always took the lead. Have you looked in a mirror? No, I don’t suppose that’s something a being of your type would consider. Sejanus was a handsome man, very popular with the ladies, especially when he walked into a tavern with a bag of gold and called the barrel-girl to pour everyone a drink. I wasn’t popular. All my gold went to buying spell books and scrolls, magical gems and other charmed trinkets. Less than half of them worked, and those that did were barely any use. Not that any village girl or merchant’s daughter would have given me the time of day, even if I had offered them the finest silks.

“Don’t worry, Roel,” Sejanus would say to me. “Just you wait. The moment their hovels are threatened by brigands or some hedge wizard they’ll be begging for your attentions.”

He was right, of course. This is the way of the world; people only pay attention if they need you – or if they fear you. Still, it grated on my nerves that Sejanus should have to console me. Summoning imps and fairies doesn’t carry the same nobility as being able swing a sharp piece of metal around, foes it? No, I was always second in line, picking up the scraps, and no woman would consider me desirable.

At least not yet.

The war was going badly for old King Randolph. What should have been a short, sharp strike to rout the enemy forces turned into a long, wrangling stalemate. An unwinnable meat grinder where all of those shiny, noble knights died in the mud next to the peasants. Finally, Randolph turned to the Secret Art, growing desperate enough to risk the taint of the magic he’d previously despised. I don’t know who it was that whispered in his ear – was it one of your kind, perchance? No? Regardless, the king learnt of a powerful warlock who had once been able to call on a legion of demonic soldiers. Merciless, unnatural, and strong enough to win the war.

The Warlock of Rovski Forest. Yes, I remember him.

At this point he was a half-remembered folktale, a warning whispered to novices of the Secret Art. He was immensely powerful, but lived in a cave deep within the forest. No-one had really seen the summoner in decades, but every party sent into the woods disappeared without a trace.

“Think of the money,” urged Sejanus to our small band. “Randolph will set us up for life. Besides, Roel here can handle another magician, no problem.”

I’m going to be honest, I had no expectation that I would be able to overpower a major warlock with imps and fairies, but I was happy to try and steal a few magic trinkets while the others walked into their doom.

I don’t really remember much of the warlock’s cave. I do recall skulls being used as torches, and room after room of magical traps. Sejanus and the rest of the party did pick up a few odds and ends that could fetch a profit in tbe markets, but nothing that I could use. Nothing that could make me stronger. That’s probably the reason why I was willing to risk entering the warlock’s personal chamber.

I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting; perhaps a grand throne room, adorned with golden statues and priceless artefacts. Perhaps a personal pleasure chamber; a mouth-watering banquet of food, music and eager flesh.

Instead we found a small bedroom, with the Warlock of Rovski Forest lying face down in the dirt. His body was, I don’t know, mangled, and his skin was grey as the stone walls around him. I always remember in particular how dirty his hair and hands were, I don’t know why. I also remember his face. It was twisted up in an expression of pure agony, locked in a final soundless scream as we turned him over.

Clutched in his twisted arms was a book.

Yes, that’s when I first laid eyes upon it; my one true love. Sejanus and the others were confused, scared. They were relieved that they didn’t have to face the all-powerful master of the Secret Art but didn’t understand what could have killed the warlock. It was I who first picked up the book cradled in the dead magician’s hands. The tome called to me, and as I opened its pages a thousand voices whispered to me of the power waiting to be called forth.

Sejanus of course snatched the grimoire from my hands.

“Well, we came for the secret of the old bastard’s powers,” announced. “Turn this in and we’ll have full bellies for years. Hell, old Randolph might even make us noblemen, what do’you say to that, eh lads?”

They all cheered, those stupid musclebound fools with their swords and scraps of pillaged armour. But my body was trembling, and I’d felt so deliciously, lustfully alive in my newfound desire.

I wanted that book. In that moment I think it’d been calling me my entire life.

As we took the warlock’s head and left the cave I offered to hold onto the tome for safekeeping.

“After all,” I argued. “It could still be booby-trapped. Don’t want to kill the King now, do we?”

Sejanus’ face screwed up in suspicion, but his fear got the better of him. Sejanus always nursed a secret mistrust of magic, just like every other blunt thug. I swear my hands shook every moment that I had to wait until nightfall. Finally, finally, when everyone was asleep, I had the chance to read my beautiful tome.

It was glorious.

I learnt more from that first hour of reading than I’d ever picked up in my entire life, and far more than that dried-up old crone who had trained me could ever hope for. By the time dawn came I had gotten at least the shape of it. The book was a guide to understanding a single spell – a ritual, really. By tearing open my understanding of the Infernal Lords, it could, in theory, allow me to forge a covenant for almost unlimited power.

There was a price, of course. There was always a price with the Secret Art, which is why it was so widely mistrusted.

