Ascension Interrupted-Summoning

Inquisitor Clayton Stone

(Art by Midjourny)
Ascension Interrupted
Candlelight flickered in the dark recesses of the dungeon, though "dungeon" wasn't quite the right word; "root cellar" would be more accurate. Nevertheless, it cast eerie shadows across the room. The twisting shadows created by the light were certainly menacing, though not as weird as the room's occupants and their activities. A dozen men and women, mostly men, stood tense and ready, like striking vipers. They might have been more intimidating if they were wearing better armor than quilted doublets and leather jacks, or if they wielded weapons more formidable than axe handles and hefty sticks. The motley group all concealed their faces with masks. Some had actual masks, while others wore sacks with eye holes, a couple sported upturned baskets, and one unfortunate individual had a bucket on his head—all attempts to present the image of faceless enforcers.
There was a second, smaller group of men and women clad in what a very small village might consider fine jewelry, mostly pewter and beads. They wore a distinct lack of clothing, and their youth and traditional attractiveness had kept them busy in the role of fawning over the master of ceremonies.
The Master of Ceremonies was clearly a powerful spellcaster. He wore a cloak that appeared to be woven from the void, though in reality, it was made of coarse black wool, likely infested with something. His staff, while not particularly mighty or staff-like, was a blackened oak stick of above-average size, wrapped with jute twine and bearing red glyphs crudely carved along its length.
Their sanctum had been prepared with meticulous attention to detail. They had cleared the root cellar, swept the floors, and the Master of Ceremonies had drawn a large circle lined with terrible glyphs in dark red paint. These glyphs were created using various esoteric ingredients, including ash from a murderer's cremation, the hooves of a bull that had gored someone to death, and most importantly, the blood of an innocent woman murdered under a full moon. The small town had provided these ingredients readily, even if it was lacking in other resources. But the Master of Ceremonies knew that the summoning circle was the most crucial element, and he planned to move on to a place with greater wealth and prettier sycophants once he fulfilled his master's desires.
This small town, where he had been born and where the roads were paved with mud and dung, with the only tavern being old Edna the alewife's house, had been his prison. It was a prison he believed had kept his ambitions and desire for the power he deserved in check. A year ago, his master had found him in a dream and had convinced him that he was special, that he had potential beyond this dirt-poor village. The master offered to unlock that potential through a pact between them, sealed with blood and oaths.
He had always yearned for power and wealth, the kind of man who would step on an orphan's fingers to grab a fallen coin. In fact, he had committed such acts on numerous occasions. If he had been born a noble or possessed great physical or mental qualities, he would have gladly used manipulation and bullying to attain his desires. Murder, as long as it didn't put him at risk, was an acceptable price for the personal power he sought as the Master of Ceremonies.
Over the past year, the master had taught him magic, secrets, and the art of manipulating the minds and hearts of others. With these newfound powers, he had assembled a cult of weak-willed adherents who were willing to work, steal, and even kill for him in exchange for his blessings.
A year of hard work and consolidation of power had brought the Master of Ceremonies to this night. The ritual his master had taught him was the next step in his ascension, a plateau of greater power. He had been given precise instructions to bring an agent of his dreadful master into this world from another dimension. In return, he would receive greater knowledge, magical power, and hopefully the ability to move his operations to a larger town or even a city, where he could attract a higher quality of dedicated followers.
The Master of Ceremonies slowly rose to stand before the completed circle on the cellar floor, infusing his voice with amplified magic to give it a gravitas he naturally lacked. He spoke, "Brothers and sisters of the Slumbering Moon, we stand together on this sacred night, ready to reap the rewards of our dedication to our great and powerful god. Raise your voices and chant the name of the one who slumbers in the moonlight! Let us call forth his agent and be granted the blessed might of our great god's glory!"
The cult members performed perfectly, even better than the Master of Ceremonies had expected. They recited the words flawlessly in perfect unison, and he felt the magic gathering, a growing tension in the air that only he could sense. It was like water, pouring into the summoning circle, filling it with raw power. The Master of Ceremonies couldn't help but feel glee as he directed the ritual, imagining himself as an arch-mage.
The power in the circle hummed, and the boundaries between worlds began to thin, creating a shimmer of distorted reality at the heart of the summoning circle. The name of his master's agent was ready to be spoken, syllable by exacting syllable.
