Ascendancy: The Book of Heylel

Chapter I

Chapter I



         The bound Praetorian drew in ragged, harsh breaths as his eyes followed him about the room. Niklaus felt his burning gaze on him as he hovered from alembic to crucible; from aludel to retort. He sat perfectly still aside from the rise and fall in his chest. It was an eerie lethargy that overshadowed the frenzy that took place mere minutes ago. His guards had since retired to their posts. Niklaus was confident that this crazed man was quite harmless now, so the lack of an armed presence was not as unnerving as he originally expected, besides, he was an Alchemyst. He lacked sword, shield, and combat prowess, but intellect was a formidable weapon. Alchemysts utilized that weapon as a hunter with a bow. They always had an intended target, and they rarely missed their mark. Being the Prime Alchemyst, he embodied that sentiment. His ward may have had a significant advantage in strength but he was also surrounded with a myriad of dangerous and deadly mixtures and reagents. Alone, they were harmful, refined – deadly.

         Though it was of little use to have the skills to brew poisons, it was still a major course of study in the school of Alchemy, one in which he’d mastered over the course of time, most especially, following the uprising of Reichland. Now more than ever, Alchemy was needed not only to serve in the discoveries of natural science, but also to annihilate their enemies. Vitriols, Fulminating Silvers, and Liquid Ignis flowed as often as people from the Alchemy Laboratories.

         Though Charles of Lysse, first Prime Alchemyst, would never have condoned this art being used for such an end, times were different than then. A thousand years ago, science was devoted to the advancement of society, now it was devoted to its destruction. Such was the consequence of war, greed, and a thousand other reasons. Now, it was for the safety of the Kingdom. Everfall was his home, and he would die before he saw it destroyed.

         “I’ve never seen the Black spread like this.”

         Dante dared to inch closer to the bound man’s arm, now bare of cloth and armor revealing the extent of the blight. It traveled the expanse of his arm from shoulder to fingertip. Lines of dark gray traced the path of veins and arteries, as though his heart pumped pure corruption.

         “Nor have I,” Niklaus responded, as he gathered drams and vials off his shelves. The dancing streams of dim firelight blurred finely printed words on the many reagents, allowing him little comfort as he strained his eyes to read his own handwriting. Why had he always written so small? It didn’t matter now, he had other tasks to focus on.

         Oleum Veritatis, though a simple concoction was a rather complex distillation, with quite volatile ingredients. Though he knew each of them without ever needing to refer to his many books and parchments on the subject, this was of some urgency. He hated rushing through any distillation, but he had no idea how long this man would remain so docile.

         He placed each ingredient on the table upon which his alembic rested, taking great care to place them in the order in which they would be distilled; first, powdered charcoal, then salt, brimstone, vitriol, and finally aqua fortis. Pyroxilic Spirits already boiled inside his alembic, forcing their sour vapors out of the glass condenser and into the dank air of his laboratory. He’d grown used to the smell over the years, but Dante’s eyes watered and his nose crinkled from the aroma. This was well outside the realms of an Apothecary, but he was glad he remained. He’d not feel at ease being alone with this person bound to the heavy chair.

         He tapped on the first vial, and black powder flowed in small spurts into the concoction, quickly snaking its way through the clear liquid in dark clouds, to the bottom of the alembic. He allowed it to boil for a moment and poured the salt. He watched as the fluid consumed it, and continued on. After some time, he’d progressed to the final stage of blending. He held the vial of Aqua Fortis between his thumb and forefinger. The glass was ice against his skin as though it had been pulled from the heart of winter.

         “Close your eyes tight, and take care not to breathe through your nose,” He said, not looking back as he watched bubbles build at the bottom of the mixture and flow upwards, erupting at the surface like that of boiling tar. He removed the stopper, and squinted his eyes before he began to pour. It burned. Not like a fire, but rather like a thousand needles prodding the skin over and over. His eyes watered as he allowed one drop, then two, until finally the deep black mixture clouded to a chalky white, then clear. He replaced the stopper quick as a serpent strike and drew in a heavy breath. The tingling lingered for a time, but soon subsided as the fire consumed the remaining vapors.

         He turned to the Prime Apothecary who’d been standing, nose pinched tight between his thumb and finger, and eyes shut tight as a vice. The Praetorian who’d been facing the far wall, now stared directly at him. His head turned round backwards as he drew heavy breaths, unmindful of not only the noxious fumes, but of the contorted and unnatural position of his body.
“Dante…” Niklaus’ voice was barely a whisper.

         The Apothecary opened his eyes and jolted backward at the horrific sight. “My god! Niklaus, what did you do to him?”

         Nothing. He’d done nothing to him. He didn’t bother answering such a frivolous question. He turned round to his Alembic, his eyes darting this way and that. Tremors ripped through his hands as he reached for the vial resting at the end of the condenser. Droplets of the elixir snaked down through the tube and dripped into the flask. It was filling, but not nearly fast enough for his liking. His neck burned from the gaze of the twisted man behind him. He knew his eyes were transfixed on him without having to look.

         The door to the Laboratory cackled as it opened, allowing a rush of chilling air to burst into the room. The flame beneath the alembic danced about in a violent fit for a moment before calming.

         “It seems I was right about this one.” Alice’s voice broke a dreadful silence as she stepped in.

         The door slammed shut behind her as though it were hit with a ram, though she never touched it. Niklaus jumped out of his flesh from the shock of the sound before spinning round to her.

