Monday Flash S&S prompt: according to tradition, ritual magicians must take great effort to protect themselves from the baleful forces they summon and exploit. Write a flash story about a ritual gone awry. 400 words (or less). (Flash Fiction S&S prompts will be posted on the Facebook page).
Robert Subiaga provided this origin story of an undead sorcerer who summons the devil.
Early End, by Robert Subiaga
Karathus of Alexandria pondered the scroll before him. The one that would summon "Satan" himself.
Satan had never before been summoned. As the scroll made clear, to call upon the services of the most powerful of demons was only fit for a suicide mission. The price was one's bodily life (though, contrary to the myths of the faithful, even Satan could not claim a soul) and never had anyone in sorcerous records survived.
For those to whom revenge was that precious it might have been worth it; but Karathus, seeking revenge in memory of his beloved sister, felt a stoicism that would have dishonored her memory. Their shared philosophy had been more ... "epicurean."
Karathus had exhausted himself much with the first ritual.
Karathus had exhausted himself much with the first ritual.
Yet Karathus needed Satan himself to make his enemy, the Emperor, pay for the execution of Karathus’s sister, Jezabel. His twin. His partner in sorcery. His lover.
For they had miscalculated the Emperor’s power. The Emperor had a mage of his own, and protected himself under the patronage of one of the most powerful demons in existence.
First Jezebal had been taken easily and beheaded; now troops surrounded Karathus's sanctum. They were readying the siege engines outside the tower.
With a last sigh, Karathus made the incantation to bring Satan forth. And as certain as Karathus knew it would be, the flaming face loomed before him, loomed before Karathus, seemed to "smell" him.
And then--as Karathus cackled weakly, fatalistically--Satan was left to do the mage’s bidding.
And then--as Karathus cackled weakly, fatalistically--Satan was left to do the mage’s bidding.
The screams of the Emperor’s dying men, crunching bone, and spattering blood came almost immediately.
Trembling, Karathus collapsed into the plush, throne-like chair that had always been his favorite. He sighed for he was weak from first the spell of Resurrection, then of Summoning.
He fingers still shaking, he brushed his cheek. But he was careful to avoid scratching the growing itch there, just as he had made sure to do after the Awakening, when it came to the itching in the gaping wound over his heart.
The spell had been a gamble. It could only ever be used by any mage once anyway and only at the exact moment of his dying, on himself.
But he didn't want to be tearing off skin that would never grow back.
And that which was undead would begin to rot by itself, soon enough.
