Stories of H Merrill

Ash blistered his eyes as he moved through the desert. The inhospitable sky bore a red hue, as the sun shown through the clouds of sand stirred up by the wind. He could not tell the time of day, nor how far he had travelled; his legs were weakening, but still he trudged forward.

A shadow emerged in the distance, a structure, a village perhaps, he thought to himself. He quickened his pace, reinvigorated by the hope of rest. Soon, he came upon it, an empty hovel with no roof nor door, but still a shelter from the wind. Huddling against the wall, he buried his head in his arms, hoping for rest to pass the storm. 

When he awoke, the wind had calmed, and he rose to explore his surroundings. Around him, the ruins of a decaying village, the houses scorched by the flame of Anithrian; but those who lived here were carved before the flame, in the Crest of Blood by that Old Lord and his Decrepit Legion, his thoughts echoing a past long gone. Standing on the edge of the village, a chapel rose above the sand. “There may be some drink stored away in the undercroft,” his lips trembled as he spoke these words aloud, strained by his thirst. 

The pews were charred and broken, and light came only from the small slits high up the wall, the beams that shown through accentuating the age of the dust that hung in the air.  Grasping the crumbling pews, he stumbled towards an open door at the far end of the chapel. The stairwell was dim, and he cast a long shadow that darkened it even further. He felt for each step before moving, his body pressed up against the stone walls. Upon reaching the bottom, he fell to his knees. 

All around him, a continuing darkness. “With my little strength, I kindle this flame to light my way,” he spoke softly, blowing gently into his palm. A meagre flame rose to life in his hand. Before him no storeroom nor hallway, but a stone wall. “Nothing,” he cried, placing his palm upon the wall. 

“Wait—no. There is something carved into this wall. An illusion perhaps?” curiosity overcoming his weakness. His hands followed the lines cut into the wall. He backed away, thinking to himself out loud, “No illusion—a seal. In this, they must have sealed themselves away hoping to hide from being carved by the Crest of Blood.” He paused briefly, then continued without speaking, no, this seal can only be broken from this side. Whatever it may be, I don’t have a choice. I die here or find hope beyond this wall. 

He once again placed his hand on the wall, gathering what strength he had left, “The power bestowed upon this land by the Old Lord shall come forth to my hand. Shatter all that is before me.” The wall burst with light, blinding him and throwing him to his back. When his eyes opened, he was met with curious eyes surrounded by red fur. A fox, he thought. “What are you? Why were you sealed away?” questions he knew this beast could not answer. He sighed and stood to peer around the fox into the room beyond.

As he stood, the fox’s fur shed, revealing a pale skin beneath. Its paws stretched out, reshaping into humanlike hands. Its body contorted and rose onto its hind legs. No longer did a fox stand before him, but a being with red hair and a long flowing robe. The being bowed deeply, a kind smile plastered across their face, “I am Aziriel. Long have I awaited your arrival.” 

“You were waiting for me—but this place is older than I. That seal was older than I.”

“It is true, I was sealed away before the Crests were carved. But mine eyes could see past the seal. I saw Anithrian, the Old Lord, the Unborn Plague, ravage this land, taking the corpses of this village for his legion. Mine eyes saw the rise of kings, the fall of the Howling Walls, the conquests of the warlord, Kuzon—and they could see you as well. They could see you, Shijin, last of the Priests of Ash, wanderer of Faerloren; they could see you break my seal,” Aziriel stared directly into Shijin’s eyes, their kind look replaced with a malicious grin. 

Shijin felt his heart swell with fear. His lips could only quiver.

Aziriel continued, “you broke the seal. For that, you must be rewarded. Your journey has left you weary, has it not?” 

Shijin stuttered, barely finding his voice, “m-my service would be to you, if you could but take from me my hunger and thirst.”

“Then it will be done,” Aziriel said, clasping the neck of the pathetic figure before them. “I take from you your hunger, your thirst. No longer will you feel these pains, no longer shall you have need of food or drink,” Aziriel paused, the malicious grin still stretching across their face, “but only by the blood of your fellow man shall your stomach feel full.” With those final words, they thrust Shijin onto the floor.

Shijin grasped at his stomach. Whatever fluid and bile had remained in his stomach spilled onto the stone. “What is this? What have you done to me?”

Aziriel did not break that horrific grin, “I have poured forth my gratitude for releasing me from this prison—as you asked, I took your hunger and thirst away from you in exchange for your service, and now I call you forth to serve me.” 

Shijin rose to his knees, his movements not his own.

“I have but one task of you, Shijin,” Aziriel placed a finger under Shijin’s chin and ran a thumb along his cheek, lifting his head to meet that sadistic gaze. “You will free me from this plane. End the progeny of those that sealed me here, for it is in their blood that I am bound.”

“And how must I do this?” Shijin’s voice quivered with every word.