Thud!-Crack!
The Master of Ceremonies, despite his intense focus on the ritual, realized that the door had been kicked open, and two figures stood in its shattered aftermath. One was a portly man in peasant garb, holding a lantern. This figure didn't concern the Master of Ceremonies much, but the second figure sent shivers down his spine. The second figure was tall, stern, and hawkish, dressed in black and white attire, with a slouch hat firmly on his brow and a basket-hilted broadsword in his hand.
"Kill the inquisitor! I-I will complete the rite!" the Master of Ceremonies desperately pleaded, fear and excitement racing through his mind. If he could kill an inquisitor, he believed his master would be surely pleased with him.
The inquisitor spoke just once, his deep voice resonating like old smoky whiskey and sharp-edged gravel. "Theft, murder, dark magic, heresy! Your sentence is death!"
The Master of Ceremonies frantically focused on the name that had risen in the back of his mind. Something about the tone of the inquisitor's voice made him feel as though the reaper's shadow had fallen upon him. The cult guards surged forward, heading for the man in the slouch hat and his portly companion with the thick mutton chops. Their fervor and zeal were commendable, but their combat skills were lacking, suitable only for dealing with drunks and hapless farmers. The inquisitor's sword flashed, swiftly dispatching the attackers. To their surprise, the portly man with the lantern produced a heavy steel mace, efficiently crushing the skull of a cultist with a deft swing.
The ritual began to falter, and the Master of Ceremonies could feel it. With each silenced voice, the carefully constructed magic necessary for the ritual wavered. It was like a stack of carefully placed blocks, and each cultist rendered silent was like a block removed from the tower, causing the structure to teeter and totter. His only hope was to complete the ritual before the energy he had gathered turned on him in a terrible backlash.
The inquisitor pressed on, his rotund companion proving himself to be a skilled fighter in his own right, his hefty steel mace cracking bones and sending cult guards to the floor with each swing. A prayer fell from the inquisitor's lips, a judgment spoken in the secret language of the church, a plea to the gods of justice and vengeance. The words of his prayer transformed into burning wisps of fire and fury, searing the Master of Ceremonies' face as if a hot iron had been slammed into his forehead, marking him as a heretic.
The pain was excruciating, surpassing any fear or agony the Master of Ceremonies had ever experienced. It made him lose his concentration. Halfway through chanting the name of his dark lord's servant, he screamed. In that moment of agony and failure, somewhere deep in his mind, beyond the fear and pain, he became keenly aware of how catastrophic the consequences of that scream would be.
The energy within the summoning circle became erratic. It swirled and churned, flickering with visible light and emanating nightmarish sounds. The inquisitor then placed his boot on the circle and dragged his foot through it, smearing a carefully drawn glyph with grim satisfaction.
The Master of Ceremonies recoiled, a second scream escaping his lips. This one was born of terror, not pain, though the pain would come soon. The magic had lost control, direction, and containment. He, who had summoned the power, was now the only conduit for the uncontained power.
This energy that had been drawn from death, cruelty, and a hellish dimension his master called home.
The inquisitor watched with stern determination as the magical backlash flooded into the cult leader. Only a few nights ago, this man had been treated as the voice of a god, a tool for some fiendish master from another realm, a man who had, most significantly to the inquisitor, cost an innocent young woman her life.
The Master of Ceremonies met a gruesome fate, the energy he had previously controlled now unraveling him both in body and spirit. In the absence of a better term, as the inquisitor's lantern bearer and chronicler would later describe, it turned the man inside out and outsides in several times before ripping his soul from his body and dragging it, screaming, into some hellish realm. The otherworldy ordeal concluded with a clean, snapping sound, sealing the portal as if it had never been.
The remaining cultists would face justice, either through arrest or burial, depending on the cases. They would have to answer for their crimes and face the judgment of the priests from the Western Church. As for the inquisitor in the slouch hat, he had no time to linger for the trials. He was dedicated to a life that didn't permit staying in one place for long, a life with few friends and fewer comforts, devoted to justice and the pursuit of the irredeemable.
Thus, he and his humble lantern bearer and keeper of his chronicles, continued on the lonely road, ready to confront the next unfortunate soul in need of the inquisitor's brand of righteousness.