Emaciated and with her regal locks shorn, the slave girl was unrecognizable for who she was. No one, except for those with sharp eyes, could suspect the girl was of noble blood, not that her former titles would be honored in the heathen township in one of the lawless regions of the continent. She huddled in the middle of the other slaves being taken to market. Currently, they were penned inside of an iron cage, one of many such in the district of Bowl Lake Town, as the natives called it, for the shape of the nearby body of water. The slave shivered in the damp air. She had been raised in dryer flatlands, not these mountains and hills filled with lakes and the rotten towns named after them. The air stank of cook fires, shit and wet hides. The towering mountains were topped with snow, although the winter had been warmer than most so the overnight frost had turned into slush and mud. Still, the temperature was brisk even at mid-day, and any wind chilled the bones.

At least the waiting slaves could huddle to conserve their warmth as their rags did little to protect them from the elements. She could see her breath in the air as she curled against another girl in the back of the putrid pen. It was a mixed lot, from the old to young, though they were kept in groups by gender. The men sat outside, chained together and sitting under a wet tarp. Merchants wearing fur bustled about on their errands on the muddy street. A young boy kept listless guard, half-asleep, leaning on the fence that partially divided the compound. Several traders were storing their wares in the cramped space between wooden buildings.

Most of the other women in the cage were general stock from the local populace: Shank women of the Hill tribes who had been sold for debts by their own relatives. They were used for general labor and household duties with few being young or tender enough to be considered for brothels or concubines. A handful, like the nameless one, were captives from far flung regions, usually seized via warfare and passed through the markets as slightly more prized offerings due to their exotic nature. However, the best spoils rarely made it to these types of places.

The unnamed girl was a rare gem, and she knew it but had wisely managed to keep herself from being noticed. Until those wise eyes finally picked her out from the others.

“That one,” an old crone pointed her finger directly at the huddled slave. She kept her head pushed against the other girl, trying to ignore the attention.

The boy guffawed, “Dumb ol’ witch. That’s just some Esperian squaw. Look at her ribs. She won’t live through winter.”

He squealed when the slaver cuffed him into the mud.

“I’m trying to make a sale, boy. I’m taking any loss of profit out of your pay, and maybe some interest from your backside,” the angry slaver who had just come up shouted. He, of course, agreed with the assessment, but it was bad business to denigrate ones wares in the open. He bowed to the old crone, a grey haired woman in a modest outfit hunched over a walking stick. “My apologies. Difficult to find good help in these territories, I fear.”

“Nevertheless, I will take that one,” the woman said, firmly. Her eyes were surprisingly clear and sharp as they gazed from behind wrinkled eyelids.

This momentarily triggered the merchant’s innate sense of greed as his intuition suggested that his piss poor day might be improving. He offered, “I’m having a special, and the boy wasn’t entirely wrong. I’ll let you have both the girls to make it a fair deal for an even weight of hard coin or the equivalent in trade if it passes muster, but I fear I can’t accept credit or local currency.”

“I have metal, don’t worry. Silver will work, eh? I only need the one,” she clucked, rattling her purse. If the slaver was curious as to why an old woman, alone and with no apparent connection to any liege or clan to protect her, was wandering about the corrupted hills with hard coin, the slaver didn’t ask or wonder. It was usually best not to wonder too much into other people’s business, as the slaver had learned that it lead to a longer life. He took the coins without further ado, greedily pressing them together to feel them. The girls were worth hardly more than a few bits on a good day, he thought. They had been sickly the entire trip from where he had picked up the whole lot from auction further south from a bankrupt caravan, and the good wenches had already been set aside in his private quarters for direct sales. The slaver was not above testing his wares.

The slave girl hissed, but the boy had a metal prod he liked to use indiscriminately. She acquiesced as the boy pointed for the two young women to get out. The two held each other up as they stepped from the opened cage. The Shank women just stared at them dully, without emotion or goodbyes.

The boy shackled them together and passed the keys over to the old crone. The other girl with the nameless one was actually Esperian and had a chronic case of some lung disease. Although they looked similar at first, any one with discerning eyes could see beyond the caked mud and offal that the short-cropped girl was actually a fine beauty despite her weakened state. The slaver, usually a better judge, had been in a hurry, passing over the gem without inspecting her closely. A suspicion rose up in him as the old woman led her new charges away, but he was distracted by a new group of customers who had wandered into the lot.

“Looking for hard laborers? I have just brought in a fresh gang from the Breaks. They can dig, chop wood, mine, anything you need strong arms…” He’d already forgotten about the old crone and the two useless slaves.

