Dark Ritual
A short story set in the Grim Darkness universe.

By The Virus



Nikoladze dismissed his warriors and was left alone with the captive in the altar clearing. The altar lay in a rocky area in the centre of a circle of standing stones, surrounded on all sides by dense, thorny forest. It was hewn roughly from black granite, its scratched surface blotched with dark stains and dried fluids. The altar had been a place of dark ritual long before Pietr Nikoladze had discovered it, and it was already notched from the blades of countless sacrifices. But it had somehow become abandoned and fallen into disuse over the centuries. Nikoladze and his warband had invigorated this unholy place with fresh blood, and the dark energies once again flowed strongly through these stones.

The wolverine hauled the bound mink up and threw her onto the altar, ignoring the grinding pain that wracked his bones and stung his flesh with each movement. He felt nothing as he looked down at her pathetic, beaten form and into her wide, pleading eyes. Not the slightest hint of pity or remorse touched his heart, and Nikoladze was still mildly surprised by the way all shreds of compassion had left him so quickly. A few short months ago, the young girl's terror and anguish would have evoked at least some response in him. But since Chak'azaal had visited him for the first time, the wolverine had undergone several major changes in body and mind. The former were still taking place, and he winced with every limping step as his raw and splintered bones grated together agonisingly, their metamorphosis not yet finished. The latter, the mental changes, were nearing completion now, and Nikoladze felt none of the weaknesses of mortal emotions. Concepts of mercy and forgiveness had become foreign to him, and he was motivated only by rage, hatred and bloodlust.

The mink was terrified to the point that tears no longer came. Hers was a quiet desperation now, and she barely even struggled any more, her spirit broken. As Nikoladze raised his sword she begged one last time. "Please don't do this," she said in a tiny wavering voice.

The wolverine grinned coldly in reply, and then bellowed the chant of his murderous deity as he cleft her chest down the centre with the heavy blade. "Blood for the Blood God!" Nikoladze twisted the sword cruelly, parting her ribcage with a hideous cracking sound. Reaching into the cavity he tore the girl's heart from her body and raised it above his head, gore dripping onto his upturned face.

From somewhere beyond the veil of existence, a dark entity heeded the call of the sacrifice and was drawn to the circle of stones in the Rodinan forest. A swirling dark haze gathered in the air above the clearing and with a whispering of ethereal voices it flowed into the heart in Nikoladze's hand. The heart began to beat once again, and he replaced the pulsing organ in the sacrifice, the ribs closing around it, the flesh sealing together as the corpse arched its back and wrenched its limbs loose of its bonds, given unnatural strength by daemonic energy.

The corpse sat up, its eyes burning with balefires, its flesh pulsing and shifting from within as the daemon's essence began to restructure the mortal vessel to a form that closer resembled its own.

Nikoladze abased himself before the creature on the altar. It spoke to him in a low voice that seemed disjointed from the lips that spoke it, the tone resonant with ancient evil. "Pietr…" it rolled its head around on increasingly muscular shoulders, the vertebrae in its neck cracking loudly as its spine realigned. "What news do you bring me of our cause?"

"Everything is as you have instructed, my Mistress. We are well ahead of schedule. In another month, our victory will be inevitable."

"Excellent Pietr, excellent. But remember that this is only the first step. There will be many more tasks before you, far more daunting than this."

"Anything you desire shall be done. We grow stronger by the day; soon nothing will be beyond our grasp. Your will is carried out, in the name of the Hound."

The daemonhost grinned, baring pointed fangs that were still lengthening slowly past its lips. The mink's body in which it inhabited was nearly unrecognisable now, the slender shape warped into a bulkier, longer-limbed form, the silver fur splitting apart as black sinew swelled beneath it. The corpse's features were twisted into an ugly sneer, and vestigial horns were beginning to sprout from its forehead. Tiny, deformed wings flexed uselessly from its shoulders. The force that brought these changes was far too potent to be contained in mortal form however, and within minutes the fragile body would be consumed by the malevolent entity's dark power.

"I see your Gift is nearing completion, Pietr," said the daemon, running a long talon along the curved metal spike protruding from the broad, deformed shoulder of the kneeling warrior.

"Yes my Mistress." The wolverine looked at his left forearm where another portion of fur and flesh was being shed. Grimacing at the sharp pain, he tore the semi-living tissue away to reveal the unnatural black armour growing beneath, fused with his skeleton, coated in clotted blood and tattered sinew. "The pain is still severe, I will be glad when it is over."

"Physical pain is a weakness of lesser creatures," scoffed the daemon. "You do not fear pain, do you Pietr?"

"Not at all. But while the changes are still in effect, I am weakened. I have not taken a life in combat in ten days." Nikoladze clenched his fist, the fingers encased in a gauntlet of daemonic metal. "I hunger for the kill. Bound maidens for ceremonial sacrifice are no substitute for the skull of a warrior defeated by my own hand."

"Patience, Pietr. The rewards will be worth the torture of restraining the killing instinct." The daemonhost was beginning to smoke now, the smell of burnt fur and rapidly decomposing flesh filling the clearing. "With your enhancements you will be better equipped to serve our Master. Then you can sate your bloodlust and bring glory to Chattur'gha," assured the daemon, using an archaic name of the Murder God.

"Glory to Chattur'gha," echoed Nikoladze, bowing his head reverently. The creature bared its snarling grin again and nodded.

"I must leave you now," the daemon said, its essence quickly overwhelming the frail mortal flesh that struggled to contain it. "The Hound be with you Pietr, as you bring terror and destruction to the lands of our enemies."

"I will send for you again soon, my Mistress. Blood for the Blood God," said the wolverine in farewell.

"Skulls for the Skull Throne," replied the creature, and then the witchlight in its eyes went out, the sense of presence left the clearing, and the corpse tumbled from the altar as the essence of Chak'azaal withdrew from this reality and returned to its abode in the darkness beyond.

Nikoladze watched the polluted corpse crumbling into dust at his feet, utterly burned out by the daemon's short residence within. He turned away and stretched his limbs repeatedly, flexing his raw joints. The pain seemed to have diminished somewhat, and Nikoladze wondered if being in the daemon's presence had perhaps accelerated his mutation. He might even be strong enough to take to combat. Yes, perhaps he would do just that. His bloodlust had begun to outweigh the physical pain. He decided he would rest for now, and tonight he and his warriors would descend upon the nearby village of Selyanka. Tonight the village would burn. Tonight Nikoladze would bathe in the blood of the slain.