Danse des Morts

(Dance of Death)

Written by:

Todd Jones

Copyright 2004

Acknowledgements

Danse des Morts, being my first novel, has grown as I have grown; disjointed and unbridled at first, then eventually coherent and decisive with age. I am grateful for the time and insightful input my friends, as well as the members of the Online Writing Workshop for Science Fiction, Fantasy & Horror (http://sff.onlinewritingworkshop.com), have given me throughout the creation process. A special thank you goes out to Marc Reichardt, Walt Syroid and Sabrina Woodrow. They have spent countless hours, and I am sure many red pens, reading, and rereading, Danse des Morts.

I dedicate this book to Carolyn Jones, my lovely and patient wife. I could never have completed such a monumental task without your support.

Ode à la mort - première strophe (Part 1)

I am Death, born from you,

My tears I shed, like morning dew.

Life and death are in my hands,

I weave them together to form life's bands.

Vanity and wealth are left behind,

Tranquility comes to all in due time.

Equality I spread across the land,

Smoothing out hardships that still stand.

Natural balance I bring to view,

Easing the transition and guiding you through.

As the portal of life gently fades away,

Shed your sheath and let it decay.

Your body is rich and will be consumed,

Feeding the soil that help flowers bloom.

Your soul I set free to meander about,

You've created your judgment now hear it out.

I am Death and I've come to you,

Striving to set all things true.

My hands bestow mercy if given the chance,

Take hold of me now, so we may dance…

Prelude

1000 A.D. - General Tragath Kalstakor IV.

Decades give way to centuries, and yet our cause persists. Battles wage throughout our realm and the blood serves to feed our efforts. The Charcanians have held us down for too long. We will be suppressed no longer. The enigma of Danse des Morts has been revealed and finally the illusive splinter of their existence will be removed.

I have touched the material plane and felt its untapped power. The Charcanians will covet the souls of that realm no longer. They are fools to not feed off the men of that realm; letting their antiquated beliefs govern them. It will be their downfall. I will lead my people to ultimate victory. Our temples will fill with souls, our fountains overflow with energy and our enemies will cower under our newfound power.

Danse des Morts was never the issue; it was perfect as I had penned it centuries ago. It was my inability to focalize the energy that caused the rift to waver and inevitably fail. The solution was simple; find a focal point on the other side. To that ends I have been marginally successful. The Charcanians have thwarted my attempts to send the ritual through. Until today!

Once through, the hearts of men were easily corrupted. They sold their souls for pittance. Their lust for material possessions is their weakness. Let them have their wealth, for it is but a fleeting reward. I have bought my focal point to the material realm; the beacon that will guide my ritual to success; pulling my army through to their realm. Once the rift is open, we will have our source of energy to crush the Charcanians.

Even the greatest of plans, may be flawed and I would be a fool not to take precautions. I have entrusted my son, Angus, with the secrets of Danse des Morts and sent him into purgatory with the Dagger of Ahpuc. The Dagger possesses enough stored energy to make his journey to the material plane. If I fail this day, then he will take up the cause and ensure my work is not wasted. He is brash, as was I in my youth, but he is of my blood and will make a great leader when the time is right.

General Tragath Kalstakor IV

* * *

The storm continued to buffet the ancient, stone walls that comprised the oldest section of the Order of Anatomical Research. A young Samuel Mikhail took long, confidant strides down the corridor that lead to Saladin El-Kanar’s chamber. He could feel the bitter cold bight into the core of his bones, yet it did little to deter his purpose this night. The storm had been brewing for the better part of the night and most of the Order’s members had retired to the warmth of their beds early. The news had report that this storm was well on its way to putting the winter of ’65 in the history books.

It was just after midnight and Samuel was confident that prying eyes, and the Order had its share of them, would not bother him. He had learned early on in his twenty-five years that people were weak willed, preferring to follow rather than lead, like the two half asleep members that were assigned evening watch he had just passed in the general assembly hall. Most people preferred to follow rather than lead and few dared question one, like himself, that exuded confidence, especially when he was doing things he should not, or in places he was not allowed. Shepard or sheep, he often referred to people when he first met them. Saladin, his mentor for the last decade, was a Shepard. Samuel had learned so much from the elder over the years, yet Saladin coveted the one secret that Saladin sought; the forbidden ritual Danse des Morts.