A few blocks from the slave market, the old crone seemed to gain a step. In fact, her back straightened a bit as she walked. She took the key and unchained the Esperian. In a stronger voice, the woman ordered, “I don’t need the dead weight. Off with you, girl. You’re free.”

The girl looked stricken. Her already pale skin turned white. Her bare ribs heaved as she wailed, “I’ll starve, mistress! I have nothing and no one here. You will be sending me to my grave. If you have any mercy, then just cut my throat.” She began coughing again, spitting blood. People walking by gave them a wide birth. Some made hand gestures to ward off evil spirits.

The nameless one finally spoke, though she didn’t speak the local tongue fluently, “Yes. Together. If throw her away, I go also!”

The old woman took a moment to decide, hissing, “All right. We are attracting too much attention here. But what this girl has will kill her, sooner than later.”

The woman had rented a property a mile’s walk from the center of the town. It may have been a fine manor at one point though now quite run down. Still, it was habitable and quite an improvement from the tents and cages the two slaves had been accustomed to for the past several weeks on their journey north.

Inside, the woman set aside her cane and cloak. Instead of looking elderly, she now appeared to be a weathered lady of middle years. She stoked the fire in the main room, giving the two girls blankets to warm themselves beside it. An old animal skin kept them separated from the cold floor. The room was large, but spare. Dusty trophy heads hung on the walls. It was ugly, but the first true home the noble slave had occupied in a few years.

She helped the sickly Esperian lie down, offering her a sip from some water she found. Their new owner had stepped into another room, minding some unknown business.

The girl, known as Maritia, coughed, spilling water and spittle, “I think the lady is a witch.”

“Yes,” the nameless one agreed in her own tongue: “A sorceress.”

Mari shook her head, not comprehending the foreign word, “An ill fortune, either way. You still have a chance. Run away, Gyoza. The door isn’t locked, I saw.”

The noble slave shook her head, “No. I stay with you.” She didn’t correct the pet name her friend had given her, for the dumplings she had craved.

When the door flung open, the two girls were startled, but it was the old woman, bringing two cups of broth for them. She said, “Here, it will give you strength. This one has a certain tincture that will help with the cough.” Mari wrung her nose at the medical smell from her bowl, but hunger overcame her reluctance. Indeed, it seemed to help, allowing her to relax for the first time in days. The girl fell fast asleep, her cough quelled.

“So, Gyoza, shall I make some dumplings for you?” the old witch winked. The slave almost spit out her broth as the woman continued, “I have good ears. Let’s call you Piro, instead. Don’t worry, I don’t care where you are really from. There is a bath and fresh clothes. Your friend can get cleaned up later.”

Piro, as she was now called, did not ask the sorceress what she was up too, but she had certain ideas. She was grateful not to be locked in a cage or at the mercy of the menfolk. As the days passed, her body filled out from the food and the rose returned to her cheeks. Unfortunately, Mari’s cough gradually returned although her condition was otherwise improved.

Out of earshot, the old woman, who called herself Noma, explained, “The tincture is only good to soothe not to cure. There is none I am knowledgeable about, in terms of cures.”

“What about other things?” Piro asked.

“Those things are forbidden in most places and would have the likes of me burned,” Noma chuckled. “Though I am pretty tough. Let them try. In any case, I do not have the materials to spare for that, nor are they easy to acquire. Just asking for some of them would have the militia at our door, even in this relatively lawless territory.”

Piro and Mari had both tacitly accepted that they were not to leave the property, though in the latter case the girl had little strength or motivation to be very active. She lay abed while her friend cared for her and they practiced the regions common tongue together to pass the time. The sorceress hid herself away for much of the day, working on some unknown project in a private chamber that she kept bolted.

Mari had joked, “An old witch and two virgins. I’d say from the fairy tales that at least one of us will be made into a pie or worse.”

Piro was not familiar with the references, but she could imagine the dark secrets of sorcerers and their ilk. No person of common sense would feel totally safe in the haven of one. Of course, different cultures had their own opinions on the matter. If Piro was in the thrall of the woman, she dared not test it, although she had only given them kindness, so far.

Time passed. No one questioned Noma’s source of income, as she kept them housed and fed in the old mansion. Winter changed to spring as Mari grew weaker, permanently abed, lowering the spirits of her only friend who tried to keep the dying girl comfortable.

Finally, on a particular day, her hands were especially cold as Piro held them. Wheezing as she struggled to breath, Mari said, “I wish I was as beautiful as you. Now that your hair has grown out…”

Piro hadn’t cried then, and when it became time to sit alone on the porch after her friend had finally passed, she held back her tears. It had been years since she had wasted any water in grief, for there weren’t enough the world to account for all that she had lost already. Mari had been having a tough time, gasping like a dying trout as her lungs had filled up. With nothing else to help, Noma had given Piro a small bottle of some fluid, warning, “Give her a few drops of this. It will ease her breathing, but when she sleeps, she will most likely not awake. It’s a concentration of the same extract. Wash your own hands after administering it, as it is very potent.”

