Chapter three: Summoning a Hero (Patreon)

Left, jingle. Right, jingle.

My feet, bloody and dirty, plod the ground in time with the sound.

Left, jingle. Right, jingle.

My eyes carefully roam the dirt, making sure that each step avoids sharp rocks and branches.

Left, jingle. Right, jingle.

The sound of chains rattling can be heard in rhythm to my step… ’or are my steps to the rhythm of the sound?’

Left, jingle. Right, jingle.

My gaze rises from the forest floor and I look to my right. [Slaves], cuffed and collared, dressed in tattered clothing, trudge beside me.

Left, jingle. Right, jingle.

The chains connecting them to one another rattle, a saddening reminder of what they are; of what they’ve been forced to become.

A [Slave]… One of the most common classes in the world; one of the most abused. The class is gained when you are treated like a thing for an extended period of time. A class many are born into… a class I have been lucky to not have obtained. Not yet, at least.

Left, Jingle. Right, Jingle.

I turn my eyes away from the [Slaves], looking back down, only to be greeted by the sight of my bloody and bruised legs once more.

‘Maybe the class wouldn't have been so bad…’ I think, remembering the skills that [Slaves] gain as they level.

‘[Thick Skin] or [Pain Tolerance] would have been useful skills to have had for the past year.’

Yes, I have been a slave for only a little over a year, sold by my own monastery.

A monastery devoted to the Valkyrie Goddess Eir, A goddess of healing.

Tears form as I remember the [Mercenaries] bursting into my room and forcefully collaring me.

How they dragged me out of bed in only a nighmmtgown…

My hands move to my neck, touching the enchanted collar still firmly wrapped around it.

Left, jingle. Right, jingle.

No chains are needed for this collar. The enchantments on it are more than enough to force my obedience.

Left, jingle. Right… Thump!

“Ah!”

I stop and quickly turn towards the sound, fearing maybe a monster or predator has ambushed us.

The [Slaves] have all stopped. Their eyes are focused on a young girl with cat ears and a long slender tail.

She’s a cat demihuman, one of the most common slave commodities. The catkin are stronger than humans physically and have far better senses. Unfortunately, they can’t channel enough mana to cast more than the most basic of spells so they are the lowest and cheapest of [Slaves].

The hooded figures who had been leading the procession quickly converge upon the fallen catgirl.

‘All of them are [Mages].’

The [Mage] class is common in the central continent, but extremely rare in the borderlands. It’s one of the most powerful and diverse classes, with many specializations at the higher levels.

One of the older [Mages], possibly also a [Slaver], looks up from the girl on the ground. His eyes roam until they meet mine.

“[Priestess]!” he yells, then points at the girl on the ground.

“Heal her!” he orders.

I nod and quickly rush towards the girl, fearing punishment should I take too long.

As I get to her, I find that her left leg is twisted upwards and not inline. ‘She didn't trip.’

The girl, maybe 14 years old, is only skin and bones. A gaunt face, dirty body, dried blood by her crotch… She had been thoroughly abused recently, then forced to march through the forest exhausted and hungry.

‘Well, [Slaves] are always hungry.’

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I get on my knees next to the young girl, slightly sickened by her misshapen leg.

“This is going to hurt, but I have to position your leg correctly.” I say to the girl as I place my hand on her leg.

She bites her lip and nods back silently.

‘She must have the [Pain Tolerance] skill to be so silent. Only a [Slave] of at least level twenty would have gained that skill from the world voice.’

With a small grunt, I straighten out her leg, only getting a whispered squeal in return.

Once the leg is positioned correctly, I place my hands on the injured section and concentrate on the mana coursing through my body.

“[Minor Heal]” I yell out, feeling my mana act at my call, flowing through my hand. I feel the activation of my other skill, [Blessing of Eir], which enhances my healing by two tiers.

The wound on the girl's leg slowly starts to mend itself, finishing in mere minutes instead of the hours it would have taken if I did not have a blessing.

The light fades from my hand as exhaustion strikes me.

With a sad smile, I slowly stand up, wobbling slightly.

The girl, curious, feels her leg, realizes the pain is gone. She looks up to me, a smile blooms on her lips. “Thank you,” she says, grateful for fixing her leg and stopping the pain.