Saladin’s chamber was located within the inner sanctum of the buildings that served as the Order’s private campus. Samuel thought of them like layers of a tree; one building constructed on the other, expanding outward from the original, yet keeping a distinct purpose within each. The outer most building served as the general assembly and public affairs. The next layer was used as dormitories and classrooms. Senior members were allowed in the proceeding layer and on the rare occasion that a junior member was permitted, they were under strict watch. The remaining layers was reserved for Saladin himself as the Order’s appointed Keeper of Secrets. His chamber was built on the remains of a Celtic church that had been razed by the Catholic church centuries ago.

Samuel looked at his watch and smiled. Saladin would be up to his neck in long-winded political opinions at the monthly meeting of the Order of Anatomical Research for several more hours. The Order’s higher escholon would argue over materialistic conquests well after dawn, which would give him plenty of time to find what he was looking for.

Samuel peered over his shoulder before sliding the duplicate key he had made into the lock opening the door. He stepped into Saladin’s chamber and shut the door behind him. His long, athletic legs propelled him purposefully across the chamber, his soft leather boots making little sound other than a slight scuffing noise as their hard leather heels struck the uneven wooden planks that comprised the floor. Samuel walked to a section of the bookshelves that lined the far wall, opposite the door, and pushed in a book titled, “A True and Faithful Relation of What Passed for Many Years Between Dr. John Dee and some Spirits.” A section of the bookcase pivoted toward him, swinging silently on hidden hinges. Samuel chuckled at the cheesy subterfuge. It reminded him of something out of a Vincent Price movie.

Behind the hidden door, was a small alcove with several lanterns that hung on large hooks that were set into the wall next to the door. Samuel took a lamp and lit it with one of the long wooden matches that were placed in an old soup can and tide to one of the hooks with string. The lantern’s light filled the alcove and revealed an ancient spiral stairwell that was cut from the earth itself and reinforced with wooden planks pounded into the walls. Samuel proceeded down the stairwell that led to Saladin El-Kanar’s private study.

Samuel hung the lantern on a hook that was set in the wall above an oak desk and chair and took in the room. Shelves bowed under the weight of the ancient tomes, scrolls and in some sections stone tablets that lined every wall of the roughly hewn twenty-by-twenty chamber. Samuel moved the chair away from the desk, as he has seen Saladin do one night when his mentor did not realize that he was tucked under the stairwell out of view. He got on his knees and moved a piece of the stone wall out, which concealed the metal safe that he sought.

A dark, feral grin crept across the youthful face of Samuel Mikhail when he heard the “click” of the safe’s locking mechanism. The two-by-two foot metal door of his mentor, Saladin El-Kanar’s, safe swung open and an eerie chill swept past Samuel, leaving his spin tingling. Samuel ran his finger’s through his thick, black hair, pulling it out of his face and felling the unusually greasy texture coat his hands. The few times he had been allowed in Saladin’s private study he had felt the oppressive swell of static in the room. As if the room, or something in it, beaconed for release. Samuel’s neatly plucked eyebrows mashed together as he squinted into the darkness of the safe. The safe’s only occupant was a single tome, which Samuel knew contained the ancient ritual of Danse des Morts. His skillful hand, the same hand that had saved so many lives as a doctor at St. Joseph's Hospital emergency ward, shook as he reached into the safe.

Samuel had worked his entire life for this moment, this power, this ritual. He had been recruited by Saladin when he graduated high school and indoctrinated into the Order as their youngest, and arguably their brightest, member at the mere age of fourteen. In the decade that Samuel served under Saladin, he had learned much of the inner workings of the organization, and especially of Saladin’s background. Rumors were that Saladin fled his Aramaic homeland due to the shame that had befallen him by his brother, Shaman. Shaman was condemned by the government for his religious beliefs and marked as one of their country’s most notorious serial killers. Scores of bodies were discovered in and around Shaman’s property. Declared insane by authorities for his use of human sacrifice and pictures published in newspapers across the land of a blood stained sacrificial alter that was found his basement.

“Years I’ve served that old fool and he never revealed the secret,” Samuel whispered to himself. Samuel’s eyes burned with an inner fire as they focused on the heavily bound volume. Embossed in the thick leather was a depiction of a skeletal figure leaning against a withered tree with a flute pressed to its lips. Amongst the tombstones that surround the figure were other smaller skeletons in the midst of a disjointed danced. Samuel traced a long, delicate finger over the arcane symbols that issued from the flute.