Nodding, Piro had offered it to Mari who had desperately accepted the drug as if knowing it would bring the final relief she needed. Her thin face had looked peaceful at last as she had fallen into sleep although slow tears had filled her half-closed eyes. Her wheezing had rapidly settled into gasps that gradually waned until only her mouth moved in a hopeless reflex. Her jaw, after a while, had opened like a yawn for a brief moment, and then stopped half-closed. Piro had put her own head up against the poor girl’s bosom, clutching at her friend’s hands, but she had been unable to feel a breath or heartbeat after that point.

Noma had arranged for men to bury the poor slave girl in a potter’s field close by, as the mansion owner would not approve of a graveyard on their property. Piro stood outdoors for the first time, other than the grounds of the house proper, in weeks. She laid flowers on the fresh grave as Noma stood watch. The workmen left them alone, although they took sidelong glances at the young woman. She was clothed in a plain country dress, a stitched, fur-lined jacket made from cheap pelts, and a worn muffler as well as a scarf that covered most of her head, but the men could tell that she had a fine figure and her plump cheeks were far more refined than the average village woman of the region.

“Daughter of some baron or wealthy trader, maybe?” one whispered to the other.

“I’ve never seen her about before today. The old woman has been renting the Counselor’s old place for half a year now. Maybe a broke family sold her to the old hag.”

“The old woman scares me. Better not to poke too much into her business,” the other made a warding sign. “I’d burn some incense if I were you.”

“Superstitions, old man,” the first man ribbed him.

Indeed, it was a risky time for two women to be living alone; however, there was only one attempt at burglary that ended with the hoodlums running away without any gain. Piro never asked what had kept them from completing their mission, or why the townsfolk gave the mansion a wide berth, but it meant things were quiet and peaceful so she didn’t care.

One day, there was a delicious smell in the house as Noma had decided to cook again after a long while. Piro had, on her own, decided to keep up appearances as a household servant that included doing most of the chores and preparation of meals. The older woman had been an indifferent cook, seeming relieved when Piro had offered to take over the position. Piro had been cleaning the upper floors when she’d noticed the smell.

Noma smiled at her, eyes twinkling, as she announced, “Today is a special day. I am making what I promised long ago. Steamed dumplings. I hope you like garlic.”

They shared the dumplings in a rich soup. It wasn’t the same as the type Piro recalled from her childhood, when she had eaten them fried, but it was close enough. She let the smell fill her nostrils as she slurped up each dumpling, the hot filling almost burning her tongue as the packets of dough broke open in her mouth. The once nameless slave ate until she felt her belly would burst. They shared some wine from a dusty bottle Noma had retrieved from the cellar.

Piro had suspected everything was too good to be true, but when she fell asleep at the table, the dreams she had were all pleasant ones.

When she awoke, she was in a different place. It took her a moment to realize what was happening: she was strapped to hooks drilled into the floor of a large room. She recognized the ceiling as being the same style as the rest of the mansion but the room was not familiar. It was one of the forbidden rooms that had always been locked by Noma, day and night.

There were candles everywhere around her nude body, as well those in sconces and wall fixtures but also an assortment of large wax cylinders of varying sizes placed at random intervals on the floor as well as any open surface. It would be a pleasant scene except for the fact that Piro could not move. The thin straps were not that strong, she simply had no energy to fight even the weakest of bonds.

Piro finally noticed the sound, a thin droning voice that was interrupted by an occasional ringing of a bell. She then realized that above her head, though not quite in full view, someone in a cloak was reciting some ritual.

“Noma?” she croaked. “Noma!”

The figure ignored her for a long time until ringing a bell one last time. Turning around, the cloaked person was indeed the old sorceress. Her eyes were cold, though Piro could see some of the warmth in the older woman’s cheeks. Noma spoke, “As you can see, this has always been your true purpose ever since I spotted you in the market. No, I don’t care about which decrepit kingdom birthed you or any ransom that could be paid. I am after something greater.”

“I assume you’re doing the things that everyone fears witches do. Evil rites to bring forth demons.”

“You speak much better now,” Noma said with some warmth returning to her voice. “In other situations, I’d make you my apprentice, but you are too valuable for that.”

“A sacrifice then? Of a virgin?” She stared numbly up at the ceiling. It was old and cracked.

