Mendeln still recalled the man with a shiver. He was not afraid of Malic, but of his evil. How any man could give himself to such darkness was beyond him. The mere thought of Malic repulsed Mendeln so much that he wanted to turn around and leave.
But Rathma had insisted that he needed to do this.
Taking a deep breath, Uldyssian’s brother tried to summon the feeling of calm determination that the dragon had taught to him. In order to best serve the Balance…and, therefore, Sanctuary and Humanity… Mendeln had to learn to see things in a more clinical manner. Emotion was not forbidden, for even Rathma clearly fell prey to it, but that emotion had to be kept in check, for the forces with which Mendeln dealt could be very dangerous.
As ready as he knew he could ever be, Mendeln knelt down and began sketching patterns designed to amplify his efforts. They were based on the very energies binding not only his world together, but all that beyond Sanctuary. The patterns pulled to them some element of those energies, bringing them to the location of the summoning.
With that accomplished, Uldyssian’s brother held the dagger over the center. He did not have to draw blood for this, although there remained the possibility that he might have to at a later point. Now, all that mattered were the words, which themselves were parts of the energies keeping all things together.
In a low tone, Mendeln uttered one word of power after another. With each syllable, he sensed the forces swirling into place. An ominous presence began to coalesce within the area of the patterns.
Mendeln repeated everything that he had been told to say in such a situation, repeated all of it over and over. Each time, he added emphasis to a different part, in this way strengthening every aspect of the summoning.
Something drifted past his face, so very gently rubbing against his right cheek. A gauzy wisp of smoke drifted in from the direction of the town. As Mendeln continued, these and similar sights began to move around and around him like small children seeking attention.
Rathma had warned him that, until he learned to focus better, others would come in the mistaken belief that he had summoned them. There was nothing he could do right now save ignore the uninvited spirits; to dismiss any would mean to lose concentration at the most vital moment.
Yes, he could sense the dark presence gathering strength. It was in conflict, on the one side not desiring to be stirred up, on the other eager to see if somehow this could be used to its advantage.
Mendeln gripped the dagger tighter, aware that he could not let the latter happen. The dragon had warned him of the potential repercussions should that terrible thing come to pass.
And then…a black form arose above the spot, a sinister form quickly swelling to the height of a tall man. Still muttering, Mendeln cautiously stepped back. So long as the patterns he had drawn remained whole, the spirit could not escape them without his assistance.
The shadow solidified, taking on the vague appearance of a particular figure. Tall, pale, and bearded.
The high priest of the order of Mefis—or Mephisto—Malic himself.
Grimly satisfied, Uldyssian’s brother met the dire spirit’s unblinking gaze. Malic recognized him; that much was immediately clear. Mendeln could sense the smoldering hatred behind the emotionless face and saw the shadow of a hand—an inhuman hand—briefly emerge from the misty, translucent robes.
Whether or not the ghost could strip Mendeln’s flesh from his bones—as Malic had done to Master Ethon when alive—the son of Diomedes did not know. He did not intend to give the specter the chance to test that.
“You know who I am, priest,” Mendeln muttered. “You know that you are not permitted to act or speak in any manner without my permission or guidance. Nod your understanding.”
Malic slowly did, his eyes never leaving his summoner’s.
Satisfied thus far, Mendeln turned to the purpose of his having called up this ghoulish figure. “Malic…your master is no more…”
For the first time, he registered a brief reaction. The spirit flickered out of and back into existence with a swiftness that the untrained eye would not have noticed. There was also a momentary shift of the dead eyes.
“Yes, priest, Lucion is dead.” Not exactly true. Uldyssian had caused the demon to cease to exist. According to Rathma, there was something different about such a fate, although Mendeln did not yet understand the vagaries of such things. “And do you know who now sits in his place? Do you know?”
The ghost was utterly motionless. Mendeln frowned, having expected much more from Malic. Trag’Oul had warned him that those existing in the “after death” state were not necessarily averse to attempting to cross back over or seek vengeance on those whom they hated. Malic knew him, knew that he was Uldyssian’s brother.
The sooner Mendeln was able to judge if Malic could be of use, the better. “It is Lilith, his sister,” he informed the specter. “You may recall her in another guise, priest, that of the lady Lylia.”
This time, the ghostly figure wavered and his eyes widened beyond human ability. His mouth opened…and continued to open, stretching more than a foot down. Mention of Lilith, especially her mortal guise, had finally done the trick. After all, it was she who had actually slain the priest.
Mendeln was astonished by the ghost’s continued violent reshaping. He had been forewarned by his mentors that spirits were not bound by their mortal states, that they could appear in a variety of twisted forms attesting to their deaths, their anger, or their intentions—
Intentions…
Mendeln spun around, already mouthing new words, those given to him as a quick defense against the unthinkable. At the same time, he thrust the dagger as far ahead of him as he could, drawing sharp slashes in the air.
With a frustrated hiss, the shadow of a morlu collapsed to dust. A second of the creatures, made the more macabre by this fiendish reconstruction of burnt ash and dirt, nearly had its fleshless hands upon him. Mendeln turned the dagger around for use as a weapon and touched the chest of the undead.
The second morlu also collapsed back into dust.
But the third struck him hard on the shoulder with a piece of rotting timber. Mendeln grunted and fell back out of reach. The morlu stumbled forward, bits of it flaking off as it moved.
These were not truly the monstrous warriors who had accompanied the high priest, for Mendeln himself had made certain that the creatures could never be raised to fight again. No, what stood before him were constructs animated by Malic’s evil. Still, even if only that, this morlu had the brute force not only with which to slay Uldyssian’s brother, but then assist its creator in enabling the ghost to free himself.
And if that happened, Partha would be only the first of many places to suffer horribly…
The morlu swung, but his aim was erratic. Mendeln leapt to the side, easily evading it. If that was the best the beast could do—
Then, Mendeln recalled just where Malic’s ghost stood in relation to him. As the morlu attacked again, the son of Diomedes threw himself in an entirely different direction. It meant landing hard on congealing trash, but that was a small price to pay to keep the priest’s plan from succeeding.
Indeed, Malic had come within inches of freeing his spirit. Had Mendeln been herded just a little more in the previous direction, then his boot would have scraped away a part of the patterns securing the specter.
The morlu loomed over his intended victim, but now Mendeln had his bearings. He held fast the dagger point down and cried the words of banishment that the dragon had taught him.
The last of Malic’s puppets crumbled. The timber clattered next to Mendeln’s head.
Rising, Mendeln turned back to face the high priest. “No more of such tricks!” he commanded. “Raise up another and I will cast you to a place that will make your violent death seem so pleasant by comparison!”