         The Praetorian now stared at her, still with heavy breaths, still unflinching. The skin of his neck stretched like a wet rag being wrung over a washbasin. Niklaus’ stomach churned at the sight of it, hardly caring of the hot glass vial of Oleum Veritatis burning his fingers.

         Dante had shrunk into a shadowed corner of the room, back against the shelves of dusty tomes and journals. His eyes were as wide as the full moon as he stared back at the gruesome man. His knees trembled like leaves upon a breeze.

         “Prime Alchemyst Niklaus, this man has been touched by death,” She said as she bent over to inspect him as though he were an exhibit. As she inched toward him, he began to shake, desperate to free himself from the iron clamps at his wrists and ankles. Bones cracked as the shackles cut through his flesh revealing bloody sinew and muscle that rippled at each jolt. He was unbothered by any of it, as though he’d drank an entire batch of sweet vitriol.

         Alice did not seem at all unsettled by it. Moreover, she was transfixed on him. “Dic mihi unde vinistis.” Her voice was soft like a caring mother as she spoke the old tongue.

         The Praetorian relaxed his body when she spoke, the fits slowing to an abrupt close. The heavy iron chair grinded against the stone floor, screeching across the gritty sandstone with high pitched screams as it spun around toward her. His head remaining focused on her gaze, twitched as bones clicked and popped in his neck until finally, his body was right once more.

         “Niklaus,” she said, holding her hand out, “The vial.”

         Before he could comprehend what happened, he’d given her the elixir. Waves of burning pain throbbed in his fingers as he looked down at his hand. The fiery hot glass seared his skin to an unrecognizable, blistered red wound. Blood oozed from his scorched skin as he cradled his hand caring little for the pain, and more for the unholy abomination in his laboratory.

         “Aperium os tuum,” she said, holding the liquid over the monster’s head.

         He opened his mouth, and she poured in the fluid. It was thick and steamy as it seeped out of the container and into his throat. Flesh sizzled in the back of his mouth as he swallowed the boiling liquid with ease. His eyes shut and his heavy breathing subsided.

         Alice turned to face him, “Niklaus, if you please,” she said as she gestured toward the man.
What was he supposed to do? He was prepared to interrogate a man, but it was clear this was no man. This, whatever it was, was evil.

         “Niklaus!”

         “Why did you attack the Conjurer?” He heard himself ask the question but was scarcely aware he was speaking as he stumbled over his feet toward the Praetorian.

         “Haec Malum.”

         She is evil.

         Niklaus glanced at her, and she shared a silent moment with him, her face free of emotion.
“Why is she evil?”

         His eyes shot open, and his voice was that of a serpent, “Inpatiens virtutes quae sunt in illa non sint!”

         She meddles in powers that are not hers!

         “What are you?” Alice asked, happy to return a hiss of her own.

         “His cossus praefuit mortuis. Ut supra; ita inferius”

         A Warden of the Dead. As above; so below.

         Niklaus gasped as the words cut through him like daggers. As above; so below. He was right all along. Everything they had done, had finally come back upon them. The dead were now vengeful, just as Charles of Lysse had predicted.

         “Quid audes occlude nobis!”

         How dare you occlude us!

         Darkness enshrouded the center of the Laboratory, swallowing the firelight like a starved animal. Dante forced himself to brave through the heavy black toward them, where a dull light remained, burning out like an ember, until finally it engulfed them. Alice’s eyes burned bright with flames in the dark, glowing brilliant but emitting no light of their own. The dank air sizzled as she spoke, her voice cold and resonant like calling in a cavern.

         “You will not harm this man.”

         “Non habes potestatem.” His voice growled.

         You have no power.

         “I command you to vacate this body!” She screamed. Dust fell from the ceiling as the walls around them trembled and cracked.

         “Non habes potestatem,” he repeated, laughing at her – taunting her.

         “Ebo potius quam tenabra,” She abraided, “I have more power than the darkness,” Her staff erupted in a light brighter than the sun, so brilliant it was, that Niklaus vision went dark and his eyes burned as though flames were within his head.

         The Praetorian’s back slammed against the seat and a spine shattering jolt as the light hit him as though he were a blacksmith’s anvil. His head twisted about, bones creaking and grinding against one another, as his teeth gritted hard.

         “Nos vitam morte sumus.”

         We are life we are death.

         The words escaped his lips, shaking and raspy as he labored to overcome whatever force held him.

         “Omnes similiter peribitis!”

         You will all die!

         His back arched and his mouth opened wide as he screeched like a thousand crows cawing across the expanse of a total void. Rays of dark burst from his eyes and mouth and stabbed through the fiery light as they consumed it. The room roared like a fire stoked by a great bellows within the belly of a great growling beast. Then, still and silence. Soft, and gentle yellow rays danced about from the firelight burning beneath the alembic. Before them, the Praetorian sat, motionless, lifeless, and crumbled like scrap parchment. Plumes of liquid black trickled from his eyes and the corners of his mouth forming small droplets before crashing to the cold stone floor and disappearing into wisps of nothing. The dark lines that traced his corrupted veins snaked away through his arm like worms, forming into pools at his fingertips and pouring upon the floor like water. The Black had gone from within him, leaving behind the tattered remains of life.

         “God help us.” Alice’s voice trembled as she stared deeply into dull, hazy eyes of a dead man.

         It was life, it was death; as above – so below. The dead desire only one thing, to be alive once more. He knew there was no denying death. There were no elixirs or philters, incantations or poultices to stop death, for no matter how well one prepared, death cared little for defenses. Death was angry now – it was vengeful. He remembered the teachings of Charles of Lysse; his first verse.

Ad finem vitae.

         The end of life.