“Indeed. Blood of a virgin. When dealing with higher powers, one must follow their whims, as odd as those may seem, for I don’t know what is so special about a virgin’s blood, honestly. Or even noble blood. With clean living, good food and a selective marriage, anyone can be a noble after a generation or two.”

Piro was curious despite her predicament, “As a sorceress, didn’t you study such things?”

“Oh, my girl, I studied how to do certain things, not why,” the older woman laughed. “Why is for philosophers. A magician is only interested in getting results, and so far, I had been getting nowhere with the usual methods. So, dark and arcane, it is. This one is one of the darkest of magics. You should be honored. In the old days, virgins were given to volcanoes or devoured by beasts for mundane hopes and dreams. I just need to spill the blood in your body at a specific time, specific season, in a specific way in order to call forth an old god to our world. Why that will work, I have no idea. But think about it, a god!”

“But if it doesn’t, I’ll be just as dead,” blurted Piro.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Noma said, preparing a wicked looking dagger. “Don’t worry. It will be quick. I have to do it at the ‘stroke’ of midnight. The thing is I don’t happen to have a proper clock, so I am preparing another special magic to tell me when we hit the furthest part of night away from the sun. Normal timekeepers are terribly inaccurate anyways, so we will not rely on them to announce the proper moment.”

As Noma fiddled with her books, beakers and mysterious bottles of reagents, Piro grew chilled on the cold floor. There were crumbs from past meals and empty plates added to the clutter on the counters in the room. Piro feared that rats would be attracted to the mess. Many of the candles grew short and the shadows grew darker in the corners of the room. Piro pleaded, “How much longer? I’m freezing. Please let me have a blanket, at least.”

Noma muttered, frustrated, tossing down an expensive looking brass instrument onto her workbench, “I can’t discern the instructions for this device. Apparently, I must make use of the night sky to calibrate it, but it’s been cloudy all week and I haven’t had a chance to test it.”

“Haven’t you been preparing all these months?”

“Yes, of course. But I didn’t expect this part to be so complicated,” she scratched her head. “Ah, a timepiece will have to serve after all. We have an hour until it strikes midnight. Speaking of tests, I should draw some blood in order to check some things.”

Piro asked, alarmed, “What?”

“I only need a few drops,” the so-called sorceress pulled out the evil blade. “I only have the one chance until next year, and finding another virgin with noble blood…”

Piro squealed as Noma pricked one of her palms, collecting the blood in a glass cylinder. Whispering some memorized spell, Noma placed careful drops onto the floor around Piro’s body. In the candlelight, the girl could discern faint markings but could not get a grasp of the pattern on the floor. Knowing nothing of the arcane arts, she had previously ignored the strange drawings. She noticed now that papers plastered up on the walls had similar designs and writing in some foreign script.

As Noma proceeded with her strange ritual, Piro thought she felt warmth under her body. In fact, there was a distinct smell, like something foul was burning.

“Is that hell?” she asked. Noma ignored her, but seemed pleased.

Finally, Noma clasped her hands in glee, “I can see it! The patterns are coming alive, though faintly. Even with only that much blood, the Gate is being established!”

“How much will you need for the real thing?” Piro asked without much hope.

“All of it, of course,” Noma responded. “I’m sorry it has to be. I’ve grown fond of our time together but this day was inevitable.” She took a grease pencil and marked off spots on Piro’s chest and abdomen.

“But what will you gain from all this? Demons from hell? You’d rule the world with them?”

“No, no. I just want to pact with a god. A God king to be exact. He is not a demon, at least not the type in the old stories. The stink of brimstone is just a reaction, not the actual fires of hell, if there is one. I do not seek power for myself. I only want justice!”

The smell continued to grow and the warmth started to become uncomfortable. Piro struggled against her bindings but her strength was still gone. Whatever she had been drugged with was still mostly in effect. She pleaded once again, “It burns. I thought you took a small amount. And the room seems brighter.”

Noma looked around, puzzled. She got up suddenly, placing the knife on a counter, and began flipping pages from one of her books. She said, “It’s too early. The Gate opening is said to be ponderous. Each seal must be anointed with blood in a certain sequence while the hour strikes midnight.” She shook the timepiece and looked at it in consternation. “It may be striking now. The mechanism hasn’t been fed enough. Where’s the winding key? No. If I miss the timing, it will all be for nothing. I was supposed to collect the blood in advance but it may be too late!” She took the knife, wild eyed, and pricked the wrists of the helpless girl, who screamed. The blood that spilled onto the writing on the floor flared instantly into light and smoke. Choking, the sorceress found a cloth to soak up the blood instead of trying to collect it in vials. In a furious motion, she squeezed the blood from the cloth onto various points of the floor in a specific pattern.