Aziriel took the hand from Shijin’s throat and ran it through his thick, slightly greying hair. “I will guide your hand. Come.” They pushed Shijin to the side and swept past him. Aziriel’s body once again contorted, the robe shrivelled away and the hands were replaced with the paws of the fox. It looked back at Shijin. Despite its small frame and slender face, its dark eyes had a commanding presence, and Shijin could not help but follow. 

A stale silence hung over the chapel, no breeze nor breath could shift the ash and sand. Shijin’s eyes stung under the harsh light of the desert sun. While he no longer felt the fatigue of hunger or thirst, his stomach felt starved, and his mouth was parched in the dry air. He trailed behind Aziriel’s fox form, every step sinking into the sand. Despite the heat stinging his lungs, he could not break himself from the fox. Words of malice echoed in his mind in a voice not his own, bleed the wretched child. He travelled through the night following close behind Aziriel. 

Desperately wanting to shake the words echoing in his head, he spoke, “where do you take me?” 

The fox paused and turned to Shijin, its soulless eyes piercing into his mind. The echoing ceased, replaced with a softer tone, we travel to an oasis—there, that time, long ago, I entered this plane. 

“What were you called there for? This is no place for a creature of your status.”

An old fool, Bulard, called upon the Blazing Harem of my Worship’s Dominion of Chaos. The coward could not raise a blade against his brothers, instead seeking Chaos to remain guiltless in the eyes of his peers. The fox turned away and continued onward, but the voice did not end in Shijin’s head. I hunted the last of my prey to that village, and there I was deceived and sealed. 

Visions of the chapel before the ash and fire poured over Shijin. 

The door to the chapel was surrounded by men clad in rough leather armour, each brandishing ill kept blades. One of them stepped forward and shouted, “you will not have Ilric. Take one more step, demon, and we will bleed you dry.”

Shijin responded in the voice of Aziriel, “you can not stop the will of Chaos.” Within an instant, Aziriel had pushed the rusted blade to the side and had a hand around the man’s neck, the force of the movement shook the sand and threw dust into the air. The man’s head burst into flame, his skin melting from his skull. Aziriel pushed the corpse aside and reached for the door. 

A shard of stone pierced through Aziriel’s chest. A shout soon followed, “step beyond that holy threshold and I will send you back to Chaos myself.”   

Aziriel turned to face this nuisance, withdrawing the stone and tossing it aside, skin sealing itself beneath their flowing robes. Before Aziriel stood three masked figures, clad in scaled armour and pointed helms. Their violet cloaks stood in contrast to the red of the desert sands. 

“And who are you to deny the will of Chaos,” Aziriel scorned. 

“My name is of no concern to you, demon,” the commander pointed his blade towards Aziriel, “Know order. Know fear. Know death.” His flanking cohorts echoed the words in unison. 

A grin stretched across Aziriel’s lips, “Perhaps I’ll have a little fun.”  With bared teeth Azriel rushed towards the armed group. 

No iron nor flesh filled their hands, their arms only swinging at empty air. The sword fell across Aziriel’s shoulder, cutting deep into the bone. Aziriel could feel the sting of the blade’s magic, thick blood oozing onto the iron.

Aziriel snarled, “This sting is of the Dominion of Order. You serve a master more ruinous than my own.” Aziriel thrust a fist towards the commander. Its force splintered the scaled iron, bringing him to his knees, coughing up blood. “You will not strike me again,” Aziriel commanded, lifting the blade from the wound. The sting of the blade still felt in their shoulder. 

The commander’s cohorts charged towards Aziriel. With raised palm, and uttering demonic words, an inferno burst forth, engulfing one of the cohorts. Aziriel turned towards the other, their demonic gaze shifting the other’s look of haste to that of fear. The other’s blade began to glow and he threw the searing metal to the ground.

“You asked my name,” the commander coughed, looking up at his enemy.

Aziriel looked back at him but remained silent.

The commander continued, struggling to his feet, “I am Baethir of Clan Nazorim.” He spit blood onto Aziriel’s open wound. “And you, Aziriel the Beguiler, Andras of the Blazing Harem, will not sow chaos in this world.” 

Aziriel’s eyes widened. That name, seldom murmured by those of the Living Universe, chanted in their mind with the quickening pace of their heart. Confidence dropped from Aziriel’s face, and turning back towards the chapel. Hearing the whispers of Baethir behind, Aziriel paused briefly.

“By my blood, by your blood, I, Baethir of Nazorim, bind you to me in the name of the Dominion of Order until those of my line no longer walk this plane.” Baethir paused, sputtering up blood, “your quarry is within the undercroft, seek him there and meet your end.”

Aziriel breathed heavily, rage boiled their blood. But ignoring the warning, they continued into the undercroft, finding Ilric cowering against stone. They stepped towards him, raising a hand and beginning the demonic utterance.

Baethir had followed. “Stop there, demon, you will not harm him” he commanded. 

Their lips no longer finding a voice to call forth their spells, Aziriel sighed and knelt down in meditation. “My worship will soon free me from this pact and your world will know only fire.” he chafed. 

