Shadows & Sorcery #142
Oooohoohohooohohohohhhohohoho it’s the one hundred and forty second edition of Shadows & Sorcery
Rev up your favourite Draculacore playlist because this week is a three part tale of vampyric black magic! We’re visiting our friend Veney from way back in the 92nd edition and his sundered world of lonely mountains and vampirism.
For those who came in late, the first story of the 66th edition makes for a wonderful primer, which you can read right HERE. And the 92nd edition was where we met watchman Veney for the first time.
Dig in folks BUT if you missed last week’s SIXTH HUNDREDTH STORY EDITION!!! you can and should check that out RIGHT HERE!
And lastly, my friends, please take a second to tap that little heart button and let the stories know you liked them! It takes literally one second pls
This week, Veney of the Watch is brought in to inspect a vile tome which speaks of the Throne of the Moon, his suspicions are confirmed when he uncovers a frightful Altar of the Night, and finally he and his mates make a dark descent into the Cathedral Crypts…
Throne of the Moon
The hidden chamber was a low, cramped space, built of thick blocks of rough stone with sagging wooden supports. It had been sequestered behind a cavernous fireplace in the manor of Lord Mareus, a town squire who had vanished into the night. Made a bad sign even worse. It only continued to get worse when the three watchmen sent to find any sign of Mareus entered in and found, in the dying lamplight, a small shelf of black-spined books. That was enough, in their opinion, to call in Veney. Just in case.
He was a veteran watchman, decorated several times over, and recognized, somewhat to his continuing discomfort, as an expert in combatting vampiric sorcery. Some three years ago he'd ventured deep into an old structure in the city while on watch, into the old tunnels, and finally the cavern beyond, and found a vampirist within, whom he'd killed. That he survived at all, and remembered most of it, was enough to get him the roughly fashioned but distinctive steel-lined leather mantle he now wore. The castle in that lightless expanse still gave him nightmares, and he had omitted certain facts in the face of the curates, but someone had to deal with this stuff.
Veney drew his hands over the spines of the tomes. In his experience, these things usually ended up revealing themselves, like they couldn't bear to stay hidden, but in the meantime he had to look busy. Neat little collection, this, he thought. The squire probably spent more money for these than I'll ever see in my life, he muttered. None of them had named printed on the spines, and something in him shirked from touching their covers. One did stick out, though. Literally, it seemed out of line with the others. He pulled this one out and, sure enough, in the mere seconds he took to flick through the first pages, it revealed itself as a grimoire on vampiric sorcery. He groaned almost as if in pain as he stood up and brought it into the light. A tight scrawled hand surrounded strange diagrams and rough illustrations. The whole thing, he thought, turning the pages, had a feverish quality to it. Written in haste, maybe. Or madness.
A detail caught his eyes as he looked the thing over, nervous but curious watchmen surrounding him, sneaking peeks at the necromantic tome. It kept mentioning the moon. Veney may not have been an expert, but he'd learned some things in his few years as inquisitor. The moon, he knew, figured into much vampiric sorcery. It made their spells or powers more potent was the idea. Would-be sorcerers had confessed at the point of a blade that the moon was the inverse sun, thrown up from the deep when the mountains rose to sunder the world. Sure, the crimson curates professed that, and the shamans didn't speak to it like they did everything else, and, too, the magicians avoided it in their summit lairs. No one liked it, save for vampirists.
Veney had the bad feeling he'd need to read this one through. A certain passage kept falling open of its own accord, as if from frequent consultation. Another bad sign. It formed the meat of whatever this was about: the moon, the blood, and the throne. The moon was vampiric, or of the night and darkness and all that, he knew that. Everyone did. The blood, obvious, but specifically there was a lot of to-do about the "acquisition of royalty". Vampirists did like that, he'd seen it time and again—chalices, sceptres, symbols of authority. Blood was the same. Blood was life, identity, and so on. Vampiric arts were all about power and domination. But what was this stuff about a throne? Veney took the book outside the chamber and told the watchmen to keep poking around while he sat down outside and tried to puzzle out the scratched parchment and faded ink.