There was a roaring sound, like rushing wind. Suddenly, the bloodied girl began to rise from the floor as some invisible pressure seemed to be pushing her up. Her restraints had already fallen away or turned to smoke. A scorching heat made the sorceress retreat. She threw open a window in order to relieve herself from the churning smoke, but this action seemed to enrage the invisible fire. The room was filled with light. Papers on the counters spontaneously turned to ash.

It appeared that the girl was the center of the flame, one that burned so hot that Noma could no longer approach her. She was barely hanging on to life behind the farthest counter, trying to avoid the heat that now filled the room. Oddly, the place had not gone up into a total conflagration as yet. It was a mystical fire, Noma realized, not a physical one although her skin seemed convinced and her precious books and items had succumbed much the same. The light filled the room from all directions. Noma blinked tears from her eyes, but a sense of triumph filled her heart: it was working! The Gate was being established.

She called out, “Oh, Great one! I call thee to this world. At my command, I propose a pact!”

From the roaring wind that was not wind, she finally heard a deep voice, “Who calls, and for whom?”

“I am Noma Phrank of the ancient line of the old world. I call for the old king, Oberon, to rise again and take back his claim, his throne! To whom do I speak?”

“I am the voice of the Gate. Oberon? Oberon? Who calls for Oberon? The Merovingian?”

“Yes! I call for the great king, Oberon!” She had no idea what the voice of the Gate was. Perhaps it was a minor daemon of some sort or an elemental being. Some of the old books had said it was important to bind it by name, but she hadn’t fully explored that line of research. No matter, she thought, the spell was working regardless.

“A sacrifice must be made. A life for a life!” The voice cried.

“But I have given you a life!” Noma exclaimed, but the strange voice kept repeating its demands. She peered at the unmoving body of Piro. The girl was still whole, she realized. Even the wounds from earlier were gone. Grasping the knife, Noma realized she had to take the girl’s life with a clean stroke before the Gate closed. She probably only had moments at best. Struggling to reach the hapless girl, Noma faltered, stumbling back. The heat and pressure from the invisible wind was too much. She had mistimed the procedure and missed her best chance. A thought wormed in the back of her mind that, perhaps, she had been tricked somehow, nevertheless, if she did not do something quickly, she was going to fail!

“Wait! I have a life, just wait!” The chanting voice ignored her, gradually weakening. She shouted, “I have called, so you must obey the contract!”

“The token you have given so far is not enough,” the voice said, whispering now. Whatever the being was, it wasn’t being intentionally obtuse. It clarified, “I sense two suitable lives…”

Noma sighed, acknowledging what the voice meant. She chuckled to herself, “I guess it was inevitable. Piro, if you can hear me, thank you. Take care. Oh, warden of the Gate! I will trade my life for the Great King. I only ask that he fulfill his promise to the world, and make it his own as the true ruler. Piro, you shall see a better world before I. Follow the King, and he will lead you to splendor, I promise it.”

The light seemed dimmer now, time was short. Noma grimaced, holding the knife before her, reversed. With one last self-admonishing curse under her breath, she plunged the knife into her own throat and fell writhing onto the glowing script as her blood gushed over it. The whole room suddenly filled with the pure light that spread to every corner like an irresistible torrent obliterating all reason and sense.

From the memoirs of L.C. Sydney, Historian:

All it took was a little bit of the corruption, and that which was feared came to pass. No one could recall the exact moment the crack had opened. Maybe someone had seen it and given warning. Maybe a few, wise few, had seen it all coming and made efforts to stop it but when the great Fall came at last there was nothing Man could do. Hence, our reign went into eclipse with barely a whimper as darkness fell upon the land. For the average folk, surprisingly, little changed in their miserable lives as the demonic folk took what was once their birthright. Poor Reason, pale and fair, was hanged from a tree, much as the other fellow had been but where his flesh and blood had given grace, there was none left of hers to even remember.

No longer is it the Age of Man, but now it is the Age of the Corrupted One who rules without mercy for an interminable future. In this remote place of exile, far from my ancestral home, I write in the gloom with my febrile hands not for any cause or even useful witness for some better age, for there shall be none in our lifetimes, but merely to alleviate my own boredom as my eyes weaken as fast as my wits.

There are many who would wish to forget the terrible knowledge I have gathered over the years. What good is it to know if it cannot change the course of events? Yet, I am compelled to record this information for my own satisfaction. It is my own selfish whim.

Perhaps, it began in that lawless frontier, where the snow birds still stopped on their way back home. I heard this story from a traveler, but at the time, I had no idea of its meaning…