“The ancient ritual of Danse des Morts.”

---

is so simplistic, it can’t possibly work?” But if it did work, Samuel thought, letting his mind traverse the infinite possibilities that would be at his disposal. No more lectures to the simpletons that belonged to the Order of Anatomical Research. No more servitude to Saladin, who treated him like some incoherent lackey. He did not need the fools who lacked vision. He would show them what true power was.

“Look at the primal intricacies, so rough, so crude.” Samuel placed the journal back in its special compartment underneath the southern bookcase and carefully set the elaborate locking mechanism, as he had seen Saladin do the previous night when he had hidden himself under the man’s stairwell. Samuel collected his meticulous notes of the ritual and tucked them under his belt in the small of his back, then covered them with his robe. He scooped up his books and headed up the stairs.

"Samuel Mikhail!" Came The commanding voice of Saladin El-Kanar echoed down the ancient spiral stairs to run up the young man’s spine.

"Damn," Samuel Mikhail growled through clenched teeth from the small chamber below Saladin's study. Samuel had counted on the quarterly Head-Master’s meeting to keep his mentor occupied for the better part of the night.

“Saladin," Samuel said brightly as he climbed the stairs.

“It is Master Saladin," his mentor corrected, glowering down at him from the top of the stairwell.

“Of course, [you old fool] my apologies,” Samuel bent his head downward and coughed to obscure the smirk that crept up his face.

"What are you doing in MY library?" Saladin said, crossing his arms and impatiently tapping his foot on the wooden floor while the spry twenty-five-year-old Samuel climbed the last few steps of the ancient, spiral stairwell.

Samuel, nearly a foot taller than Saladin, could feel the man’s disapproving glare cast over him. He glanced into Saladin’s oversized eyes, which were set deep in his bushy, gray, browed face. The glare bore into him and suddenly Samuel felt his aspirations shrink inside of him. “He knows? No, how could he?” Samuel tried to think straight, but his thoughts were bouncing around in his head aimlessly.

"Er," Samuel’s voice squeaked through a suddenly dry mouth. Saladin’s squat figure gave him an owl-like appearance, yet the man’s presence seemed to fill the room and strengthen the shadows about him. Samuel involuntarily shriveled his gangly six foot frame and shifting his weight from side-to-side.

"Your reverence is lacking." The wizened man said, his eyes still locked on the youth.

Samuel ground his teeth together, anger swelling inside him at how he let the old man get to him. “Soon, I’ll no longer need to show respect to anyone.”

"I have cautioned you before about my private study." Saladin wagged a scraggly talon-like finger at the youth. "Ambition at the cost of prudence is fool-hearty."

"I know more than you think, old man," Samuel thought, but bit his tongue to keep quiet.

Saladin had been the keeper of the arcane library for the Order of Anatomical Research, since he was banished from the Jordanian Highlands in the late '30s. However, he did not leave his birthplace empty-handed; he smuggled several ancient sand scripts which outlined a ritual to raise the dead, based on an amalgamation of Egyptian, Aztec and Mayan ceremonies. Saladin was also a renowned mathematician, astronomer, cartographer and all-around wealth of arcane knowledge, which is what attracted Samuel to him. His dark skin, ominous demeanor and reclusive personality had given Saladin an air of mysticism in the Order, which provided him the opportunity to continue his studies with little interruption.

It had taken Samuel years to convince Saladin to take him on as a protégé and several more to gain his trust. As such, he absorbed every theory Saladin ever spoke, and some he never dared to utter. Saladin was brilliant: he was a master at summoning spirits, could employ even the most difficult necromantic arts, possessed an extensive knowledge of demonology and his theories on opening gateways to the underworld were astounding, although he rarely ever spoke of this later skill.

"Do not think I have not noticed you sneaking about. Like a mouse hunting for a morsel, you are."

"I merely mean to serve the Order to the best of my ability."

"You mean to serve yourself," Saladin thought, but said, "I know the knowledge which you seek."

"Knowledge is power."

Saladin raised an inquisitive eyebrow, "Yet the secrets to unlock the Watchtower gates are not yours to draw upon."

"And they are not yours to covet."

Saladin bunched up his face in a scowl at the boy who had become a man under his years of tutelage. "No man can delve into the chaotic depths of such things and keep his sanity."

