Chapter One
Expectations always ran low for Everto, his parents had pushed his eldest brother, Malum, to attend a medical college and it was assumed that his second eldest brother, Torqueo, would inherit the family business; a large and profitable coal mine that extended deep into the mountain range on the eastern border where Lyrrea met Azhendor.
Nothing was planned for Everto, he was left to his own devices and when he, on the rare occasions that he did, spoke to his parents or his brothers he was usually pushed aside with mumblings of ‘Sweet little Everto, full of crazy ideas’.
With no meaningful future in sight for Everto, he wasted away his time in the family castle, which had been owned by the Cruroranhel’s for countless generations.
As a child, Everto spent much of his time indoors, exploring the maze of tunnels and pathways that snaked through the old stone building, finding oddities and curios throughout his father’s inherited possessions. Once when he was 7 he found an old deck of playing cards and taught himself card tricks and gambling games, for weeks afterwards he spent his time perfecting his technique and tricking his brothers out of toys, sweets and gold pieces.
He rarely ventured into the castle gardens as there was little that interested him and the sun was harsh on his pallid skin, although he did enjoy sitting on the lip of the cliff that overhung the Azure Ocean, especially when a storm was brewing.
One dismal day, too damp to be winter but too cold for autumn, Everto was sitting atop the cliffs. He tended to stray outside more when the weather was unpleasant in order to avoid his family. Almost hypnotized, he stared into the dark swirling waters that whipped the rocks 300ft below him. Dense raindrops thudded rhythmically against his slight frame and matted his fine blonde hair to his ghostly forehead. His left hand lay on the soft muddy dirt, absentmindedly plucking blades of grass from the earth and leaving them in a neat pile by his hip. Barely aware that he was doing this, he jumped in shock as his hand touched something icy cold. He looked down and saw a fleck of gold shining through the thick brown dirt. He scraped away the mud from the gold and uncovered an old, small key, loosely wrapped in what seemed to be semi-decomposed, embroidered orc leather.
The delicate patterns, or what was left of them, looked oddly familiar to Everto. He looked back to the swirling ocean, holding the key in his hands and trying to think where he had seen that pattern before; it was the same as something in his house he was sure and judging by its age probably one of his ancestor’s things. Everto sat, deep in thought until the hidden sun had slipped below the horizon and the looming grey clouds had turned the same colour as the powdery lumps of coal that were carried out of the mines by the truckload each day. Everto trudged home, thick mud clumping to his leather boots and shadows clinging to the sections of his memory that knew where he had seen that pattern before.
Everto pushed a heavy curtain of ivy aside and slipped through a hidden opening in the southern wall, he stooped inside the small, dark, musty cavern. He pulled off his boots and stepped into an identical clean pair that was sitting just inside the entrance. He felt along the cold stone walls, found the heavy rope he was searching for and pulled himself up through a tiny opening in the low ceiling. The dusty space above was an even tighter fit; even Everto, with his slight frame, had difficulty squeezing past the wooden beams on either side of the wall cavity. He climbed past eighteen wooden beams until his head bumped the wooden floorboards of his bedroom, clinging to the old wood 60ft above the ground, he balanced along the beams to the left and then slipped up through the floor beneath his bed.
He crawled out from beneath his bed, pulled a woollen cloak from his chest of drawers and slid it over his shoulders; it trailed along the worn floorboards as he traipsed back to his bed. He opened his old, worn copy of ‘Lucifer’s Hammer’ and lay, face down pretending to read it, just in case his parents came to see why he hadn’t been at dinner.
The flickering light from the torches hanging to the hallway walls shot beneath his bedroom door in bursts. He took the key from his pocket and turned it over and over in his hands, brushing off the last specks of mud. The key itself was nothing special, at half the length of his thumb it was far too small to be a door key and lacked any distinguishing marks, other than that it seemed to be made of solid gold. The strip of leather, on the other hand, was intriguing. It was the familiar deep grey-green of orc leather, with a paler green thread stitched to make an intricate scene. The strip had not been torn from anything; each edge was neatly stitched into a thin border for the main design. The pale green thread, which Everto guessed to be Orc Hair clearly detailed hundreds of bodies piled upon one another; orc, elf, dwarf and man all tangled together and standing erect at the top of the pile was a horned man holding a skull high above his crowned head. Everto studied the design carefully and lifted his fingers to touch his own horns, the man standing on the pile of carnage was a Tiefling, like himself. He closed his eyes and lost himself in horrific visions of battle and fiery brimstone which merged into a restless sleep.
