Curselock

Chapter 114: Soulless

At Leland’s command the small inn room lit aflame in a violet blaze. A narrow circle of heatless fire roared to life, cutting through the furniture as it went. The curse engulfed the wall encasing the door frame and edged slightly into the hallway. The proximity left little room to move, but such was the point. The old man was trapped within the Circle of Souls.

At the same time, a sickly green entity breached the wooden flooring of the second story room. It pulled apart an ethereal membrane, casting it aside like it was simply digging through dirt. With ungodly smooth motions, the soul of the Damned clawed its way from its true realm, returning to the home of the living.

Its mission was simple; follow its master’s orders.

Green mist began to spread from the old man, his elderly soul crumbling under the deathly stare of the soul of the Damned and the heatless flame encasing him. There was no recourse for the man at this point, his puppet-like body submitting earnestly.

The man crumbled as soon as the curse fully formed.

Leland reeled back, his head hitting the wall he cowered against. Beside him the cool air of the snow riddled night entered the room through a cracked window. The cold reminded him of the warmth he felt in his gut and palm, the blood spilling from his two knife wounds. He shook off the nearing lightheadedness, focusing on the old man before him.

Leland wished he still had access to the Moonless Lord’s magic art identifying contract, but he had already enacted the hour period between uses. Although he still did have access to Shield of Water, that was, unless he needed to activate another contract.

The old man was lifeless, obviously not dead, but unanimated. He looked like a corpse but the ever leaking green mist said otherwise. The man was alive, just not alive. The strings had been cut so to speak, leaving a vacant husk in the puppet master’s wake.

Leland forced himself to stand tall. He was taking a life and more were likely to come tonight. His parents, Jude and Glenny, and the Lord of Curses’ words found his forethought. He needed to make a decision, the puppet master was circling him and he was losing blood.

The old man’s soul reached the threshold and the looming soul of the Damned snatched it out of the air like a sheet in the wind. The soul of the Damned then floated to Leland’s side, presenting him with the token of power.

Leland didn’t take it right away. He needed more information. Who was he dealing with? How many was he dealing with? Was there an army of old men outside—

His thoughts froze over and a ball of magma suddenly found his gut. He slumped over, the two knife wounds blazing with dark power. He groaned, moving his hand covering the wound ever so slightly. Black fog poured in place of blood, the same black fog that spilled from the old man’s mouth.

Then there was a creak.

It cut through the silent room and hallway, bypassing the common room filled with petrified guests, and into Leland’s ears. The sound was one he had heard countless times, the creak of wooden stairs. There was a weight, a power, to the creak, however. It moved with slow potential, ever hungry, ever willing to eat.

And it was coming for Leland.

He ran, bursting through the cracked window and falling from the upper floor of the inn. Cold snow filled his sight as he fell, it looked soft, but nowhere near thick enough to break his fall.

He screamed.

But there was no thud. No pain. No crunch of packed snow. There was only an ethereal green spindly hand.

Leland shook off the shock, finding the soul of the Damned below him. It had caught his fall, easily lowering him the last step of the way. Snow caked his boots and for a moment Leland was speechless. At least until the soul gave him a nod and disappeared, taking the soul of the old man as payment.

A memory came back to Leland at that moment. He, Jude, Glenny, and Gelo were fighting the two poachers in the mushroom light cave. The entrance to Frostford’s dungeon swirled behind them, but the focus was on a single rapidly spinning arrow spewing orange sparks. One of the poachers had shot it at Leland, only for it to be caught by a soul of the Damned.

Information from his Legacy came to him at that moment. A life saved for a life restored. Reincarnation. A job well done.

Eying the inn’s busted out window, Leland didn’t have time to think about how he should have died from the fall. No, his focus was better spent on the darkness misting from his gut. He ran as fast as his aching legs could take him away from the inn.

A thud and crack stopped him in his tracks. Only a dozen paces away, Leland turned back to the inn, finding a human crawling toward him. Her legs were broken and bent backward, her mouth was open, and black fog was gushing. But she still moved. A single goal, a single purpose. She was nothing but a puppet, one with a soul.

Leland didn’t think about the implications of that. Only that he had a means of attack. What good was a curse that broke bones when the enemy didn’t care? What good was a curse that tired when the enemy was being controlled remotely? What good was pecking the enemy’s eyes out when they didn’t need eyes to see?

Boundless.

The word echoed in Leland’s mind, an enemy of boundless attack. An enemy that never knew retreat, that never knew fear.

That scared Leland, forcing his hand. Mana, lifeforce, and fear fueled his next curse. His body lurched with the command, his lifeforce dwindling by the moment. He’d die at this rate, bleed out from his wounds or expelling too much lifeforce for his defenses.

“Kneel before me!”

The words took on a deep resonating anxiety. There was no one but him, the woman crawling, and the puppet master, in that moment. He was alone, bleeding, cold, and afraid. His thoughts of his friends coming to his rescue were locked away deep in a maze of worry and dread.

Violet fire encased the broken woman, sealing her final moments. Her movements died as her strings were cut, her soul only starting to leak.

Leland made sure the soul of the Damned was fully in this realm before he ran. He needed energy, he needed lifeforce, and he couldn’t wait for it.

