Stories of H Merrill

The fire crackled softly, brilliant dances of orange and red lighting the forest under the new moon. Two men sat by the fire, strangers to each other but only one a stranger to the road. Their voices broke through the silent shadows.

“Where are you headed? You must have good reason to travel the forest road especially so near the end of season,” one of them said, turning to the other.

“I’m going to Walden. I hope to apprentice there. Bloodhearth has seen a poor season; blight killed most of the crop, so I left. I’ve lived there my entire life, but I had to leave,” he responded.

“But the forest road can be dangerous, have you not heard of the Graven?”

“With the little food I have, I wouldn’t make it the round way. And the Graven have dwindled away since Dythenya was killed and any left after that were killed when Harlan ended the Varatus Rebellion. I have more fear for brigands and robbers than rogue wizards and necromancers.”

“I would not be too sure about the Graven. Dythenya was only First of the Graven and not all were participants in the Varatus Rebellion,” the first said softly.

“And yet you travel this road unescorted. Do you not fear the Graven?”

“Why would I fear that which I control, that which makes me what I am,” the first man questioned. “Behold me: Jorun, Second of the Graven.”

The man’s eyes widened with the realisation of his doom. Jorun removed the glove from his left hand and the hood from his face, showing the mark on his palm and the runes patterned down his body; he thrust his hand onto the head of the now cowering man. The stench of burning flesh overpowered the smell of the fire; screams replaced the soft crackle. The man clawed at Jorun’s forearm in vain as the cloth of the long coat stripped away revealing the barbed chains underneath. Jets of violet shot out around Jorun’s palm. He let the man fall to the ground, the flesh had been stripped from his forehead showing the branded mark of Mordis, Visage of Death, on his skull. 

Jorun stepped around the fire and lifted the man’s head from the ground. “We are not finished yet. You see, the brand only works if you die, and I’m not going to wait for that to happen,” Jorun said, drawing a knife from his belt. 

The man could only let out a small cry before Jorun plunged his knife into his throat. 

“Rise my friend and banish thoughts of death. Through this mark, I have given you a new and everlasting life without death, and though your flesh shall rot and your eyes be plucked by the crows, you shall not fall until the brand is broken.”

The man stood, blood pouring from the knife wound onto the grass below, his eyes empty and his skin fading to a pale grey. Jorun sheathed his blade, placing his hand on the man’s open wound. A crimson light flashed briefly as Jorun drained any remaining life from the husk before him. 

Jorun took a deep breath and sat to stoke the fire. “Your woes have given me new purpose. I will finally be able to continue my experiments,” he paused and looked over at a glinting of steel on the lifeless man’s finger, “and you will help me get there.” He tore the ring from the man’s finger. “A sparking ring. This may have enough magic energy to open a portal to its origin, no doubt your town. When I complete the ritual circle and open a portal, we travel to Bloodhearth.” 

The morning sun rose, trees casting long shadows in the dawn light. Jorun finished the final marks on the portal circle and carefully placed the ring in the centre. “It is time,” he said. Shouting an incantation, he drove his palms into the ground at the edge of the circle. It burst to life, swirling energy enveloping the ring and shaking the ground. The sparking stone embedded in the ring shattered and a stream of energy shot into the air. Slowly a rift began to form a tear in the fabric of the world. The torrenting energy died, leaving behind the opened portal. 

Jorun inspected his work. “Come friend, there is much work to be done.” 

The shambling husk followed as Jorun stepped into the portal. 

The townspeople of Bloodhearth gathered around the unearthly rift that had torn apart the abandoned arcanist’s shop, some in awe at the sight, others with their rusted iron weapons drawn in fear. A hooded figure emerged from the portal, followed by a recognizable man. 

“Max, is that you,” one of the villagers cried, “my gods what has happened to you?”

“What did you do to him,” another shouted at the hooded figure.

“I have given him eternal life,” he responded.

One of the men of the village charged him, sword raised. Jorun stepped aside, avoiding the blade, then planted his left palm firmly on the man’s head. The air filled with the smell of searing flesh as Jorun burnt the mark into the skull, bursts of violet shooting from under his hand. The others cowered in fear and shock.

Jorun drew his knife and pushed it deeply into the man’s throat. Jorun let him fall to the dirt, blood still pouring from the wound. 

“One more has been given a great gift. Who shall step forward to receive it?”

“You—degenerate—fuck,” one of the villagers spat at Jorun, rushing Jorun with his blade in the air.

“You insult me. Do you believe yourself in a position to do so,” Jorun asked.

The man swung his sword down; Jorun stepped to the side. Again, the man swung in a wide arc towards Jorun. Once again, Jorun stepped to the side, this time catching the back of the man’s blade. 

“This rust has made your iron brittle,” Jorun said. There was a flash of white light and the blade shattered.  

The man’s shock was replaced with pain as Jorun branded him as he had the others. Jorun drove his knife, still coated in blood, into the man’s neck. Blood pooled at his feet.

Watching the other villagers flee in terror, Jorun unraveled the chains from his wrists and whipped them forward. The ground shook and exploded around the villagers, knocking them to the ground. Their houses burst, raining shards of rotted wood down on the earth. 

“I have come bearing the gift of eternal life and yet you cower and run,” Jorun shouted. He walked over to the nearest villager and knelt next to her, “why do you fear immortality?”

“What—what are you,” the woman asked, stuttering between each word. 

“I am the Terminus, the gate to ascension,” Jorun replied.

“Fucking Exaltationist,” a man dressed in vestments yelled, “nothing but arrogant bastards. Thinking you can surpass the Gods is heresy.” He fell to his knees, clutching his side. 

Jorun looked over. “A priest,” he said, standing and approaching the kneeling man, “fitting that you kneel before me, abandoned by your gods.”  

“I will not give you the satisfaction of turning me into one of your monsters,” the priest said, drawing a knife from his belt and thrusting it into his chest. “My soul will be renewed in the Endless Maelstrom. Seila take me,” he said through coughs of blood. 

“A worthless effort,” Jorun dragged the priest’s body over to the woman on the ground. “Even in death his flesh is of use to me,” he removed his right glove, showing a different mark.  Jorun placed the hand on the woman’s head; a quick flash of yellow followed. Her eyes glazed over, a spectral crown of thorns emitting from the yellow mark on her forehead. Jorun then turned to the priest’s corpse, and branded him with his left hand. He stood and admired his work before driving his palms into the dirt. Jets of violet and yellow shot out around the two bodies on the ground; the swirling energy surrounding their forms. When the light faded, a mass of limbs and flesh stood before Jorun. Its wails faded to silence as its eyes dimmed to a dull grey.  

“You are the greatest of my works,” Jorun said to form before him, “an amalgam of flesh—of life and death.” 

The mass before him did not respond, only stared blankly ahead. 

Jorun, satisfied with his work, approached the other villagers who had attempted to gather themselves together; their sullen faces wet with tears and heads hung low.

“Make sure they don’t try to run again,” Jorun ordered his thralls. They rushed forward and positioned themselves behind the villagers. Jorun spoke, now addressing the villagers: “Bloodhearth will now serve my will. Any who wish to leave will be branded like your friends here,” he gestured to the undead figures standing behind them. Jorun came to the nearest villager and lifted his head. “These wounds will heal.” 

Planting his right palm on his head, Jorun marked the man with a spectral crown, “now you will serve my will without revolt.” Helpless, the other villagers submitted, one by one, to Jorun. 

The morning sun dimmed with dark clouds rolling in from the sea; any light now came from marks on the villagers’ heads, casting grotesque shadows on the blood stained ground.