Testing her leg, she stands back up to the amazement of the other [Slaves] who have never seen a true healer at work. ‘Probably used to getting cheap concoctions from herbalists. If that.’

“Good, you're healed. Now get back in line. I will give you your punishment tonight.” the hooded man states.

Without another word, he leaves, the other [Mages] following behind.

As one, the line of [Slaves] continues on toward whatever location the hooded [Mages] have planned. I stumble along with them, fighting exhaustion as it creeps through me.

**************

For many, the night is a time to forget about the hardships of the day. It’s a time to relax and let sleep take you. A time to escape from the perils of life.

‘Unless you are a [Slave].’ Jessica laments.

The light of the moon descends into the clearing, casting shadows that move with the breath of the wind as it ruffles the trees. In the center of the clearing, three tents are pitched for the [Mages] to sleep in. The chains, connected to the slaves, are wrapped around the trees surrounding the camp.

Most [Slaves] shiver from the cold breeze of the night. Some are close enough to huddle together for warmth, their eyes filled with fear and hunger. Others have been fully broken. They stare forward, unmoving, their eyes empty and faces unreadable.

As for me, I place my back against the lee of my tree, hug my knees against my chest, unable to fall asleep as I listen to the screams and cries of the unfortunate slaves taken into the warm tents.

Yes, from the tents I hear screams of pain as the masters slake their sadistic and sexual desires on the women they have taken for the night.

I turn my head, looking towards the largest tent, the source of the loudest shrieks. That is the leader's tent. The leader is a powerful old [Necromancer] who has surpassed level 100, a major milestone for a human since it means their life has more than doubled in span.

Two massive guards stand outside his tent. Wrapped in dark coverings and over eight feet in height, they stare silently into the night, unmoving like statues.

The only hint they are not statues is the glow from their eye sockets.

A menacing green light flickers within the skeletal heads of the twin abominations, their bony exteriors hidden by thick cloth. Each clutches a massive greatsword, ready to be used against beast or [Slave] alike.

With a shivering breath, I hug my legs tighter and bury my head against my knees as I attempt once again to ignore the cries.

“Eir… give me strength.” I pray to my goddess, constantly repeating the words I have been taught since I was young. Only after the cries die down is the reprieve of sleep granted to me.

**************

A week has passed. The feeling of… wrongness has increased every single day. The [Slaves] shiver from a vague sense of dread, and the younger [Mages] twitch with unease.

‘We are getting closer to our destination.’

Looking forward, I see a wall of gray fog. It looks merely odd at a first glance, to those who know about the cloudbank, the oddity becomes a terror. The land is known as Vetiti Spiritus, a place where anything that enters will never return, a place where damned souls reside.

A place where even the gods refuse to tread.

‘Why are we here? This place only brings death. Do they plan to enter the fog? Are they mad?’

“Eir, protect me.” I whisper a silent prayer to my goddess, dearly hoping she is listening and will guide me through this hardship.

Within the hour, we are close enough to the fog that the feeling of unease has grown into mortal terror.

Wailing comes from the fog. Sinuous shadows of massive, flying serpents eddy and whirl with the moving mists which curl and swirl as though restrained by some unseen barrier.

“Whaaaaaaaaaaa…”

The beastly wails reverberate not through the air, but through our souls, striking something deep and fundamental inside us. It’s a cry of unending hunger and pain, born from all the lives consumed by the great cloud.

Looking around, the [Slaves] are just as uncomfortable as I am. They keep taking quick glances at the fog, terrified by the shapes moving within, and shiver and whine in fear.

Another hour passes and I glimpse an old stone structure between the trees, half sunk into the ground. The structure is old and degraded, the masonry cracked and in places, tumbled down. Moss and vines cover the walls and roof, exploiting the cracked stone.

As we approach, the sepulchral building turns out, indeed, to be a sepulchre.

The mages herd us into a small clearing before the abandoned mausoleum.

The leader of the mages, a hunched old man, directs one undead forward. The monstrosity, carrying most of the [Mage]'s gear, unsheathes its sword and walks forward. With a strong powerful swipe, the sword strikes the degraded door, ripping vines and old wood apart. Four more swipes later and the entrance is finally clear.