"You have." Samuel said, eyes full of thirst, yet laden with frustrating and distain at his mentor's elusive nature. Over the last year, Samuel had grown to despise Saladin's lack of courage to implement his theories. The thought of possessing such power, yet allowing it to atrophy, ate at him. Saladin was a fool, he thought. He could rule the world with such knowledge, yet he boarded himself away like a hermit. Samuel, however, possessed enough audacity for both of them.

"That I have," the old man began, sucking his teeth in contemplation, "but only with decades of preparation and extreme caution. Even then, at times I find myself awakened by my own screams." He shook his head, which had become his customary response to his pupil whenever he broached the subject of the Ritual.

Saladin inwardly admired Samuel's impetuous nature, unbridled confidence and yearning for knowledge. He reminded him of his brother, Shaman. Too much like him, and that is what worried Saladin. Shaman was always the one to step without looking and that was his demise. One day, long ago, Shaman had invoked the surreptitious Danse des Morts ritual, thinking he was prepared, but he was not.

Saladin remembered with reluctance the fateful day he had watched in fascinated horror while his brother opened a portal to another dimension. They were young and full of bravado, foolishly believing they could do anything. At first, everything was going well; Shaman appeared to execute the ritual flawlessly, his wards held and the portal opened. But then, something went wrong. Saladin remembered how his stomach had knotted up, like someone was trying to pull his intestines out, forcing him to one knee for support. When he looked up, he could see clearly the distress in his brother's face as the portal's light expanded, drawing in power from the surrounding area. Shaman, being the closest to the portal, took the brunt of the effect; his face shriveled, like he was being dried out under years of intense sunlight in mere seconds and his body hunched over, drawing in upon itself.

Saladin remembered how he had tried to reach out for Shaman, crawling on his hands and knees toward him, but the closer he got the more intense the pain. Then the creature came. Its will was far more powerful than either of them could have ever imagined. It broke through Shaman's wards and clamped down on him. The creature was man-like in appearance, but that is where nature had ended and something demonic took over. Its claw-like fingers ripped into Shaman's chest and bit into his neck. Like some enormous leech it drank of his brother's essence; growing in size as it fed. Shaman, weak and disoriented, somehow broke free from the creature and began reciting the ritual backward. Saladin joined in and together the brothers banish the thing. But for Shaman, the banishment rituals expenditure of energy had depleted him. He perished in Saladin's arms; a shriveled husk of the man he had known.

"Some things are best left forgotten," Saladin scowled, the bad taste of his brother's memory dripping from his tongue.

"But-"

"No." Saladin's sharp, unyielding tone declared.

"Whatever," Samuel sighed softly under his breath.

"You will assist Master Kaladine with his research for a month."

"You're joking?" Samuel squawked.

Saladin glowered sidelong at the youth's disdainful outburst.

"Can't you find an initiate for such a menial task?"

"It will give you time to appreciate the privacy of MY LIBRARY." The small man's voice boomed throughout the chamber and his eyes reddened as the light in the room dimmed and the shadows darkened.

Samuel stepped backward, his hands reaching for the spiral stairwell's railing for support, almost dropping the books he unconsciously clenched in his arm.

Saladin grinned devilishly, he still knew how to put the youth in their place. The room brightened once again as Saladin took a calming breath. "I see that Dr. John Dee is the topic of your nightly scavenging." Saladin motioned at the selection of books that the young man had tucked neatly under his arm.

"Ah," Samuel tried to compose himself, looking blankly at the books in his arms and then back at his mentor.

Saladin reached out, "May I?"

Samuel handed the books over.

"A good read, 'A True and Faithful Relation of What Passed for Many Years Between Dr. John Dee and some Spirits.'"

"Presumably a level minded individual with grandiose aspirations, but little heart to act upon them," Samuel said, regaining his reproach.

Saladin blew dust off the cover and placed the book down on a small, oval, oak table.

"His writing was disappointing, at best." Samuel added, giving Saladin a sidelong glance as he moved to take a seat in the heavily padded, maroon leather chair opposite the table.

"'The Enochian Evocation', a most interesting work," Saladin said taking a seat next to the table. "You have been busy in your studies."

"Thorough."

"I have grown to expect nothing less of you." The elderly man leaned back in his chair and picked up his pipe from the glass ashtray next to where he set the books. He reached into his suit coat and retrieved a hand-sized pouch of tobacco.

