Sneak Peek Excerpt of Beyond The Barrier Of Storms (wyvernshield #5 Rough Draft) – Derek Barton, 2023
The high walls of the cauldron encircled the gathering. Of the Beleardea to be assembled, there were over a hundred of their top warriors. A thousand of the clergy surrounded the warriors. The troops all formed in an upside-down triangle at the heart of the barren cauldron. Also present were seven of the ten Council Leaders. Pontiff Joman-Gregg remained in exile in Rovmantysa. After LLasher had identified him as a high rank in the Cult, it was imperative that he not lead anyone to tonight’s ritual by chance. He had to exclude himself from an event such as tonight.
Bressard Keough would officiate the ritual in his stead and orchestrate the proceedings. He was a tall, robust man and was adorned in his black and red ceremonial robes. His head was neatly shaven except for a short, gray-white mohawk from his forehead down to his neck. Cold, silver-colored eyes pierced his heavily-wrinkled face. He never smiled, his thin lips in a permanent narrow line.
He had retired as a former military general for the Rovmantysa government. In truth, he had also been a malicious agent of the Byas Ko. Byas Ko was an assassination police force and was responsible for dark operations all over Tayneva. He moved up the ranks in the Byas Ko as fast as he had moved up in the Beleardea, using the same brute tactics. His reputation and blood lusts were legendary. This character trait served him dually in the Cult. It earned him his title, Master of Souls.
Bressard stood with his hands clasped behind his back as he waited on a dais in the center of the gathering. The other six clerical leaders stood in a half-circle behind him. A few torches were lighting the area, but it was not necessary as there was a full moon as predicted.
Behind the dais at the tip of the troop’s upside-down triangle were four small stone monoliths erected. The clergy and mages had spent the last seven days inscribing and enchanting minute runes upon them. Upon each monolith dangled a black iron manacle and chain. More powerful runes and arcane symbols were painted on the ground in narrow circles. The intensive spellcraft literally twisted the air. Tiny waves pulsed from the ground and small bluish sparks popped within the monolith square.
As the last of the assembly marched in and settled in formation, Bressard motioned with his hand, snapping his fingers. A wagon maneuvered by five stout warriors wheeled in a platform with a metal cage. A figure chained with his hands above his head was inside. It was Broenef Cros’seau.
Broenef’s head was completely shaved. He only wore simple white cloth pants. His bare back exposed a multitude of cuts, deep gashes, and spreading dark bruises. These were from when he was first captured and dragged by horse down a mountain in Risa. He hung unconscious, his legs buckled beneath him. He and his cage were brought forward and finally parked in front of Bressard. Then three black-hooded men brought in silver-decorated chalices and placed them next to the cage.
All were eager to start the bloodletting. The Resurrection had eluded them for too long. It was time to bring forth a new age of power. The God of Rot would rewrite the very fabric of reality and this new cloth would be in his holy hands. The Beleardea were to be richly rewarded and all would be at their transgression as it was meant to be.
The Master of Souls held his arms over his head and recited an arcane benediction. The words flowed from his lips while his hands twitched and wriggled through intricate signs. A dark purplish circle of magical energy grew in the sky above the dais. It stretched and encompassed the length of the Cult’s formation triangle.
His frantic words died away. He faced the anxious gathering as he slid an ornate red metal dagger renowned as The Kriss of Keri’si from his leather belt. He held it over his head. “Tonight my brothers we take our last steps toward our ultimate destiny! We challenged all and have crushed the multitude of heretics who would deny the power and rightful place of the Three-Horned Viper!! NEVER AGAIN!” His scream crashed across the cauldron like a clap of thunder. The throng took up the chant as he continued to brandish the dagger.
“NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN!”
“Bring forth the shell, The Epitolii! ARa eTohl shall wait no longer!”
The three hooded men returned to open the cage and retrieved the unconscious Broenef. They drug him before the dais and hold him before Bressard to inspect.
As the Master of Souls examined the prisoner, he made tiny cuts into his own left palm. Blood bubbled up and dripped unnoticed to the ground. Bressard mumbled more of his arcane scripture and replaced the blade in his belt. With his index finger, he drew symbols in blood upon Broenef. After a few more minutes he stopped to analyze the work. Satisfied, he again brandished the blade.
Bressard stares in fascination at his reflection within the red metal of The Kriss. His eyes in the image altered and erupted into flames inside their sockets. Twin forked-tongues emerged between his lips and large canine tusks protruded. “The promise… His Gift of Power…” Bressard murmured as he witnessed the vision of what he would become at ARa eTohl’s side.
He renewed his screeching screams of “NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN!” He ran about the dais in a frantic blood orgy. “CHAIN UP THE EPITOLII!”
The hooded men carried the prisoner into the eldritch circles, laid him on his back, and bound him by hand and feet.
Bressard forced himself under control and allowed the religious frenzy to finally subside. He held one finger high over his head. “Yofala DrenbaCi xas Hestym.”
From the purplish circle of energy, bolts of lightning snapped and arcs of electricity struck the four monoliths. Broenef’s eyes opened but very little comprehension registered within them.
A second finger was held high. “Lodi Kodo brong Mafa hextas.” A black cloud formed inside the purple aura. It grew and descended toward the monoliths. Tiny black and red hands clawed at the air from within the cloud.
Broenef’s body lifted from the ground, levitating in place. He shouted with sudden fear. “Where? Where am I? What are you doing?”
The Master of Souls ignored him and held a third finger high over his head. “Hea vi Lino MASRA!”
The clawing cloud wafted over Broenef the Epitolii, shrouding his body from view. Only his blood-curdling screams could be heard.
“NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN!” accompanied Broenef’s shrieks of agony and gradually washed them out.
The Epitolii, the shell of ARa eTohl had been crafted. The new body of The God of Rot waited.
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