The leader removes his hood and turns to the procession of thirty [Slaves]… formerly forty a few weeks ago.

His face, wrinkled beyond belief, looks towards the other mages. His eyes blaze with hunger and anticipation.

“My students, the time of reckoning is upon us.” he says fervently, standing near the entrance.

The other [Mages] look to their leader, hanging on to his every word.

“For too long, we have hidden and run from the powers which hunt us. For too long, [Mages] such as us, who have devoted their lives to the dark arts, have been persecuted and shunned.”

He stops, eyeing the students before him… a manic smile blooms upon his visage.

“But we are not alone!” he continues. “For the Dark God Loki has sent revelation to me” he spreads out his arms, “and has blessed me with a skill!”

The man’s palms burst into a green light, mana brimming with intense power.

“I have been given the skill… [Summon Hero]!”

Gasps resound throughout the [Mages], my own included.

“That's a legendary skill!”

“Who is Loki?”

“Why have you not told us this sooner?”

Questions upon questions are asked by the students, but I ignore them as I reminisce about the stories of [Heroes]. Tales of dragons hunted, evil destroyed, of lives saved. Stories that we tell to every child. Stories of the saviours we believed when we were young.

Legendary Skills, the highest ranked skills, are so rare that only [Kings] and [Emperors] from ancient bloodlines can hope to have one.

‘Who is this God, Loki, and how can he give someone such a powerful legendary skill? Such a skill must cost an enormous amount of mana requiring many high level [Archmages] to cast and sustain.’

The elder nods at an older student, the same one who had ordered me to heal the slave a week prior… the same one who had ended the [Slave]'s life the same night.

The student flicks back his hood, revealing his scarred face, all the hair is missing from his head except for a few long stands.

He takes a step forward, looking at the exhausted [Slaves] as they stand, afraid and confused.

OBEY

The word slams into my mind, but does not take hold, unlike those who have the [Slave] class.

The [Slaves] immediately freeze up. Their eyes turn a milky white as their will is overridden.

‘Not just a [Mage], but a high level [Slaver] as well?’

“Follow.” he commands, turning around and entering the building.

The [Slaves] soundlessly start walking in an orderly line after their master.

As the last [Slave] enters the building, the young [Mages] attempt to follow, but the old man stops them as he moves his body to block the entrance.

“Unfortunately, the concentration required for the summoning ceremony is too great. I must ask you all to stay outside and guard the entrance. I must not be interrupted at any cost.”

The [Mages] frown. They want to see history in the making, but they nod obediently, unwilling to offend their teacher and leader.

The old man grunts and turns his eyes towards me. I shiver at the sight of his face. One eye is completely blackkoened, the other is turning gray. His gaze… so unfeeling and disconnected.

“[Priestess], your services will be required inside.”

Without hesitation, I walk forward, past the old man and into the building. Steps spiral downwards. Strengthening my resolve, I start to descend.

The footsteps of the elder and his two undead echo behind me.

*************

After minutes of traveling ever downward and I find myself entering a massive marble chasm. In the center of the chasm is a flat, circular indentation that looks as though it was carved into the ground. The [Slaves] stand around the circle, completely naked, eyes downcast and devoid of any emotion.

The [Slaver]’s eyes turn to me.

“[Priestess], come forward and sit over there,” he points fallen marble pillar in a corner.

Nodding, I walk to the spot and sit on the cold marble. I suppress a shiver.

__

The elder finally enters, his old age slowing him down. The two undead follow behind him, their large mass creating a discernible sound with every heavy step.

“Father, the time is almost upon us,” the larger [Mage] says as he stands near the slaves. With a fluid motion, he pulls out a dagger from a sleeve of his robe.

“Yes, Beurnin, we should start preparing very soon. This spell Loki has given me costs an astronomical amount of mana.” the old man shakes his head, “I just wonder why we needed to use the spell here of all places, and why it needs to be done at such a specific time.”

Beurnin frowns. “The gods work in mysterious ways. Loki may know something we do not.”