Samuel nodded in acknowledgement.

Saladin skillfully packed the pipe and lit it taking a long draw.

"Our summoning rituals are fundamentally wrong," Samuel began, leaning forward in his chair.

"How so?"

"They merely allow glimpses into the plane of the dead."

"They serve a purpose," Saladin commented.

"They are limited to transcending only the conscious thought process of the afterlife."

"Few could comprehend more."

"True, but they are functionally inaccurate when it comes to channeling the true essence of a being."

"One should not delve into the metaphysics of the soul."

"It makes little difference what you call it; spirit, soul, chi or essence. It is the key energy in absolutely everything; people, dogs, plants, everything and it can be channeled back into the material world."

Saladin leaned back in his chair and waved Samuel to stop. It was not that Saladin was not interested in the topic, for he truly was, it was that he was frightened of the possibilities. Especially when it came to Samuel's calculating nature.

"The point is," Samuel began, "This cognitive, sentient essence of one's being is the untapped power that is required to fuel an opening to the afterlife."

"You speak in circles. Are you talking about summoning a being or powering magic through sacrificial offerings?"

"One can not exist without the other," Samuel said in his best impression of Saladin.

"You must stop this line of reasoning, for your own good."

"Nonsense,” Samuel barked, his face stiffening as the word tripped with contempt from his lips. “What of the mystical pillars of the Egyptians or the four elements of earth, wind, fire and air?”

Saladin shook his head left-and-right, gripping the armrests of his chair.

“You used to speak of them often when you first came here. I’ve you’re your lecture transcripts. I’ve seen your notes.”

“We must not talk of such things,” Saladin said, his voice hinting of a grave undertone. Talking with Samuel brought back thoughts of the debates he used to have many years ago with his brother. Saladin could see the same determined look in Samuel's eyes, he could no more talk the man down from continuing his research than he had his brother. Samuel would attempt the ritual, with or without his blessing, Saladin knew.

"And the four Watchtowers represented in Enochian squares, they have the most significant potential for success."

Inwardly Saladin ground his teeth, knotted his stomach and screamed at Samuel, but outwardly he said, "That is all well and good, but it is impossible to fully transcend the planes of existence."

"Have you tried?"

"It is too dangerous."

"But, you have spent your life researching such things!"

"That pursuit has reached its end.”

“How can you say that, your note-” Samuel cut his thought in mid-stream. He had seen the man’s secrete diary and knew better. The wily old Saladin had tried the ritual before, and almost succeeded, at least according to his journals. Then something happened that scared him. The fool had been so close. He would not give up so easily.

"If the gates could be opened, just a crack, think of the possibilities."

"Enough, I refuse to involve myself in another debate with you over this topic."

Samuel thrust himself deep into the back of the chair and folded his hands in front of his chest.

"Come now Samuel," Saladin said, smoke issuing forth from both nostrils as he spoke. "We have other things to discuss this evening."

Samuel said nothing.

"You completed your under-graduate at nineteen, medical school at twenty three and have been a resident for two years now."

"Two long years," the youth huffed.

"We have rectified that situation for you."

Samuel squinted inquisitively, "What do you mean?"

"You have been assigned to St. Joseph's Hospital as doctor Samuel Mikhail." The elderly man pulled an acceptance letter from inside his jacket pocket and unfolded it.

Samuel's eyes widened.

"Did you doubt that the Order would not take care of their own?"

"Well, I-."

"You earned it. You possess an innate ability to root out the heart of one's sickness."

Samuel cleared his throat, "It is about time."

"Follow your instincts, and you will do great things."

"If you only knew," Samuel thought, grinning inwardly, but said, "I know."

"Now, leave me to my thoughts." Saladin waved the youth away nonchalantly.

Samuel collected his books and headed off to his room.

"And stay out of my library."

* * *

"Samuel," the eager voice of Ye-Wang, an aspiring young apprentice, called from down the hall.

"What?" Samuel snapped over his shoulder, not bothering to look behind himself.

Ye-Wang hurried to catch up. "Wait up."

Samuel turned the corner and eyed his room's door at the end of the hall.

Ye-Wang's miniature sumo-wrestler physique, worked his sturdy legs feverishly to catch up with the taller Samuel.

"I," Ye-Wang panted. "got what you asked for-"

"Shhh!" Samuel said, nearly spraying spittle from his mouth.