But, I thought, watching the other mercenaries make breakfast, What does death matter after a long life if unlimited power? And why not risk your soul to Hell if the power might yet give the key to eternal life?

Oh, I felt the pull of it. The possibilities lingered on my mind like the taste of a fine wine when you’ve taken just a sip. I spent the next day beset by tantalising glimpses of the life I’d always wanted, away from the dirt and the toil and the insufferable fools I’d been forced to associate with. It may have been that the tome itself was tempting me, but in my heart I think I’d already made the decision.

As the sun fell and the group constructed their camp, I made my own preparations. I sent a pixie to fetch Senajus to me; fey folk have little understanding or concern for mortal plans, and I didn’t want to risk talking to Sejanus directly and betraying my ambitions with a nervous face.

“What’s going on here, Roel?” barked Sejanus as he stumbled into the clearing. “This damn sprite of yours has pestering me like-“

He stuttered to a halt when he saw the glowing symbols I had inscribed onto the ground in the centre of the clearing, the glowing, twisted sigils already writhing with anticipation. He looked at me in horror but there was simply nothing more to say. With a snap of my fingers the swordsman was attacked from all angles by a mob of imps and pixies, each chattering with bloodlust as they crawled over every inch of his skin.

He screamed. Oh, how he screamed. That stands out in my memory, even after all these years. I also remember how pale his handsome face was when I leant over his struggling body with my knife. His throat was so white, almost as if he were ghost – and then everything was red. I felt the heat of his frame, the blood spraying across my face as his body convulsed. A second later and it was done, his pale skin sprinkled with droplets of blood.

For a second everything was silent. The forest – no, the entire world, throbbed around me, and as I listened to my breath rattle in my chest I knew that this was no mere combat death. No, I had committed an act that fundamentally changed the nature of the universe. I had done something that could never be undone.

Then the power flowed into me. Oh, by everything that is unholy, it was like being borne anew. Even now, at the end if my life, I can still barely describe it. It was like being lifted up in the curve of a mountainous tidal wave, and yet also being the tidal wave. I saw every demon lord and fallen angel in their truest and most terrible form, and was marked by each of them. Then, when I returned to the blood and dirt of the forest clearing, I opened my eyes to a weak and fragile world that was mine to command.

Everything became a blur. The barely-sentient thugs I had travelled with burst into the clearing, shouting and swearing, but with the smallest flick of my fingers and they were buried under and army of demons, each stronger than anything they could have fought as a group. I was vaguely aware of their screams, but it simply didn’t matter. My mind was already expanding outward to encompass the meaningless war in which Randolph struggled, far to the north.

It might have been a sight to see when my army descended onto the battlefield. A legion of demon warriors riding fel beasts that were mix of bird, beast and drake, all screaming blasphemous war chants as they tore the soldiers limb from limb. I kept pushing my newfound power outwards, but no matter the number of twisted creatures I rained down onto the feeble armies below I could not find the limits of my potential. A war that had lasted the better part of a decade was over in less than a day, and I flew from my first great victory atop a winged demon that screamed insanity into all who beheld it.

Now that I think of it, old Randolph’s crown might still be out on that battlefield somewhere, buried under the rotten corpses of the king’s army. I certainly didn’t bother to pick it up – I had no use for such meagre trinkets. I moved my army with the haste of the damned, rounding on one city after another across both sides of the border dispute. I picked a handful of towns at random, ones that others would have known about, and simply unleashed the demons upon them. Those few who survived told the other settlements of the new power that had arisen, but every army that was raised against me was annihilated.

When I grew bored of the slaughter I realised I would have to pull my demons back. I had won; every major force that could have stood against me was lying dead on a battlefield, and those that remained were merely the villages and peasants. I could have stretched further, pushed my army across the entire continent, but you see, I wanted to enjoy what I had conquered. What’s the use of being the ruler if you can’t sit back and enjoy it, eh?

What, still no reply? Well I don’t suppose you would understand. I banished most of my demon army, keeping enough for retainers and as a palace guard. I seem to recall I had demolished Randolph’s castle for one reason or another, but it was almost effortless at that time to raise another, summoning the elementals of stone and fire to craft the cliff-side towers in which we now sit.

The villagers were too afraid to approach at first, but after a few demons appeared at town gates they soon sent a trembling emissary to meet with me. That was a source of satisfaction, I’ll admit. To see the village chiefs and town aldermen who had treated Sejanus and I like common servants, now grovelling before the obsidian throne and pledge their lives to my rule. Through it all the power still hummed through every fibre of my being, more ecstatic than any earthly pleasure I could compare it to.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from trying.

Banquets and festivals followed, where those who showed the most loyalty were showered with rewards while any who opposed me were tortured in the public square. Music, dancing, wine and any other drug my new allies could conceive of flowed like a river through these halls. And the women – oh the women! Where I once sat in the shadows and watched, now the beauties of each town were lined up for me to take my pick. You wouldn’t know about, would you? I doubt your kind enjoys such… amusements. I can barely remember sleeping for a full night during that period of my life.