A couple of hours later, Everto awoke to hear the rhythmic thuds of the servant’s shoes and the soft click as she smothered each of the torches in the hallway. His door creaked open, “Master Everto, Madam wishes to know why you weren’t at dinner.” The servant woman called in a scratchy voice, a voice that had seen one too many sunrises and perhaps a few too many empty bottles.
Everto called back, “Tell my mother that I was not called for dinner.”
“Yes you were, I called you myself!” came the rough reply.
“Woman. I was not called. Now be gone.” Everto said firmly, he would not let an old goblin hag answer back, especially an old goblin hag who worked for him. Little did he care whether or not she was punished; her fate did not concern him. The servant closed the heavy wooden door and walked away, grumbling goblin curses. Everto waited as her echoing footsteps faded away into the darkness of the hallway.
The yellowing pages of ‘Lucifer’s Hammer’ were faded and torn, the back cover all but fallen off, Everto closed it gently and placed it on the ledge above the fireplace. He slid the heavy cloak off of his shoulders and folded it neatly away into his chest of drawers. He sauntered over to his wooden door, softly pried it open and slipped into the dark hallway. A tiny grey mouse darted away beneath the door to his right.
The cold, smooth stone that lined the wall felt familiar to his slender fingers, he recognized every bump and crack as he had a thousand nights before. He counted the stones in his mind, eighty six, eighty seven, he stopped and turned to face the eighty-eighth stone, he gently put all of his weight on it and pushed it in. Behind him the wall creaked and groaned, then swung away to reveal a short passageway. At the end of the short passageway stood a looming, iron, spiral staircase which reached up into a dark abyss of centuries old stone.
The soft leather on his feet barely made a sound against the wrought iron staircase, running his fingers along the smooth banister he carefully made his way up to the third floor of the castle. At the top of the staircase he turned to his right and placed both of his hands against the carved wooden wall, he gently pushed against it until it clicked and the hidden door swung open into one the main third floor corridor. He stepped into the flickering light of the wall torches, the leathery boots rasped against the coarse lamb’s wool rug, Everto walked across the corridor and leant against the wall again in the same manner he had before, the wall swung open. Everto was standing in front of a starving nothingness, the blackness threatened to engulf his delicate body. He stepped into the shadow; the flickering light of the hallway was now a distant memory but that didn’t matter; he could see perfectly regardless of light conditions.
Footsteps echoed through the hallway outside, although still far away from Everto’s concealed chamber, he darted to the door and shoved it shut. A subtle click resounded in his ears. The footsteps passed the doorway without pause and Everto released his bated breath in a long sigh.
At the back of the room stood a rickety ladder that stretched up into a small square hole in the ceiling. Everto gripped the sides of the ladder and quickly scaled it, opened the trapdoor and pulled himself through. He brushed the dust off of his black leather pants, he couldn’t stand upright in the low roof cavity so he stooped along to a large wooden chest.
Last summer Everto had spent a lot of his time in this section of the castle’s attic, it was shaded by the castle for the most part of the day and so it was always cool. Also, the only entrance that Everto was aware of opened into the concealed chamber and so his family and the servants couldn’t come and annoy him throughout the day. Although even if the servant’s were smart enough to discover the hidden chamber, Everto could just stand still and they wouldn’t be able to see him in the darkness; he never did understand why his parents hired goblins as servants, they were ugly and incompetent, but it worked in his favour so he wasn’t going to complain.
Towards the end of summer he had discovered the big chest, half covered by a dirty sheet and pushed against the bare wooden wall. It had taken him almost an hour to pull it out into the centre of the attic, it was almost as long as he was tall and it weighed about three times more than he did. When, after much sweating and straining, he had pulled it all the way he lifted the solid lid with all his might. Inside were a few dozen old books, neatly stacked with spines facing up and a couple of books lying atop the rest.
Everto remembered being disappointed to see only old books; they had odd titles, didn’t really seem all that interesting and definitely didn’t seem worth the energy he had wasted with the chest.