He looks at his reflection in the polished metal of his knife. “Regardless, father, Loki has not steered us wrong thus far. He has helped you make many strides in your pursuit of power. I believe you are level 132 now. Forty levels is a rather impressive growth in merely a year.”

The elder grunts in acknowledgment, unable to refute his son’s logic. Reaching level one hundred and claiming the class [Necromancer], an upgrade to his [Dark Mage] class, was one of the best days of his life.

The elder reaches out his hand. “Staff.”

One of the undead immediately digs deep into a bag on its back and retrieves a long wooden stick with a jeweled skull on top.

It’s a powerful artifact which will greatly strengthen his control over his mana and make possible the spell to be cast.

“Prepare the blood.”

Beurnin twirls his knife then slits the throat of a [Slave]. Her blood pours quickly out of her neck, down her body, and onto the marble floor.

___

I swallow the bile rising out of my stomach as I watch Beurnin systematically walk from [Slave] to [Slave], slitting their throats.

I stare, horrified at the casual ease with which they can take life away.

Tears I try to stifle flow down my cheeks as I watch the slaughter, praying to Eir so that their souls may find salvation in their next life.

Thirty-two bodies fall to the ground. Their blood flows into the circle, collecting into a grisly reflecting pool.

“It is ready, father.” Beurnin exclaims as he bends down and tears a clean article of clothing from a [Slave]. It’s rare among the many bloodied rags. With two swift movements, he wipes the blood off of his dagger and resheathes it somewhere within his robe.

“Let it begin.”

The elder steps forward towards the bloody pool, his hands clasped firmly around his staff. With a grunt, he lifts his staff and slams the bottom end into the blood.

“Activate,” he whispers

The staff head starts to glow. Mana seeps down from the skull and into the blood. The blood glows and starts to bubble, almost as though it were boiling. Vapor rises from the pool, quickly flowing into the skull. The blood gradually thickens, congeals and dries.

Once all the blood has been dried, the elder picks up his staff and points the head forward.

He waits, eyes closed… one minute… two minutes… “[Summon Hero].”

My heart skips a beat as mana erupts from the skull, engulfing the room. With a quiet grunt from the old man, the mana converges back into the center. Green motes of mana start to spin, tracing out hundreds of complicated geometric shapes over the depression.

The location glows brighter and brighter till it becomes so unbearably blinding that I must look away.

And just as quickly, the light vanishes. I look back to the center and blink till my sight recovers.

A man… standing about six feet in height with bulging muscles… stands there, wet and naked. He holds out his hands, silently flexing them. A smile forms on his lips as his eyes scan his surroundings.

“и∙ё┘≥┘╒ё┴∙┤.” He says something in a foreign language as he looks towards the elder.

The elder, leaning on his staff as a crutch, exhausted from the summoning ordeal, smiles in return.

“Hero… I, Mordus… loyal servant of Loki… welcome you to our realm.” The old man exhales, shivering in ecstasy.

“Hmmm… I see. Good.” the man flexes his body, getting a feel for his muscles.

“It seems the summoning has been successful.” the man says, flexing his right hand. “You have performed admirably.” The man takes a step towards the elder and stretches out his right hand.

“Grab my hand. Loki has prepared a reward for you that he asked me to give you.”

Mordus, realizing the implications, wheezes as he stumbles towards the man, eyes filled with glee and expectation.

“Father, don’t. Something feels wrong!” Beurnin exclaims, watching the scene unfold.

Unfortunately, Mordus does not heed his son's words and extends his hand towards the naked man. The man grabs Mordus’ hand… and then yanks Mordus into him while also raising his knee at an incredible speed.

The knee contacts with Mordus’ face with a Crunch! Without breaking his fluid movement, the man rips the staff out of the elder's hand with his own left hand, cocks his left arm back, and hurls the staff, bottom forwards.

The staff rips through the air to penetrate Beurnin’s neck, disrupting the spell the man was preparing to cast.

With a short gurgle, Beurnin falls to the ground, dead.

My eyes are wide and my heart beats wildly.

‘What… What just happened?’

The man, still naked, turns to face me.

He lifts his hand up to his head and flicks back his shoulder-length black hair. He flexes all of his muscles, gracing me with a toothy smile.

“Why, hello there.” the words come out of his mouth.

I faint.