The throne got a whole two pages to itself away from the bizarre rambling. "The Throne of the Moon". He didn't like that one bit. He knew thrones were a thing. Symbols of power. He remembered something about a "throne of the night", too. There was a long sort of riddle that made no sense to him but was almost certainly a hint for those in the know. It hid something, that was for sure. Vampirists hid everything, couched it all in sinister mystery, either because they liked it or it actually had some power. But what drew Veney's attention was what he found after that. A feverish exultation in a trailing hand that dug into the parchment that read like a madman's litany, a prayer and invocation for the blood-drenched throne of the moon, "focus of lunar domination, wherefrom, immersed in the blood born of respect or fear or power, the vampirist may command the moon to blot out the very day itself and replace it with the lifeless pallor of the eclipse."
It took one of the watchmen to come over and shake Veney out of his horror to tell him they found something even worse.
Altar of the Night
Veney could be heard swearing under his breath as he crouched into the inner chamber. One of the larger stone blocks seemed to have had a space between itself and the rest of the wall, a sharp eyed watchman had noticed. It slid in quite easily and to the side on a rather cunning iron rail. No one would think to look behind a solid wall of stone, right? No expense spared to hide what was in there, that was for sure. The focus of this inner, second hidden chamber was of wooden panelling with gold fittings, and a black marble top, most of it covered in dark brown stains, and the whole thing stank to the stars.
Some city aristocrats had peculiar tastes, and even more had peculiar habits, but it was now an unfortunate and doubtless reality that Lord Mareus wasn't a dabbler, and he wasn't just morbid. He was a vampirist.
Veney began to look around, but did not touch the altar. A silver chalice whose inside was badly stained, a dagger with a finely jewelled hilt whose blade was marred and chipped, loose leaves or maybe short scrolls with reddish scrawls upon them, a dish with unidentifiable lumps of flesh—the whole thing was repulsive, but looked much the same as others he had seen, though this one in particular seemed bent on a gruesome inversion of the rites of crimson theurgy. Made sense, both dealt with blood, albeit in very, very different ways.
Best look at those pages, thought Veney. There were three pages, and a quick looking over showed that some of it was copied sections from the grimoire, but beyond this was new material, pages with tears, as if pilfered from elsewhere. These he gave more attention to, and was glad, after a moment, that he did. They were instructions, detailed ones at that, stuff he didn't care to take in if he didn't have to, and they liberally referred the Throne of the Moon. Veney's heart sank, and in its place was a nervous trembling.
At that moment, one of the watchmen came in, asking what was the matter. A missing vampirist noble. An altar of sorceries not a day old. A lot of talk about the moon. Eclipses. That's what was the matter. Didn't have to tell the watchman twice, he could see the altar. But where was Mareus? Veney glanced back at the pages again, the copied sections. "Acquisition of royalty", "blood born of respect or fear or power". The vampirist needed blood for the throne. A notion welled up in Veney's mind, not quite a full thought he could vocalize, but regardless he turned to the watchman and bade him get someone fast to the cathedral and do two things: find out if any aristocrats had been buried recently, and to seal up the crypts.
It was moments like this Veney supposed he was glad people listened to him.
Cathedral Crypt
When the curates were told it was the watch's "vampirism expert" who relayed the warning, they swarmed in their black cloaks about the cathedral like flies, eyes darting about to every little crevice and locking every door as they rushed about in a panic. When Veney and his retinue arrived to a silent cathedral close, one curate had stayed behind, hunched by a side entrance in the ailing sunlight. The day was stretching thin, which didn't do them any favours. The door was opened wide enough to permit entrance to the four watchmen, and no more. The second the last of them was in, the old portal was slammed shut with a muffled apology and a hasty blessing to stir their blood.
