“Is the vessel ready?” the cloaked figure asks as he enters the room. A brand on his forehead marked him as one of the leaders of the Serpents of Prophecy.

The ringing of blades on armor and the sound of explosions echo through the corridor. The figure bolts the door, a seemingly flimsy barricade to the knights that sought their end. Unsatisfied, he lines the doorway with powdered iron — casting a spell of fortification.

“Sam’R Ang!”

Iron Ward * Compound Spell * Abjuration * Earth

Effects: Strengthens a door or similar barrier, holding it in place as if it is entirely made of iron. The integrity and durability of the door are proportional to the mana used in crafting the spell.

He poured half of his mana into the spell. The knights would have an easier time breaking through the keep’s 4-foot thick walls than they would that warded door.

A crimson portal stands at the center of the room. Flames and darkness erupt from the jagged opening. The aura of malevolence permeates the air, making it difficult to breathe or even think. On the floor, surrounded by runes, is a baby — not crying in terror, but smiling contently.

“The vessel is ready, marked one” a hooded figure attending to the baby answers, careful to stay within the boundaries of the runes. “The lords of darkness and chaos are within him. A few more minutes and he will be a puppet to their wills.”

“Proceed with the ritual. I will ready our escape to Maldysion.”

The serpents wanted infernal knowledge and power — but they wanted partners not masters. A host of demons entering their lands was not an ideal scenario, especially if they wanted that land for themselves. Offering hell a vessel was the safest way to do so — especially if the vessel was a mere infant.

An ancient ritual was the basis of their existence. The ritual could summon entities from different planes by transferring their minds to a willing host. It took them a multitude of attempts and alterations before they connected to the hosts of hell.

Today was the culmination of their efforts — the pinnacle of summoning. They would bind — not one — but a host of demons and devils into one soul.

The cultist starts crafting the portal. Passage to the infernal planes required sacrifice, it was good that he had an acolyte in the room.

***

“We have broken through the keep but the Serpents are holding ground,” an officer reports. He expected a small cult and not hundreds of devotees — most of them spellcasters.

“And the ritual?” Amos asks. He was the one charged with eliminating the cultists and stopping their infernal schemes.

“Advancing wizards detect something amiss with the third tower — perhaps a summoning or transformation.”

“That complicates things.”

Amos “The Blackstaff” Elswind, wielder of the Seven Rings of Aud, and advisor to the Guildhall Arcana decides it was time to enter the battlefield.

The knights have earned their glory, and the delegation of wizards have had enough time for their research and investigations.

If it wasn’t for nobles wanting to feel involved in conflicts with infernal forces, he could have taken his own team and dealt with the problem quickly and quietly. Now. It was a full-scale assault involving thousands of combatants.

Damned nobles.

He was one of them, appointed by the King himself — but he cared not for politics or reputation. He preferred a quiet life of research, tending to his family’s needs, and killing enemies.

Being called “The Blackstaff” was enough reputation for the wizard. It was certainly too much for his wife.

He dons his horned circlet — a trophy from his battle with a greater demon. It offered protection from compulsion and confusion, and it certainly looked good on the battlefield.

There were enemies who turned tail and ran the moment they saw his flaming horns — the cultists would probably admire them.

“Gwin D’Nar.”

Fire Wings * Complex Spell * Summoning * Alteration * Fire, Earth, and Wind

Effects: Summons fiery wings that allow the caster to fly in the air. Precise movement requires mastery of both Wind and Fire, while mastery over Earth determines flight speed. Creatures that touch the fiery wings take fire damage proportional to the mana used in crafting the spell. The caster also has minimal control over the objects around him — allowing him to carry or levitate items proportional to his Strength

Duration: 10 minutes per infusion of mana

Bat-like wings of fire erupt from the back of Amos. He nods at the shaken officer before taking to the skies and heading to the third tower.

The officer stares at the now distant wizard. He thought he might get a glimpse at the fabled black staff that earned the wizard his moniker.

It was common knowledge that the Wizard Elswind used rings to channel his magic — even in critical battles. Just what kind of threat would require him to bring out his staff?

***

Both demons and devils awaited their eventual ascendance to the mortal realm. Unlike what the Serpents believed, the child was no vessel. He was a conduit to hell. Not a single plane — but tied to every infernal and abyssal layer of the known hells.

Even now they could enter its thoughts — whispering demands that went largely uncomprehended.

Why did the humans choose so young a vessel?

The infant’s mind was barely formed. It couldn’t even understand basic human speech — much more the complexities of the infernal.

To their dismay, the demons and devils discovered the conduit only allowed pure infernal thoughts to pass through. Speaking in common was enough of a dissonance to disrupt the conduit — forcing them to rely on their own infernal tongues.

But it would pass. Soon they would have free rein in controlling the infant’s body. Even now, infernal forces were transforming the child, making it a better host for the host of hell.

Rain of blood and fire would envelop the world and infernal forces would have the means to access more worlds and end more lives.