But that wasn’t the only reason I couldn’t rest. Every night, before I could finally drop off into sleep, the darkness would be a reminder. A reminder that there was a debt to pay. That one day, I would have to face, well, you. At first I ignored these thoughts. After all, I was still young and full of power. But every morning I would rise from a tangle of warm sleeping bodies and feel exhausted. No, hollow. And there would be the little toady standing by the side of the bed, waiting with a long list of petitioners, emissaries or the names of villages who had declared rebellion against my rule. Revolting, wretched little dirt-farmers, every one of them. No matter how many villages were razed by my demon army, there was always some stubborn sword-swinger somewhere who thought they could stir up a rebellion.

But the more I crushed them the worse it became. The more I escaped into my pleasures of my palace the more extreme I needed my entertainments to be to blot out the growing fear in my soul. It wasn’t until I awoke to find that the last of my beauties had been broken that I realised how sickened I had become with the leeches I had surrounded myself with.

And through all this, I could feel this day drawing nearer. Every night, I tried not to sleep, wondering if my soul would be taken in the dark.

My days became a blur, despite my every effort to hold onto each crumb of time. I don’t really remember much from those days anymore. The most powerful, influential, richest time of my life, yet all I can recall are fragments of fear and loathing for tbe people around me.

I do remember the moment I stopped summoning demons at every turn. Some lackey, what was his name, can’t place it, was reading the list of the day’s endless supplicants and executions while I pulled myself out of an empty bed and looked for a bucket to empty my guts in.

I was trying to pull together my tangled locks when I noticed my first grey hair.

“Don’t worry my liege,” chimed in the lackey. “It gives you gravitas. After all, we’re all growing older, aren’t we?”

With a single snap of my fingers a hunting demon erupted from the air behind the grovelling fool and tore him to ribbons. That wasn’t what horrified me though; lackeys were still a dime a dozen at this point.

No, when the demon finished mauling the body it stopped and looked at me. It had blood dripping down it’s maw and talons, and it looked right at me.

It knew that one day it would be my turn.

With a scream I banished the monster back to its own realm, followed by every other creature under my command. I locked myself away in my chambers, feeling the hopelessness of my fate wash over me. I held my shaking bands up to the morning light and slowly checked every inch of my skin, and a tight little ball of pain in my chest grew heavier and heavier as I counted the spots, the scars and wrinkles.

From that day onward I emptied my halls, took no visitors, and ignored all conquests. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? I focused myself solely on the secret to eternal life, walking the length and breadth of my kingdom searching for answers. When my travels turned up naught but cleric’s empty promises or old wife’s tales I returned to my towers, pillaging my library, burning any book or artefact that was of no use to me. Escaping my fate became the only task that I could allow myself. I would awake in a cold empty room, and there would be this moment, this single blessed moment, where I was still gathering my mind and felt like any normal man. Then it would hit me. The memory of the Warlock of Rovski Forest, dirty and grey, lying mangled in his bedroom clutching the book. Thus every moment of my day was spent in feverish search for a way out of my covenant, and every night was spent wailing into the darkness fearing you would come.

Finally, I returned once again to my book, my precious tome that had granted me so much all those years ago. I read and re-read every phrase, teasing out every possible nuance. My old heart leapt painfully with every possible solution I devised, and each failure was a crushing weight that pushed me down into the darkness. I kept my lovely book with me at all times, and could not bear to be without it for a single second.

Surely, I thought. Surely my tome will reward the loyalty and dedication I have shown it?

But I think perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps, just perhaps, the book was already reaching out to its next great lover.

They came, every now and again over the years, creeping in the dark and empty halls and searching for something to steal. Petty little swordsmen and hedge wizards, testing my resolve and distracting me from my search. Any weakness would simply invite more intruders, but each battle terrified me to the core of my being. The demons – those terrible twisted beasts of flame and hooked claws. Each time I had to use them I felt the monsters pushing against my will, testing the strength of my control, thirsting for my blood.

Those stupid, greedy little adventurers. I’m not sure who sends them, you know – not that it matters now. I heard from some prisoner that Randolph’s grandson had reclaimed the throne, although I doubt it truly is the old king’s blood, probably just a pretender.

Things never really live up to expectations, do they?

Listen to me then, Sejanus, or whatever your name is. I don’t want to die.

Please. I’m- I’m begging you. Honestly, it’s all an old man can do not to wet himself when finally standing before his death.

I don’t want to go. I need more time; just a little more. I’m close to cracking the secret, I’m sure of it. Just a little more time, I beg you.

No, stay away. Stay away. I don’t want to go. I’m not ready yet.

I’m scared. I’m scared. Please, I don’t want to die.

No.

No!