Ye-Wang stopped short, "What's with you?"

"It's that damn Saladin."

"He could be a problem." Ye-Wang stroked his chin, as if in deep contemplation.

"Don't worry about him."

"But he's a master in the Order."

"I'll take care of that old fool."

Samuel took a deep breath and straightened his hair, then exhaled slowly. "Did you really get it?"

"Yep," The rotund figure eagerly chirped.

"Sure…sure thing," Ye-Wang said, following Samuel, like a lost puppy.

Samuel opened the door to his room and shoved Ye-Wang in. His room was the largest on the fourth floor of the Order's university. The Order of Anatomical Research had treated him well over the year's, yet their materialistic prizes held little luster compared to his own dreams. The order was well funded by its members and had contacts in most major cities, managed several private universities, multiple libraries and book stores, along with rental properties and owned one of the most successful ground's keeping companies, which specialized in graveyards, in the United States. He had to be careful not to burn too many bridges, for the order would come in handy in furthering his research, but Saladin would not fit nicely in his plans.

"Give it to me," Samuel demanded, clamping down hard on the smaller man's shoulder with one hand and opening up the other in anticipation.

"What…what about your promise?"

"Oh, yes. You'll get what I promised."

"Really," Ye-Wang said greedily, wringing his hands together and beaming from ear-to-ear at the proclamation. "You're going to teach me the ceremony."

"Of course," Samuel said, taking a step back, as if shocked by the smaller man's disbelief.

"I didn't mean any offense," Ye-Wang added.

"None taken," Samuel said. "Actually, I would not be able to complete the ceremony without your assistance."

Ye-Wang beamed with pride, throwing out his chest and saying, "You can always count on me." He gave Samuel a nudge with his elbow and winked at him.

"Yes, yes," Samuel waved Ye-Wang's enthusiasm away and took on a more serious tone. "Now hand it over."

Ye-Wang reached under his robe and pulled out an ornate dagger.

"The Dagger of Ahpuc," Samuel said, his eyes running the length of the snake-shapped, silver blade to its black ivory handle..

"It is said that the Mayan god crafted it himself."

"I know the legend, you fool." Samuel snapped, wrenching the dagger from Ye-Wang. A chill ran up his arm and an involuntary shiver fell along his spine. "Where did you keep it, in a freezer?"

"Isn't it strange? The dagger always feels cold to the touch, no matter how hard you try to warm the thing up. I even held it over a flame for an hour and it was still deathly cold."

Samuel gazed at the dagger, turning it over in his hand. "It's lovely."

"If you say so?" Ye-Wang shrugged. "Frankly, I'm glad to be rid of the thing. I have been having nightmares ever since I stole it."

"You can tell no one," Samuel said, waving a decisive finger at the squat man.

"I wouldn't dare."

"No one."

"Of course, of course" Ye-Wang waved his hands understandingly. "When can we start on the ritual?"

"Soon," Samuel said vacantly as he continued to stare at the dagger.

"Good."

"I must prepare. Leave."

"Er…okay," Ye-Wang said meekly and turned toward the door.

"Next full moon," Samuel said commandingly, placing the dagger in an open desk drawer.

"Remember, do not tell a soul."

"And share the glory with another. Not on your life," Ye-Wang said shutting the door.

"Not on yours, you mean," Samuel said laughing sadistically. He pulled out a leather bound book from under his robe and opened it reverently. Small diagrams with notes surrounding them were scrawled on the pages; notes he had copied from Saladin. He shut the book and placed it along side the dagger, then locked the drawer. His plan was coming together nicely and soon nobody would be able to stop him from getting what he desired.

* * *

"I don't know about this," Ye-Wang said, stepping away from the altar.

"Don't be such a coward," Samuel barked.

Ye-Wang waved off Samuel’s remark with his hands and shook his head.

"Show some backbone, how else will you learn anything new?"

Ye-Wang looked down at the meticulously drawn inverted pentagram that spanned the twenty-by-twenty foot floor of the chamber. He could feel Samuel’s eyes on him as he tapped the heel of his sandal on the floor. “I…I…want to learn,” he said, peeking up at Samuel from under his bowed head. Samuel stood with his arms crossed next to the sacrificial alter, glowering at him. “How can he be so confident?”

"Are you done?" Samuel said not waiting for a response. “Help me lift this thing.” Samuel hunched over one of the four large rams that Ye-Wang had brought in on a pallet-jack earlier.