Now, however, it was another story entirely, his heart beat against his ribcage and he held each breath with anticipation. Everto lifted the heavy lid off of the chest; a musty smell laced with camphor filled the room. He half expected to find the chest empty, as though someone had come and taken them away just to annoy him. He sighed with relief and a fleck of laughter, the chest was full of the same old, thick books. And why wouldn’t it be? No one knew about this place except for him and even if someone did know, why would they care about some dilapidated old books? Once gilded titles along the cracked, leathery spines gleamed in the darkness were visible now only as faded yellowy smudges, ‘Coniecto Paciscor’, ’Atrum Specialis’, ‘Manicipium Diabolos’. Sitting on top of the neatly stacked books was an aged, locked book, bound in embroidered orc leather. A thin smile spread across Everto’s gaunt features and his red eyes gleamed in the blackness. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the old key and the strip of leather, the same design was stitched into both. The heavy key slid comfortably into the gilded lock and turned easily, the book fell open in his hand, and he could feel the rough orc leather against his slender fingers.
The pages were covered in beautiful, embellished script. The date was marked in the top corner of every page, the page it was open to now read ‘24th Kythorn, 9700th year in the Age of Man’, Everto thought back to his youth when his parents had hired an elven tutor for him, the Age of Man began in 12,000ET and ended at the beginning of the Aziiryan Empire; 1AE. The current year was 900AE, so this book was written in 2300ET; that was more than 3000 years ago. Everto wondered how long this book had been in the attic; surely his home wasn’t 3000 years old. His eyes followed the faded ink swirls along the page, whispering the elegantly scripted words:
24th Kythorn, 9700th year in the Age of Man
The demon appeared to us this night, and offered us all that our hearts desire; wealth and power.
Zehir has made good his word, power and fortune are ours and the Empire Bael Turath stands high above the heads of all the world. The streets seem paved with gold and the rain a shower of rubies. There is no precious object we do not possess or have the means of easily acquiring.
And for what? A pair of measly horns and a tail? The orcs bear an ugliness far greater than ours and without our blessing, too.
Lucid Comorror, Emperor of Bael Turath
He slowly turned the delicate book over in his hands, the strong odour of camphor was more noticeable now that the chest had been left open. Everto breathed in the stench, although it made him cough it was still fulfilling; the smell of victory.
Pride and power washed through Everto’s heart, he had found the key and the book. It was his adventure and his mystery, which he was going to unravel on his own. His brothers may have all the glory now but that was false fame, thrust upon them by others; Everto was the only one of the three who had truly earned his victory. Although it was only a small success, just a musty old book, it felt like so much more to Everto.
He held the book face down and slowly opened the back cover, the last page was covered in beautiful script much like the other page but this was written by a different hand, the date marked in the corner of this page was 11th Mirtul 867AE.
Everto drew his breath sharply, “My birthday,” he murmured.
Running his finger along each line as he read it, he spoke aloud in the empty attic.
11th Mirtul, 867AE
It has become incredibly hard to make contact with Zehir, I have tried increasing the size of the divine symbols and offering more blood. Nothing seems to work. My last encounter was seven moons ago; a demon apparated for a brief moment and then faded back into oblivion.
I believe it was the demon Set, for he had the third horn and black eyes. Unfortunately his appearance was too brief to attempt communication.
This is the last entry I expect to write, my third son was born tonight as I had hoped and in good health. There is nothing more I could wish for in this world and therefore no reason to seek Zehir.
Morrus Cruroranhel
The ancient book slipped from Everto’s shaking hands and crashed to the wooden floor, the sound from the impact echoed through the stale attic air. Fear and confusion danced behind his blood-red eyes as his sharp mind tried to make sense of what he had just read. “Morrus Cruroranhel” he murmured, making sure he hadn’t read incorrectly. He hadn’t, there it was at the bottom of the page in thick black ink. His father had written this on the same night that Everto was born. His father had summoned a Demon on the same night that Everto was born. Everto stood stooped in the middle of the pitch blackness, frozen in shock. The book lay on the dusty floorboards, its front cover broken in half from the impact.
A soft creak crawled up through the trapdoor to Everto’s left. The old crates at the top of the hole were momentarily illuminated by a flickering light which peeked up from below. He whipped his head in the direction of the opening, saw the flickering light and swiftly darted across the attic, scooping the damaged book up as he went. He silently slid along the floor for the last few feet and smoothly concealed himself beneath a worn wolfskin sofa. Lying on his side he could see along the floor to the trapdoor and over to the wooden chest.
A flitting orange flame poked up through the trapdoor, followed by a mess of fine blonde hair atop a balding head. Morrus Cruroranhel heaved himself into the musty attic.
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