I woke from an ancient slumber. I felt the invisible bonds wind their way around my spirit. and hook there ways in. Resisting is impossible, so I didn’t even bother trying. I felt myself pulled through the vacuum of space, bits of spirit flaking off. Suddenly I stopped, and the whiplash really hurt. I was descending into a tent.
“Not promising,” I thought. I have been conjured by kings and emperors in majestic palaces. The shabby tent didn’t even compare to the pyramids of egypt, or even the ordinary buildings of Atlantis, not that impressive buildings helped them in the long run. You humans are so shortsighted, mainly because you have such short lives. I felt a pull which sent me back to the present from my old memories. There’s no point in dwelling in past mistakes, I gave a shudder.
I had to come up with a guise on the spot. I decided to try to scare my summoner. I felt myself lowering into the perfectly drawn circle. Details mattered. One mistake, and you’re done for. I would descend into your circle, and absorb you to make myself stronger.
In the circle now, I caused a fog to slowly rise from the ground. I briefly debated between a sulfur smell and a burning smell, but I settled on a crisp refreshing one. I blew a strong gust into being, swirling the ominous grey fog around. Inside the mist, s shape was taking form. Using light, I made my shape a pitch black sharp shadow. All at once, the fog blew away, in a circular pattern. The air cleared, and I was revealed. It was one of my better guises. I was literally a shadow, standing upright, with depth. You could see perfectly formed features, all in smoky darkness.
“I bind you into my services, for as long as I live, and that you follow my every command ... at the expense of eternal confinement at the Voûte des âmes.”
The weaver in front of me was giving a ordinary binding, with one exception. He was threatening me with the Vault of Souls. Just the name of the place gives off an aura of power. That takes guts, it is terribly dangerous, at the risk of eternal torture by vengeful djinn. Suddenly, the shadow took a step back. The weaver was just a boy. I, an all-powerful marit, was being enslaved by a mere boy, no more than 13. That was just insulting. I have broken many masters, and I almost felt sorry for my current master. Almost.
I have to admit, I was impressed at someone learning the ancient dangerous art of weaving at such a young age. My normal masters were old men, who dedicated their lives to enslaving spirits. The slightest errors in this craft are unforgiving.
In case you’re wondering, there are seven classes of spirits. Sila are the weakest, reserved for the youngest weavers, and even then, they have two or three each. They consist of only air. Next, are the Ghouls. Only slightly more powerful than the Sila, they still aren’t impressive, though they are made of both air and earth. The djinn, are the widest class. There are many types of them, some more powerful than others. The elementals are at the same level as the djinns. While more powerful than djinn, they aren’t as smart, and are easily tricked. It’s a matter of preference between power, or cunningness. The difference between them are elementals consist of one element, besides air, while djinn are formed from fire and air. When used right, each have their own advantages. Then come the afrits. They are powerful, thought like elementals, not too bright. Marids, like myself, are more crafty than afrits, but less powerful, kind of like djinn compared with elementals. Afrits contain earth and fire, while we marids contain water and air.
I had a brief, about half a millisecond, debate about whether to spare the insolent boy. My decision made, I stepped forward to the edge of the circle, searching for weaknesses. To my surprise, I found a gaping hole at the front. Something wasn’t right. Even the most inexperienced weaver wouldn’t forget two out of the five binding classes. I ignored my feelings of doubt, and stepped out of the circle. Immediately the candles went out. I have perfect nocturna; vision, but the boy did not. The smell turned sour, like carrion, and a silence fell upon the tent as I glided toward the boy.
I looked at his face, to see his reaction right before his doom. I hesitated. He was grinning. Fear, anger, even embarrassment I understand, but fear? To be excited when a marid was intending on murdering you, unrestrained, is crazy, then the boy had to be crazy to summon me in the first place. Suddenly, I got a feeling in my gut, when other spirits are around. I hesitated, “Oh, crap” I thought.
I intended to say I was just kidding, but “I’m ju-” was all I managed to get out before I got knocked out cold.
YOU ARE READING
The Manus Chonicles: The Island of DominicusFantasy
I have built great tombs for kings, which still litter the world. I have raised mountains, created islands, and flooded plains at the whims of my masters. I have started, fought, and won great battles. I have assassinated kings and peasants alike...