The baby giggles. It could not yet see clearly — but the sounds and bright colors in its mind amused him. Children are always attracted to flames. This one just experienced a different kind of flame early on.

***

The roof shatters from above the cultists —but instead of falling, the broken remains of the stone roof float in the air.

“Is that you, Mariss?” a voice asks, hidden by the floating rubble. The figure descends revealing a winged and horned figure. A silver orb floats behind his back, enveloping the wizard with a seemingly protective halo.

The Blackstaff appears both demonic and angelic at the same time. He holds the stones in check, ready to hurl them at those below.

“Blackstaff!” the cultist sneers. “It’s Malice! Malice! Mælɪs!”

“Maryss it is.”

Amos starts hurling rocks at the cultists, using his affinity with Earth magic to increase their weight. The stones became deadly missiles, guided by his aim and fueled by his magic. The barrage of stones would keep Malice busy, giving him time to survey the room.

A baby? He notices the infant at the center of the room, giggling and reaching out to some unseen toy or playmate.

Underneath the barrage, Malice uses arcane force to block the flying rocks. That damned wizard! If only he know it would be the Blackstaff leading the charge, he would have taken better precautions.

The hail of stone forces him to rely on pure magic, cutting him off from his repository of memorized spells. But even at this state, he manages to smile. The room was flooded with infernal power — one that only a chosen few could access. He was the stronger in this room and he would put this arrogant wizard in his place.

Malice withstands the barrage, finally finding time to craft his own spell.

“This is your end Blackstaff! Morgus Veyd!”

Dark Lightning * Complex Spell * Maximized * Evocation * Lightning * Necrotic * Sacrificial

Effect: Sends a bolt of necrotic energy towards the target — causing death or massive damage to its life force.

Sacrifice: The spell requires a portion of the caster’s life force, reducing his lifespan by a year.

The bolt of dark energy surges upwards, disrupting the magic keeping the stone debris afloat before hitting the Blackstaff.

The spell was restricted even to the inner circle of the Serpents. Learning it required the sacrifice of a multitude of souls — and even then, the caster’s own life force was diminished when casting the spell.

Malice looks up at the withering figure, exultant in his triumph. A loss of a year was worth it. He could just siphon the life of one of his slaves or maybe even an acolyte.

Amos Elswind was no more. This would be the last time the Blackstaff would look down on him. Now he could claim victory over one of the most notable wizards in the…

“That’s not me.”

The dazed cultist turns in the direction of the voice. What the?

There was the Blackstaff, cuddling the infant — no, the vessel — in his arms.

“Got to go,” he smiles. “I hope this would be the last time we see each other — but I highly doubt it.” The wizard waves goodbye, seemingly to a friend, “Bye Maryss,” and vanishes.

It’s Malice! The cultist grits his teeth. All the preparations, personnel, and sacrifice — wasted by the Blackstaff.

They could find the child or even make another conduit. It was a minor setback that they could easily recover from.

He didn’t expect the Blackstaff to just take the vessel and run. Perhaps there were others coming — or perhaps he merely sensed the infernal presence in the air and opted for a hasty retreat.

They would meet again — and he would make sure to end the Blackstaff when the time comes.

Clink!

The sound of metal striking stone catches Malice’s attention. He turns to see a silver orb rolling on the ground.

“Oh.”

***

“For the peace of the Kingdom!” Cicero rallies the knights for another attack.

The cultists were putting up a good fight. Even now, a third of his men were out of commission — most of them injured but some of them dead. They were meant to battle monsters and beasts, not spellcasters. Their swords and armor did little to protect them from waves of fire or bolts of lightning.

But the battle would soon be over. Even now, the cultists dwindle to less than half of their former strength, and their spellcasters should have spent most of their mana.

The delegation of wizards barely helped — satisfied as they were to observe the battle or investigate secure areas.

A greenish fireball erupts to his right, sending soldiers reeling and coating their bodies with some kind of acid.

“Healers!” he shouts, knowing well that the men were likely dead.

They had an abundance of wizards and a lack of healers. Nobles preferred to keep their healers close to home — even when they could be used to save dozens of lives on the battlefield.

A flash of light followed by an explosion and a shockwave of force sweeps across the battlefield. The rings of metal on metal momentarily stop as both sides stare at the remains of what was the third tower — now a crumbling heap with half its length completely gone.

***

“Is that one of your concubines’ baby?” a raging woman accuses Amos.

“Let me explain, let me explain,” the wizard implores her wife, Mathilde. “I’ve just been to the battlefield, facing cultists, demons, and mad wizards...”

“And that should earn you the right to bring your concubine’s child into our household? What’s next, you expect me to play nice with your lover?”

“The child isn’t mine!” Amos explains pleadingly. “He was just there, a victim of the cultists — like so many others. If I didn’t take him, he would have ended up in the hands of nobles — used as a pawn in their lust for power or even taken apart by mages to learn the cultists’ secrets.”

“So this baby isn’t yours?”

The bedraggled wizard shakes his head.

“Belinda! Hand me the Truthteller!”