“I’ve never taken part in a ceremony that required an animal sacrifice before.”

“Fascinating,” Samuel responded flatly. "Now, lift!”

Ye-Wang heaved and they managed to toss the large animal onto the altar; its limp body landing with a dull thud.

“Aren’t they banned in the Order?”

“No exactly,” Samuel answered. “Now-and-again sacrificial ceremonies are still performed, but only by the gifted, like myself

“Tonight was full of firsts,” Ye-Wang thought. Samuel had sent him out to track down the rams, the largest he could find, drug them and bring them back to the school. It took Ye-Wang nearly all day, and numerous serious bruises, to find large enough ones that he knew would appease Samuel.

"Why four?" Ye-Wang said, setting his foot on either side of the ram’s hind quarter.

"The number has great significance," Samuel said, hunching down for the next ram. Ye-Wang did the same, noticing how calm Samuel was. Other than the fine hair on the back of Samuel's arms standing up, he was his usual emotionless self. Ye-Wang wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"There are the four main elements; air, earth, water and fire, as well as the four watchtowers and the ritual, "Danse des Morts" has four major sections."

"And each section-"

"Requires a sacrifice. Get it now?"

"I guess."

"Ready," Samuel said. "Lift!" The two men heaved the large animal onto the altar and its limp body landed with a dull thud.

"Heavy sucker, ha," Ye-Wang said, wiping the sweat from his brow and letting a small chuckle escape his lips.

Samuel just stared back at the man and Ye-Wang swallowed hard. The two men lifted the remaining rams onto the altar and took up position.

"Now, hold him."

Ye-Wang was panting heavily and amazed that Samuel was so composed, barely even sweating. Ye-Wang reached down and held the first ram's head and front legs, so the animal was on its back with its chest toward Samuel. Oil filled braziers lined the walls, casting sufficient light across the chamber, yet the room dimmed as Samuel opened up a thick, leather bound book on the altar.

Ye-Wang could see that an intricate table was diversely fashioned to cover the entire first page; square and full of letters, numbers and crosses in diverse places and somehow foreboding.

"Can you read it?" Samuel said, noticing that Ye-Wang was intently focused on the book.

Ye-Wang tore his vision from the text and stared into Samuel's eyes, which were feral in the flickering brazier light.

"No, you can't. But I can. Listen."

Samuel's eyes went back to the book, and the words his mouth then formed were terrible to hear. They made little sense to ye-Wang, though they contained sounds which seemed familiar. But that's all those words were, sounds. Primal and guttural sounds from cryptic text of demoniac lore. In any event, they were terrible words, and as each one was formed upon Samuel's writhing lips his voice grew stronger, yet shakier at the same time, until he came to the end of the first passage.

Even as the eerie chant echoed into silence in the small chamber, so there came a rush of wind. Ye-Wang shivered as the temperature in the room dropped and his breath smoked from his mouth.

Samuel's hand rhythmically clenched and unclenched the Dagger of Ahpuc, his fingers turning white from the effort. Then, he jerked the blade aloft, moving it above the ram's chest, just over the heart and arcs of electricity raced along the dagger's serpentine blade. Small muscle spasms shot through Samuel's arm and his hand twitched. Samuel's eyes rolled back and his head began to loll left and right to an internal beat.

The Dagger of Ahpuc plunged downward, the blade easily puncturing the ram's chest and heart.

"Ah!" Ye-Wang screamed, shielding his eyes from the brilliant light that exploded from the ram's chest. Sporadic flashes, like small arcs of lightning, shot forth from the ram as it convulsed on the altar.

Ye-Wang’s jaw dropped as he watched the blood spurted upward from the wound, then stop in mid-air, as if frozen in time, then all of a sudden it was sucked back into the ram's chest. He could see the black ivory hilt of the Dagger of Ahpuc glowing softly through Samuel's fingers. Samuel’s hand began to twitch. “Are you okay?” Ye-Wang asked.

Samuel nodded mechanically, his hand twitching in time with the dagger’s pulsing reddish hue.

Ye-Wang reached out for him, but Samuel brushed his arm aside and positioned himself over the second ram. The chant had begun anew with the next passage.