Veney as his three fellows stood just inside, the dying echoes of the lock being loudly and hastily turned by the curate dissipating in the cavernous cathedral interior. The building took the shape of long gallery, with three short branches on either side. It was in one of these they now stood, perhaps the second one on the left. The four of them looked up and around at the surrounding shelves of urns on their little decorated catafalques or podiums, half hidden in shadow, and emanating a faint but constant mustiness. How many of these had been pilfered from and fought over by other cathedrals beyond the mountains? Curates were notorious for that. Veney had himself, many years ago, helped escort one, he was probably looking at it for all he knew. It was an awful experience. But it secured a source of strength and devotion for the city, maybe some old prelate, or saint, or ancient ancestor.
They walked out from the branch they were in and into the main long body of the cathedral. A cathedral is a seat, of course, the primary religious institution of a region—a seat of authority. One might almost call it a throne. It would have to be this, wouldn't it? A little mountainside chapel wouldn't do. The "head" of the cathedral extended a little further than the rest, and was there the curates performed crimson theurgies to draw up the old strength of the ancestors interred in the cathedral. The ceiling was high up, and ribbed with opaque windows. Crypt entrances, Veney understood, were usually on the left side, so they hadn't to go looking about. They split into twos and searched the other branches. Veney and his friend Vala, a workmate and confidant of many years now, were poking about in the dusky shadows for the door when the other two gave out a nervous call.
The curates had left it locked, as per instructions, and the heavy brass key was on the floor near it. The other two, a much older man and his nephew whom he had inducted into the watch, were musing over apparent logical inconsitencies.
"I mean," said the older man, Gerr, "if these're like the curates do say, that these're all strong old bloods, even some of the people who survived the mountains coming up, and we're so weak today, why's Mareus not taking them?"
"You think he wants centuries old dust, fellas?" sad Veney, picking up the key. "Nah. He wants—he needs blood."
"Well where's he getting it then?" asked the nephew, Luro.
"They exsanguinate the bodies first," said Vala. "Down below."
"What's that?" replied Gerr.
"They cut you up and let the blood pour out," she said, "my cousin's got a friend in the curacy. Told me all kinds of things."
Veney shut them up by throwing the door open, unsheathing his sword, and throwing a glance back before he walked in. His hand could be seen to strain around the hilt as he vanished into the shadow.
Three days ago, an old, miserly aristocrat named Yosza had succumbed to a protracted illness. Word was that his servants had found him fallen from his sickbed, raving in the dark, for his eyes could not bear much light, of a "universe of sorrow" he had glimpsed in the grip of a "revelatory fever". He was quietly put to death afterwards by his closest servants, for, it was said, the suffering of their dear master was too much for them to bear. Yosza did not have a good reputation, having made a tidy fortune in ruthless mercantile endeavours across the mountains, and then sitting on it for the next thirty years, retaining a skeleton crew of workers to keep his abode at least habitable while he revelled in the ruinous nostalgia of past conquests. But he was known to be deeply devout up to the last, even when the curates ceased to visit his home.
Veney was absolutely certain it was Yosza's blood the vampirist wanted. Rich and rotten with power. It shouldn't be too deep inside, either. The catacombs were older than the cathedral, and showed their age in the cracks, pitting, stains, and damp stench which marked every step of the low, wide, arched passages. They existed here before the mountains, so the curates said, and belonged to a faith that had not survived their upheaval. Braziers were fed regularly for the sake of communion, but it seemed Mareus had taken advantage of the light and a lull in maintenance to inspect some of the urns which rested in the catacombs. Several lay on the ground, their congealed, ashy contents neatly poured in piles, and ultimately useless to the sorcerer in any real display of his arts.
But displays he still could make, for although the crypts were veritably alive with drops of water into stagnant pools, with the crackle of fire, and with the footfalls of Veney and his fellows, something else seemed to almost make itself known over the more natural sounds. The crypts were riddled with short, shadowy passages and culverts in which urns reposed, and from each of these now there crawled, with a dry dragging and the rattle of parched throats, a dozen human shapes, naked, frightfully thin, with their pale grey skin pressed right onto the jutting bones, and lipless, toothless maws gaped with choked exhalations. They had no eyes, but they saw well enough.