Baethir addressed Ilric, “flee this place.” Then returning his attention to Aziriel, he spoke with a commanding presence, “Chaos will have no sight here.” With those words, he bowed his head and began chanting under his breath. 

“I will find you and all that share your blood. Those of Nazorim will be sanctified by the flame of Chaos,” Aziriel said, their unblinking eyes fixed on Baethir.

As Baethir finished his utterances, walls of stone rose around Aziriel, sealing them away. 

The visions faded away with the rising stone, but Aziriel’s voice was still firm in Shijin’s mind, I watched the clan Nazorim spread its blood—but now, after fire and plague, only one remains. Bleed the wretched child.

Shijin responded, still regaining awareness of the present, now in his own voice, “I will do as you desire, if only to rid me of this curse.”

Not a curse, but a gift. One you will soon understand. 

They crested the final dune and looked over the village of the oasis. I will remain among the sand here, but I will watch through your eyes. 

Shijin stumbled down the sand, still fatigued by his travels. He was greeted by wary stares as he entered the village. Straightening himself, and feigning a look of confidence, he strode to the village hall. He burst through the central hall, and all heads turned towards him. 

He took a deep breath, and then spoke with authority, “As a Priest of the Altar of Ash, I seek he who carries the blood of the clan Nazorim.” 

He was met with blank stares. A silence hung in the air, only broken by a stray shout, “No one of king’s blood lives here, take your stench of plague elsewhere.” 

Shijin reiterated, ignoring the insult, “I know that one among this village is of the clan Nazorim, whoever brings them to me will be rewarded.”

“We don’t want no more death worship here,” the same shouted again, throwing his clay cup.

It shattered across Shijin’s face. He felt the sting of pain as it cut into his cheek, but, placing his hand on the wound, he felt no blood. The pain quickly faded and he began to chuckle to himself. “You dare to strike a Priest of Ash?”

“Bulard, you fool,” another villager struck the first across the head, “what have you done?” she turned to Shijin,  “Please sir, he is but a drunkard.” 

Shijin felt sharp pain in his head from the name, but carried on. “Find me the blood of Nazorim and I will spare your dim witted friend and this village from the wrath of the Altar of Ash,” Shijin commanded.  

A woman, hunching with age, stood and carried a cup to Shijin, “Please sir, have drink and rest, I will bring whom you seek.” 

The pain in Shijin’s head returned, sharper than before. He winced and struck the cup from her hand. “Just,” he paused, bringing his head to his hands. Speaking in a strained voice, he continued, “just—bring him to me.” 

She nervously nodded, and continued past him into the sun. He followed her into the square, stopping to wait by the well. His eyes darted back and forth between the suspicious stares of those in the distance and the few villagers who had followed him from the hall.

After some time, she returned, a younger man by her side. 

“What do you want with me?” He queried Shijin.

“I beg of you, do not hurt him. Just take him and go from this place,” the woman pleaded.

Shijin could feel the boil of Aziriel’s malice and only saw relief in front of him. In silence, he knelt down, took a  sharp stone from the ground, and cast it with enchanted force. 

It stuck the young man in the neck, and he slumped over, falling against the well, blood spewing into the water. The woman was frozen with fear. With the young man’s final breath escaping him, Shijin collapsed to the ground, gasping for air as the sting of malice withdrew from his mind.

Looking upon his victim, he was enraptured by the crimson flow, and could not turn his gaze. He licked his lips in anticipation. Several villagers began to rush at him, stopping as a fox stepped between them. Once again, Aziriel contorted into their human-like form. The villagers flinched at the site. They stood, arms outstretched, and head held towards the sky, “once more I can feel the comforting gaze of Chaos.” They took a deep breath, subtle flames visible on the exhale. Aziriel turned towards Shijin and helped him to his feet. “Drink,” they commanded, “I can see that lust for its taste,” gesturing to the corpse’s open wound.

Shijin timidly followed the order, stumbling forward and wrapping his lips around the seeping cut, letting the sharp metallic flavour cascade along his tongue. It invigorated his body, the gash on his cheek mending and any pain washing away from his body. The blood filled his belly and he felt—power. He leaned back, letting blood spill from his mouth and down his robes.

Aziriel laid a hand on Shijin’s head, “Is the taste of king’s blood not the sweetest?” 

“Get away from him, plague-filth,” Bulard shouted.

The voice drew Aziriel’s attention. “You have quite the unfortunate name,” they sneered, “although you seem to be less of a coward.” Aziriel looked to Shijin once more, “You have done exceptionally. Take this gift and do with it what you will. Flee or join my wrath, I care not, for soon I return to Chaos.” They turned back to Bulard, “but first I must exorcise these unshackled limbs.”

Shijin looked upon Aziriel and the villagers, wiping blood from his mouth. He first thought to flee, and let the demon ravage the land, but even with his thirst satiated, he wanted more. He wanted to feel power. His lust for that sanguine taste had overcome his mind. Now before him, he saw only flesh and the blood within it.