Again, those uncanny, dark words came forth to string themselves along in a creepy cadence. Ye-Wang grimaced at their sound, but could not tear himself away from watching Samuel's fingers traced the passage that flowed from the book. Each word growing in strength and billowing forth from Samuel’s mouth to fill the chamber. Samuel’s body twitched with muscle spasms and his legs began to jerk about violently.

Ye-Wang stumbled back from the altar as Samuel lifted his head and howled with laughter. The man's eyes were feral and filled with a primitive lust. Samuel's head cocked sidelong in small jerking motions and stared at him. Ye-Wang felt that icy stare reach into his soul. Samuel coughed and an eerie cackle ensued that sent shivers down his spine.

The Dagger of Ahpuc came down, almost of its own accord, puncturing the next ram. The room exploded in light and electricity arced across the chamber accompanied by a low underlining rumble. The bright-yellow light was painful to look at as it billowed forth, draining the animals of its life-force.

Power rippled throughout the room and Samuel's chant, his very words, absorbed the energy and grew in strength as he started the third passage. Ye-Wang could practically see the graven characters of that text jumping forth from the pages and leaping into Samuel’s throat, to be regurgitated in a vile spew of muddled structure.

Ye-Wang clamped his hands over his ears as Samuel's words reverberated off the walls and dug into his brain. Samuel was in a maddened state, cackling and dancing about in a chaotic fashion, yet Ye-Wang could not help but note a bizarre pattern that undertoned the dance; Samuel's jerking legs, twirling movements and flailing arms repeated themselves ever couple of minutes.

"STOP!" Ye-Wang screamed. The deafening chant beat down on him. He wanted to run, but his legs felt weak and against his every wish, they buckled. Ye-Wang’s lungs labored to draw air in and his heart thrashed inside his chest pounded. He felt the pressure of the room constrict and his skin tighten about his appendages; they were shriveling, and caving in on themselves as the life was being drawn from him. "What's happening," Ye-Wang gasped.

Samuel glowered at him through feral glossy eyes. The man screeched with maniacal glee.

Ye-Wang fought hard to find some reserve of strength.

A small rift , no more than the size of a tennis ball at first, but it was slowly expanding hovered over the altar.

"Stop!" Ye-Wang mouthed, his voice too weak to form the words. He crawled toward the chamber’s door

"You asked to learn the ritual," Samuel cackled, dancing about with a deathly grin on his face. "This is, ‘Danse des Morts’.”

Ye-Wang kept crawling, not daring to look back.

"The Dagger of Ahpuc." Ye-Wang heard Samuel call from behind him. "It calls to me."

“No,” Ye-Wang thought.

"It want to be fed."

“I must make it to the door.”

"With your soul the final passage will be complete."

Ye-Wang was almost at the door. Then the pain of Samuel’s boot stomping on his ankle flooded him. “Augh!” Ye-Wang turn and saw the chamber’s door swing open. He reached for Samuel’s boot, but his arms were heavy. So, very heavy.

Samuel moved to thrust the dagger downward into Ye-Wang's chest, but a hand, old, yet filled with strength stopped him. Ye-Wang looked up to see Samuel’s frothing snarl at the recognition of his mentor, Saladin.

"Stop this madness!" Saladin commanded.

{Another POV shift}

But when the man, saw the frenzied look in his pupil's eye's he knew he was beyond reproach.

Samuel wrenched himself free of Saladin's grasp. His face contorted in outrage. "Your presence is unwanted, old man." Samuel slashed out with the dagger.

Saladin jumped back, barely moving outside the dagger's reach. "You are mad to try this." He continued to back peddling to the chamber's entrance and Samuel turned back to Ye-Wang.

Saladin began chanting and wove arcane symbols in mid-air. They flared brightly, charged by residual energy that filled the chamber, then faded to be replaced by another.

Samuel thrust the dagger downward.

Suddenly a short, condensed ray of pale-blue light shot forth from Saladin's hands. The beam struck Samuel in the shoulder. His robes burst into flame and the flesh boiled underneath. He was thrown back against the altar and the dagger fell from his limp fingers.

"How DARE you raise a weapon again me," Saladin's voice was larger than life and his words echoed in the chamber.

Samuel shook his head and set his jaw, pushing back the pain. His face was full of disappointment and rage. "Can't you see what I am doing?"

"You toy with powers not meant for man," Samuel shot back.

"You are a fool, old man."

"Help me," Ye-Wang chocked as he inched his was on the floor, too weak to stand, toward Saladin.

"Look w