Veney had seen a lot on his time as watchman, and a lot of things in this vampirism business, but this was uniquely awful. He'd seen it once before and had never forgotten it. Gerr and Luro yelped as the things came closer, pawing at them helplessly with shaking fingers, feeling the warmth slip out of their limbs. Vala went completely silent, her eyes bulging, ready to dart away. Veney thrust his sword through one's back. It groaned and squirmed, unable to turn to him. These ghosts were ancient, and, unless the four stopped moving, harmless. Veney just gave a sound of disgust, pointed with his sword, and said "Forward."
They came quite suddenly upon the exsanguination chamber. A mildly taller domed space, repurposed from whatever it had originally been. In the middle of it was a rudely fashioned sort of gallows which held room for three corpses to he strung up, and right now, only one space was taken. Suspended from his feet was the old miser Yosza, his arms lashed to his sides with thick rope, another rope around his head tied to the feet held it back so the blood could fall freely from his throat, landing with thick wet slops into a golden bowl held in the hands of Lord Mareus, who turned with a flicker of rage in his eyes that quickly cooled to disdain as he saw the four watchmen assume aggressive stances.
"I'm sure you mean to cut me down where I stand," said the vampirist, setting down the golden bowl gently, and running two fingers over a streak of blood, "but my arts are worth more than a dozen of you fools put together." They began to advance on him, and Veney began formulating how they might bring this bastard in for questioning. Killing them wasn't a problem, it was keeping them alive. They had, in his experience, a tendency for self-destruction should things stop going their way. For all the curates and shamans went on about their greed and mindless cruelty, Veney knew a little better, that they were motivated by something he'd go as far as to call philosophical. Strength, power, individuation, and a bunch of other words he'd had thrown at him in the past. He didn't traffic much with theurgy or star wizards or bog shamans, but if they all said the same thing about this stuff, he was inclined to believe them.
"Weak minds," said Mareus holding up his two fingers, lax, pointing upwards, "weak blood." Gerr and Luro suddenly stopped in their advance. "All I need do is merely hold my hand up in Imperious Command, which I am not very confident with yet, and you are compelled to kneel before me." A lurid smile suddenly took his face as the two men dropped with a struggle, shaking in a fear they were unable to express. Vala suddenly hissed through gritted and lunged. "How DARE you look upon ME!" roared the vampirist, throwing out his still bloodstained and now splayed two fingers, each one crooked. Vala crashed to the side as if something struck her, and she dropped her blade, wiping something from eyes that was not there.
Veney felt bad about it, but he'd put his hopes on this happening. Before Mareus could turn to him with some new gloating, Veney ducked low and shoved his blade into the sorcerer's gut, sending a shivering scream down the crypt passages. Veney slid the sword halfway out and back in again, sending the vampirist onto his back and freeing the blade. Before he could do anything, Veney sent the sword upon Mareus' hand, mangling his fingers and eliciting a fresh squeal of pain. He began to paw around at his side—Veney flashed a look, and saw him draw a thin dagger. He cut that hand to ribbons, too. He heard Gerr and Luro gasp as they stood, and Vala swear as her sight returned.
They gathered closer, but not too much, looking down upon the vampirist, his belly torn open, the ugly viscera spilling out of it. Veney saw it, too, and swore under his breath. So much for taking a prisoner. Best end it quick.
"If you knew," wheezed Mareus, "why I do what I do, you would cease," he then gasped, "to run about like a dog at the whims of simpering curates!"
Veney leaned in slightly with a sneer of utter contempt. "Listen to me, you freak. There aint no one or nothing else behind this steel but me. It's all me. Always has been, always will be."
Mareus sputtered out a laugh.
"Oh...starting to sound..." he spoke between the bubbling blood at his lips, "like a vampirist yourself."
Veney knew he'd be thinking about that, but regardless, he thrust the blade down into the sorcerer's neck, wrenched it sideways, pulled it out, and called it a day. For a second there he had half a mind to throw the squire to the ghosts, but they deserved to fade away. Best the curates didn't hear about that.