What was once a lively small town had now turned into a vacant diseased mass of buildings. The crushing weight of two dark powers fighting one another caused doors to be locked, children to be hidden, and candles to be snuffed. The only light was that of the moon, purple fire, and the green souls. The only sound was that of Leland’s panting and footsteps. The only smell was that of bile leaking into Leland’s blood covered hand.

That was, until the purple died out, and the green condensed into a single source. The soul of the Damned appeared next to Leland, its arm outstretched.

Leland didn’t hesitate, taking the lost soul mid stride and consuming it with urgent fervor. The soul of the Damned nodded, falling into the ground to be reincarnated without penance. Leland, however, was focused internally. Warmth was spinning through his chest, his mana, his soul.

Hot crimson stopped spilling from his gut. The skin shifted and itched, closing ever so slightly. He removed his hand, finding the dark fog to have dwindled significantly. His throat and lungs suddenly opened, allowing for a proper breath of air.

It was cold.

But that didn’t matter. The cold only reminded him of the situation, of the danger ????. He continued to run, further into the town, further away from the inn.

Until he didn’t.

The path was blocked. Impeded by black fog, an eternal pathway of darkness. Did he risk it? Did he run through an unknown enemy spell? The answer was obvious, no. He was trapped, sitting like a ragged dog at the end of a silent street while a pack of wolves circled.

Just then, three figures appeared. They stalked closer, their movements jerky and strained. Each carried improvised weapons, a carpentry hammer, a garden trowel, a heavy candlestick. Darkness walked with them.

Leland’s grimoire flipped and he slammed his bloodied hand into the page. Instantly a deep violet halo formed above him, spilling forth a fog of his own. Power came to him from the Lord of Magic’s contract, enhancing his abilities by a hair more.

“Kneel before me!”

The command came quickly and like the previous two iterations, three new lost souls found Leland’s collection. He consumed two, feeling a dull throb in the back of his mind, but less pain in his stomach and legs. He needed to be ready for the next—

“A Harbinger?” a cold, affectionless voice said from the shadows. All of the shadows. “You, a Harbinger? That can’t be…”

Leland spun, each patch of darkness teasing him. “Show yourself!”

“Are you new or something? Spouting your halo like it’s a medal after a race?”

Leland didn’t answer. He couldn’t, not when he had no idea what the voice was talking about. The subject matter, however, was enough to make his skin crawl. Knowledge of Harbingers, vile Lord’s Legacies, was scarce. Especially for those low ranked, low renowned, or those simply wishing to live their lives with some semblance of “normalcy.”

That left few possibilities of just who, or what, the voice could be. An Inquisitor and champion wouldn’t just attack him unprompted, which removed a majority of those possibilities.

“Are you a Harbinger?” Leland asked, his voice quivering from the cold and lack of blood.

A man stepped from the shadow of a building, arriving before Leland in a wake of darkness. They stared at each other.

“Yes.”

Leland shuddered.

“Why do you cast your halo? Have you not been properly taught?”

“W-what are you talking about?”

The man held up a finger, pointing directly above Leland’s head. “That. That is our mark, why are you casting it like a two-rate mage? It is an omen for your Lord, an announcement of approach! It is why we are called Harbinger!”

Leland only stared.

The man’s palm hit his face. “I hate newborns. Especially those without proper guidance.”

“A-are we still going to fight?”

The man scoffed. “Not unless you want to start a war with your Lord and mine. I’m a Toy Maker, by the way.”

Leland wasn’t sure if he was supposed to cower at the name or anything. He didn’t recognize the title nor know what Lord it was connected with.

“Why attack me, then?”

The man sighed at that. “My uncle tasked me with killing three kids who killed two of his followers on some nearby island.”

A spark of heat formed in Leland’s gut. A painless fire rapidly blazed through his whole body. He stood straighter, rage and hatred knocking away the rust in his legs and back. He scowled at the man, his halo still radiating silent purple fog.

He muttered a question.

“What?” the man asked. “I couldn’t hear that.”

Swallowing, Leland pushed down his emotions, his voice turning to ice. “Did you hurt them?”

“Oh! Are they Harbingers too? I can remove—”

“I said!” Leland screeched. “Did you hurt them?!”

The man took a step forward, the shadow of the building cloaking his face. In the light of the moon, the two men looked at each other, each reading one another like an open faced book.

“You… you are no Harbinger… What are you?”

Leland likewise took a step. “What I am doesn’t matter. You, however, are nothing but a murderer. Those people,” he gestured to the three dead bodies, “You killed them. You made them into puppets and attacked me! Puppets that I was forced to put down. How dare you?!”

The man’s posture went rigid. “They are called toys, not puppets. I am a Toy Maker! Do you dare to start a war!?”

Pages flipped as Leland’s grimoire reacted to his anger. He took the tome, gripping it with both hands, and shouted, “Lords above, witness this murderer! Witness this Witch!”

The last word was spat with an unbridled song of hatred. It tore through the silent street, falling on the ears of no one but those with the means of listening through the man’s dark fog.

Those that heard, responded.

The man fell to his knees, pain scorching his face. Ichor and blood dripped through the cracks of his hands, dyeing the pure snow below. He screamed, his skin being marked, being carved, being branded.

A black halo grew from the man’s shoulders and neck, forming just above his head.

Darkness spilled, it was war.